Joshua brought Harley and Davidson home after school with the sad tale that their owners had had enough of their crowing to greet the dawn. It was the same sad old story; their owners had bought them as cute little chickens with visions of free eggs, and hadn’t bargained on them turning into vociferous roosters. They were doomed to become dinner if we didn’t provide them refugee status. So of course the two roosters were welcomed with open arms and immediately ensconced in the chook yard. Harley was a beautiful Rhode Island Red rooster with iridescent green/black feathers in his tail and wings, while Davidson was a pure white Leghorn rooster. Together they provided the girls in the chook yard with plenty of romance. Strangely enough these two roosters remained firm friends even after they moved in with the girls.
We soon adjusted to the sounds of Harley and Davidson welcoming each new day and resignedly pulled our pillows over our ears at the first crow. The boys, as they became known, settled in happily to days of chatting up the girls, eating everything in sight and as stated above, heralding each new day at the top of their lungs, just in case we hadn’t noticed the dawn. Poor old Davidson died a few years later and Harley was left with just the hens for company. I can’t say that he was particularly sad about this change in his social life, even though he and Davidson had been best friends.
During our move from Camden to the Riverina all my pets were loaded into cars or on trailers according to species. Harley and the girls were accommodated in cages purpose built for transportation of poultry. Harley was given his own cage to ensure that he didn’t get any inconvenient romantic notions in transit. The poultry contingent was placed at the front of the trailer with a large piece of poly-tarp covering the front wire for protection from the wind. Behind them were our six angora goats, Penny, the goats’ Maremma guard dog and a couple of Suffolk sheep. In other words the trailer was as full as it could hold.
Before we began our four and a half hour I did a short reconnaissance of all livestock, both those loaded into trailers and ensconced in the backs of cars. All was well with the exception of Harley. There he lay on the bottom of his cage, looking flat and lifeless. I couldn’t believe it. We hadn’t even started the cars and we already had one casualty. I walked closer, wondering what we could do with the body seeing the trailer was chock-a-block full. Harley’s cage was inaccessible however you looked at it. Even if I could get him out, I didn’t think the new owners would be thrilled to find a discarded rooster’s body to greet their arrival at their new home. As I stood there pondering the best method of disposal, looking mournfully down at the sad little corpse, the corpse blinked.
Well, I don’t presume to imply that I know a great deal about roosters but one thing I do know is that they can’ t blink if they are dead. I moved closer to make sure that I had actually seen the blink and there it was again. Harley was definitely still with us. True, he looked like it wouldn’t be for much longer, but with us he was. I gave Harley some words of encouragement and reassurance, lying through my teeth that it would all soon be over and told him to buck up and concentrate on getting to his new home. I also gave him a drink of water, the primary school teacher’s general panacea for all ills. After a few minutes of listening to my pep talk, Harley must have decided that the only way to get rid of me was to stand up, look healthy and have a drink. With a satisfied nod that I’d completed a job well done, I turned my attention to the rest of the trailer’s inhabitants, ensured that all were comfortably settled and went back to loading our last few possessions in the car.
Then it was time to hit the road. We set off in convoy, Riverina bound, travelling in two cars towing trailers and a truck, driven by Graeme, holding all our larger worldly goods. We broke our trip at Yass to have a late afternoon tea and check on everyone’s comfort level both human and non-human.
Just as I headed off to make the tea Graeme called out, “I think this rooster’s dead.” Graeme has always had trouble remembering the pets’ names so his standard method of reporting on any of the livestock is to simply identify it by species and colour.
“He did that before we left,” I called back unconcerned and still walking in the direction of the thermos.
“He died before we left?” Graeme asked.
“No. He pretended to be dead before we left,” I answered.
“I think you’d better come and look then,” was Graeme’s reply.
I walked over to inspect Harley once more and there he was, lying in almost the same position as I’d found him before we set off, only this time he didn’t blink or even respond to a gentle poke with my finger. If anything he looked sadder and flatter than before.
“I think you’re right,” I said sadly, “There’s not much we can do about it now. We’ll have to wait until we’re at the farm to bury him.”
I continued over to the tea making supplies where the rest of the family had gathered, sadly making rooster funeral plans in my head as I walked. Once the tea was poured I took Graeme’s cup over to him where he was inspecting the rest of the livestock. “That rooster decided not to die after all,” he told me, and sure enough, there was Harley standing up, looking around with a “Where am I?” expression on his face.
There was no way I could keep an eye on Harley while we were driving along because the poly-tarp blocked my view. Also I was pretty busy keeping the livestock inside the car from breaking out of their various cages or Shadow, the Silky Terrier type climbing over to sit on my lap from the back seat. On arriving at the farm, yep you’ve guessed it -… Harley was once again on the bottom of the cage. This time he was lying on his back, all his feathers ruffled and pointing in all directions and his feet pointing skywards. No amount of gentle encouragement, poking his ribs or yelling at him got him to move. This time he was well and truly dead. We were totally exhausted after the long drive and moving all our chattels into the house so we decided to leave his mortal remains in the cage on the ground near the trailer until the morning, when I’d give him a decent burial.
Our plans had to change significantly at sunrise the next morning. There we all were, sleeping peacefully with full intentions to be sleeping peacefully for some time to come, when we were woken by what seemed to be a cacophony of fire alarms. Harley was crowing his welcome to the sun! I can’t say I was actually thrilled to hear Harley give voice at that time of the morning but later, when I woke up properly I was happy that he’d survived three deaths in one day.
I’ve given a lot of thought to Harley’s abortive attempts to meet his maker and I‘m convinced that Harley’s death impersonations were the result of fainting fits caused in much the same way as travel sickness or just through sheer hysteria brought about by travelling in the trailer. Happily, Harley never again impersonated a dead rooster.
About four years after our event-filled move to Riverina, when Harley was a very old rooster, he really did die. We left him where we found him for 24 hours – just to be sure that this time it was the real thing.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Ferrets and quilting do not mix
Bec with the Gang of Three. Miette is trying to give her a kiss and Theodore is trying to ignore everyone.
Albus. Ferrets live by the law that whatever is on the other side of a door is better than what's on this side.
Today I learned a very important lesson. Ferrets and quilting do not; I repeat ... DO NOT mix.
I decided today was the day I’d finish the patchwork wall hanging I’ve been making for a couple of weeks now. It's not a very large wall hanging and I’ve made slow progress with it for one reason or anther. So, as I said, today was the day. Unfortunately, I also decided that today was the day for the ferrets to have a run inside the house. They live in a luxurious ferret cage out the back of the house under an old apricot tree where they lie around all day soaking up the sun or taking advantage of my latest invention, ferret air-conditioning - a wet towel placed in a bucket of water on top of the cage for the breeze to go through and another wet towel laid out in the cage for them to lie on and cool their tummies. This cooling system is definitely a requirement in our extremely hot summers. The ferrets don't get much exercise in the cage, but when they come inside that all changes. They take a minute or two to inspect the house and acclimatise themselves to their new surrounding. They try to open locked doors to get into and out of out of bounds rooms, harass any cat silly enough to stay on the floor, check for burglars behind the wall unit, and then once all these necessary jobs have been completed, they sort of explode with ferret joy. Ferret joy involves ferrets jumping in the air with their mouths wide open while swinging their heads from side to side, landing on all fours, challenging all comers to a ferret duel (I've been involved in a few of these - the ferret nearly always wins) and generally covering as much territory as possible with as much noise as possible.
So today I decided to get the two things accomplished at once. I began by closing all the doors that led off the hall except for the sewing room. I then brought the ferrets inside. Theodore, the ancient male ferret, Miette our small bossy, female and Albus, our large albino male who appears to be manic depressive, were beyond thrilled to be allowed into the sewing room. They began by investigating every nook and cranny they could find - actually they found some crannies I didn't even know the sewing room had!
When three ferrets investigate a room, they split up by mutual consent, investigate their assigned section of the room and then, at some invisible signal, swap over and investigate one of the other ferrets' spots. Trying to keep out of the way, lest they lose their place and have to start over from the beginning, I sat down carefully and began designing the wall hanging's borders. Every now and then Theodore sidled up to me and placed a little paw on my leg. This was his signal for me to pick him up and give him a cuddle – now that he's old he likes to take the time to stop and smell the roses, or in Theodore's case to smell anything within reach (on this occasion - me). Everything was going well: do a bit of sewing, stop. Pull a ferret out of somewhere no ferret should be. Return to sewing, stop, give Theodore a cuddle, do a bit more sewing, stop, pull a ferret out ... well I'm sure you get the picture.
I was coping beautifully and patting myself on the back, when it was time to cut out some more border fabric. This occurred about the same time that the ferret room investigations finished and it was time for them to "do the ferret thing" as we in the ferret world call ferret joy). Let me tell you it’s very hard to cut fabric with three ferrets full of joie-de-vive helping you. I no sooner laid it out on the table, with the excess fabric hanging over the edge when Miette jumped up and pulled it all down on top of herself. Was she sacrificing herself in an effort to save me from choosing the wrong colour? Albus then rushed to check that Miette was still in one piece while Theodore heaved a big sigh, rolled his eyes at the antics of the younger generation, and ask to be picked up and be cuddled again.
This went on for a while with very little getting done quiltwise. I kept trying as hard as I could to get some patchwork done and refused to give in, when, during one of our regular Hug Theodore sessions, I noticed that his coat wasn't as shiny as it should be, and it wasn't just because he was covered in feral threads picked up from the sewing room floor.
Time to worm the ferrets, I thought. I picked Theodore up and snuck out of the room. You have to sneak away if you are leaving ferrets anywhere on the other side of a door. They seem to have a sixth sense about such things and immediately run around your feet as you head for a door. Ferrets live by the philosophy that anywhere else is going to be so much better than where they are at the moment. I got the Ivomec (sheep and ferret drench), loaded a tiny syringe with the liquid and returned to the sewing room where the two unsuspecting ferrets were still trying to rearrange the room. I duly dosed Theodore and Miette then called Albus for his share of the Ivomec. …No answer.
My ferrets can't ignore me calling their name no matter how hard they try. Being the naturally curious animals that they are, they just have to come and see what I want. Just as they believe that anywhere else is much better than where they are, they also believe that when I call them something’s going to happen that's much better than what's happening now. I called a few more times with Theodore and Miette helping me look for Albus. Their help was as useful as their help with cutting out the fabric. I continually ended up with a ferret in my face, licking my forehead or arm, making the search for Albus just that much more difficult. I could almost hear them saying, "There, there. Don't worry, you still have me."
After ten minutes fruitless searching I was really worried. The last ferret I lost in the house was Isabella (Theodore's deceased mate). That resulted in me finding her squashed under the lounge and on her last gasp. I needed to give her CPR to save her. And while I’m always prepared to go to extreme measures to save a pet’s life, giving mouth to mouth to a ferret is not my ideal way to spend an afternoon I assure you. Isabella survived that experience and went on to bigger and better stash building, but she did avoid standing still near any furniture wherever possible.
Anyway, back to today. As stated earlier, I wasn't anxious to re-visit mouth to mouth with a ferret so I began moving all the things in my sewing room (including Justin’s set of drums - don't ask - they're not my idea of necessary sewing room furniture either!). With my back injury I’m not supposed to move heavy things, but I was getting really worried. I think Theodore and Miette were worried too because they became rather quiet, began following me around and not getting in the way, or maybe they were just enjoying the chaos I was creating. It was a lot better than the worst they could do, I promise you. Or maybe they thought it was safer to stick close to avoid an avalanche of Vlisofix, rolls of fabric and boxes of fat quarters (small amounts of pre-cut quilting fabric for the uninitiated)? With this thought of other possible ferret devastation running round in my head, I returned the two present and accounted for ferrets to their cage and went back to my search – alone and unhindered. Finally I heard a very faint scratching sound coming from the direction of the fabric cupboard. I forgot to mention that while I was closing all doors off the hall, I also closed and locked my fabric cupboard, realising the fun The Gang of Three could have amongst metres and metres of folded fabric.
Knowing ferrets as I do, I didn't put it past Albus to find a way into the locked cupboard so I opened it up and began tossing all my folded and colour sorted fabrics over my shoulder. I cleaned out the bottom shelf but no Albus. There was a distinct scratching sound coming from underneath the cupboard though. Underneath is a very small space indeed, so it was possible he was stuck. I tried various sneaky manoeuvres to get Albus to come out, like calling Theodore and Miette while tapping a can of cat food and knocking on the floor of the cupboard in an effort to drive him out or give him a headache. None of my sly ruses worked.
Now I was in full scale panic, and some pain from moving all the heavy stuff. I hobbled as fast as my legs could carry me out to the front paddock to tear Graeme away from helping our contractor clean the wheat seed (no he's not anal retentive! You clean wheat and lupin seed prior to sowing to get rid of weed seeds and the undersized seeds that won't produce strong plants.) As you may have gathered from previous stories, Graeme’s not an animal lover, he's barely an animal tolerater, but with a frantic wife, hopping from one leg to the other and wincing in pain at regular intervals when she landed on a stone, he could hardly stay and watch the seed being cleaned while ignoring the drama unfolding in the sewing room.
Graeme followed me back to the house, making ani-ferret noises all the way, looked behind the cupboard and told me Albus was perfectly capable of getting himself out. I noticed Graeme also look around the sewing room, consider commenting on the wreck of what was once a tidy and organised room, decide it was safer to remain quiet on the subject, and return his disapproving gaze in the direction of where Albus was most probably lying gasping his last few breaths. After a short and pointed dispute on whether or not Albus should be left to his fate, Graeme lifted the stash cupboard while I tried to retrieve the ferret (farmers are very strong people by the way!). Albus, now able to scuttle to freedom, recognised a game when he saw one, and this was so obviously a game. He moved further under the cupboard, causing me to yell, “Don’t put the cupboard down now! You’ll squash Albus!”
It was only after I’d said it that I realised I had most probably offered Graeme a very tempting course of action. More anti-ferret noises issued from Graeme’s general direction while he and I worked co-operatively, me watching Albus' nose to see where he was in relation to the cupboard floor and Graeme lowering the cupboard. After that Graeme decided that the seed cleaning needed his personal attention. As he departed he suggested that I find some food that Albus couldn't refuse to persuade him to leave his cubby hole. Now why didn't I think of that?! I was obviously too traumatised to think clearly. With that Graeme bolted for the paddock and the preferable company of the seed cleaning contractor.
By the time I had returned from the kitchen with the food to tempt him out of his hiding place, Albus was out and running around the sewing room thinking, "Now this is more like it - I've got all these boxes and piles of fabric and such to explore, roll in and chew should the mood take me!" With one painful movement, I scooped him up and headed for the door to return him to his cage. As I passed my sewing table I caught sight of the syringe with Ivomec in it (remember how all this started?). I’m glad to say I got my revenge. From his facial expressions Ivomec tastes dreadful. Albus was duly drenched for worms and mites and returned to his cage. The only problem is that, with Graeme hiding out in the paddock, I can't put everything back where it belongs in the sewing room by myself, and I can't get back to finishing my wall hanging because the mess spreads wall to wall and all over the top of my sewing table.
Oh well, maybe tomorrow?
I decided today was the day I’d finish the patchwork wall hanging I’ve been making for a couple of weeks now. It's not a very large wall hanging and I’ve made slow progress with it for one reason or anther. So, as I said, today was the day. Unfortunately, I also decided that today was the day for the ferrets to have a run inside the house. They live in a luxurious ferret cage out the back of the house under an old apricot tree where they lie around all day soaking up the sun or taking advantage of my latest invention, ferret air-conditioning - a wet towel placed in a bucket of water on top of the cage for the breeze to go through and another wet towel laid out in the cage for them to lie on and cool their tummies. This cooling system is definitely a requirement in our extremely hot summers. The ferrets don't get much exercise in the cage, but when they come inside that all changes. They take a minute or two to inspect the house and acclimatise themselves to their new surrounding. They try to open locked doors to get into and out of out of bounds rooms, harass any cat silly enough to stay on the floor, check for burglars behind the wall unit, and then once all these necessary jobs have been completed, they sort of explode with ferret joy. Ferret joy involves ferrets jumping in the air with their mouths wide open while swinging their heads from side to side, landing on all fours, challenging all comers to a ferret duel (I've been involved in a few of these - the ferret nearly always wins) and generally covering as much territory as possible with as much noise as possible.
So today I decided to get the two things accomplished at once. I began by closing all the doors that led off the hall except for the sewing room. I then brought the ferrets inside. Theodore, the ancient male ferret, Miette our small bossy, female and Albus, our large albino male who appears to be manic depressive, were beyond thrilled to be allowed into the sewing room. They began by investigating every nook and cranny they could find - actually they found some crannies I didn't even know the sewing room had!
When three ferrets investigate a room, they split up by mutual consent, investigate their assigned section of the room and then, at some invisible signal, swap over and investigate one of the other ferrets' spots. Trying to keep out of the way, lest they lose their place and have to start over from the beginning, I sat down carefully and began designing the wall hanging's borders. Every now and then Theodore sidled up to me and placed a little paw on my leg. This was his signal for me to pick him up and give him a cuddle – now that he's old he likes to take the time to stop and smell the roses, or in Theodore's case to smell anything within reach (on this occasion - me). Everything was going well: do a bit of sewing, stop. Pull a ferret out of somewhere no ferret should be. Return to sewing, stop, give Theodore a cuddle, do a bit more sewing, stop, pull a ferret out ... well I'm sure you get the picture.
I was coping beautifully and patting myself on the back, when it was time to cut out some more border fabric. This occurred about the same time that the ferret room investigations finished and it was time for them to "do the ferret thing" as we in the ferret world call ferret joy). Let me tell you it’s very hard to cut fabric with three ferrets full of joie-de-vive helping you. I no sooner laid it out on the table, with the excess fabric hanging over the edge when Miette jumped up and pulled it all down on top of herself. Was she sacrificing herself in an effort to save me from choosing the wrong colour? Albus then rushed to check that Miette was still in one piece while Theodore heaved a big sigh, rolled his eyes at the antics of the younger generation, and ask to be picked up and be cuddled again.
This went on for a while with very little getting done quiltwise. I kept trying as hard as I could to get some patchwork done and refused to give in, when, during one of our regular Hug Theodore sessions, I noticed that his coat wasn't as shiny as it should be, and it wasn't just because he was covered in feral threads picked up from the sewing room floor.
Time to worm the ferrets, I thought. I picked Theodore up and snuck out of the room. You have to sneak away if you are leaving ferrets anywhere on the other side of a door. They seem to have a sixth sense about such things and immediately run around your feet as you head for a door. Ferrets live by the philosophy that anywhere else is going to be so much better than where they are at the moment. I got the Ivomec (sheep and ferret drench), loaded a tiny syringe with the liquid and returned to the sewing room where the two unsuspecting ferrets were still trying to rearrange the room. I duly dosed Theodore and Miette then called Albus for his share of the Ivomec. …No answer.
My ferrets can't ignore me calling their name no matter how hard they try. Being the naturally curious animals that they are, they just have to come and see what I want. Just as they believe that anywhere else is much better than where they are, they also believe that when I call them something’s going to happen that's much better than what's happening now. I called a few more times with Theodore and Miette helping me look for Albus. Their help was as useful as their help with cutting out the fabric. I continually ended up with a ferret in my face, licking my forehead or arm, making the search for Albus just that much more difficult. I could almost hear them saying, "There, there. Don't worry, you still have me."
After ten minutes fruitless searching I was really worried. The last ferret I lost in the house was Isabella (Theodore's deceased mate). That resulted in me finding her squashed under the lounge and on her last gasp. I needed to give her CPR to save her. And while I’m always prepared to go to extreme measures to save a pet’s life, giving mouth to mouth to a ferret is not my ideal way to spend an afternoon I assure you. Isabella survived that experience and went on to bigger and better stash building, but she did avoid standing still near any furniture wherever possible.
Anyway, back to today. As stated earlier, I wasn't anxious to re-visit mouth to mouth with a ferret so I began moving all the things in my sewing room (including Justin’s set of drums - don't ask - they're not my idea of necessary sewing room furniture either!). With my back injury I’m not supposed to move heavy things, but I was getting really worried. I think Theodore and Miette were worried too because they became rather quiet, began following me around and not getting in the way, or maybe they were just enjoying the chaos I was creating. It was a lot better than the worst they could do, I promise you. Or maybe they thought it was safer to stick close to avoid an avalanche of Vlisofix, rolls of fabric and boxes of fat quarters (small amounts of pre-cut quilting fabric for the uninitiated)? With this thought of other possible ferret devastation running round in my head, I returned the two present and accounted for ferrets to their cage and went back to my search – alone and unhindered. Finally I heard a very faint scratching sound coming from the direction of the fabric cupboard. I forgot to mention that while I was closing all doors off the hall, I also closed and locked my fabric cupboard, realising the fun The Gang of Three could have amongst metres and metres of folded fabric.
Knowing ferrets as I do, I didn't put it past Albus to find a way into the locked cupboard so I opened it up and began tossing all my folded and colour sorted fabrics over my shoulder. I cleaned out the bottom shelf but no Albus. There was a distinct scratching sound coming from underneath the cupboard though. Underneath is a very small space indeed, so it was possible he was stuck. I tried various sneaky manoeuvres to get Albus to come out, like calling Theodore and Miette while tapping a can of cat food and knocking on the floor of the cupboard in an effort to drive him out or give him a headache. None of my sly ruses worked.
Now I was in full scale panic, and some pain from moving all the heavy stuff. I hobbled as fast as my legs could carry me out to the front paddock to tear Graeme away from helping our contractor clean the wheat seed (no he's not anal retentive! You clean wheat and lupin seed prior to sowing to get rid of weed seeds and the undersized seeds that won't produce strong plants.) As you may have gathered from previous stories, Graeme’s not an animal lover, he's barely an animal tolerater, but with a frantic wife, hopping from one leg to the other and wincing in pain at regular intervals when she landed on a stone, he could hardly stay and watch the seed being cleaned while ignoring the drama unfolding in the sewing room.
Graeme followed me back to the house, making ani-ferret noises all the way, looked behind the cupboard and told me Albus was perfectly capable of getting himself out. I noticed Graeme also look around the sewing room, consider commenting on the wreck of what was once a tidy and organised room, decide it was safer to remain quiet on the subject, and return his disapproving gaze in the direction of where Albus was most probably lying gasping his last few breaths. After a short and pointed dispute on whether or not Albus should be left to his fate, Graeme lifted the stash cupboard while I tried to retrieve the ferret (farmers are very strong people by the way!). Albus, now able to scuttle to freedom, recognised a game when he saw one, and this was so obviously a game. He moved further under the cupboard, causing me to yell, “Don’t put the cupboard down now! You’ll squash Albus!”
It was only after I’d said it that I realised I had most probably offered Graeme a very tempting course of action. More anti-ferret noises issued from Graeme’s general direction while he and I worked co-operatively, me watching Albus' nose to see where he was in relation to the cupboard floor and Graeme lowering the cupboard. After that Graeme decided that the seed cleaning needed his personal attention. As he departed he suggested that I find some food that Albus couldn't refuse to persuade him to leave his cubby hole. Now why didn't I think of that?! I was obviously too traumatised to think clearly. With that Graeme bolted for the paddock and the preferable company of the seed cleaning contractor.
By the time I had returned from the kitchen with the food to tempt him out of his hiding place, Albus was out and running around the sewing room thinking, "Now this is more like it - I've got all these boxes and piles of fabric and such to explore, roll in and chew should the mood take me!" With one painful movement, I scooped him up and headed for the door to return him to his cage. As I passed my sewing table I caught sight of the syringe with Ivomec in it (remember how all this started?). I’m glad to say I got my revenge. From his facial expressions Ivomec tastes dreadful. Albus was duly drenched for worms and mites and returned to his cage. The only problem is that, with Graeme hiding out in the paddock, I can't put everything back where it belongs in the sewing room by myself, and I can't get back to finishing my wall hanging because the mess spreads wall to wall and all over the top of my sewing table.
Oh well, maybe tomorrow?
Monday, December 01, 2008
Shadow
When I first met Shadow she was scrounging dropped food from the car park of a large shopping mall. When she was still there the following week pitifully eating an old, blackened chip, I knew that I had to do something. Rebecca, Joshua, Justin and I managed to convince this surprisingly overweight stray to throw her lot in with us. She sat on Joshua’s lap all the way home, looking at him adoringly. The rest of us, she suspected, were definitely up to no good and couldn’t be trusted, but this tall, good looking boy was just what the doctor ordered for a little dog in distress. Once home she continued to follow Joshua wherever he went and so came to be christened Shadow. Graeme came home without a care in the world only to find that the ever-growing pet population had once again increased by one. At that stage we didn’t know that our pet population was about to increase by a lot more than that!
Now if there’s one thing of which we can never accuse Shadow it’s being an ungrateful dog. She settled into our family quite easily and within a few days, even learned to love the rest of us. Her attitude was if her personal god Joshua liked us then that was all she needed for a recommendation in our favour. Before too many days had past, I discovered that Shadow’s round shape wasn’t due to an excess of worms, but rather an excess of pups! Day by day this little Silky type grew rounder and rounder, taking on the shape of an over-inflated balloon and just like the balloon, threatening to pop at any moment. Walking became more and more difficult for Shadow as her belly grew, until finally her feet were no longer able to touch the ground. Try as she might, all she could manage was to roll around on her tummy like those dolls with bases filled with sand that swayed when you set them in motion. Shadow looked exactly like a cartoon dog that had been blown up by an air pump. Rolling around on her tummy proved very uncomfortable, so she spent her days resting on her bed or indicating by a series of sharp barks that she needed her new human family to rally round and give her some assistance so that she could answer calls of nature.
Thus I spent my days while everyone else was a school or work. Keeping my ears open for Shadow’s distress call and rushing outside to help with toilet duties then bringing her back to her bed. Picking her up had its own special problems. There was no obvious spot to grab hold and she squealed every time I tried to lift her. Shadow was a very cowardly little dog during those last few days of her pregnancy. She seemed to squawk at nearly everything that happened to her, but I don't point the finger - I've never been pregnant with a litter of nine so I don't feel that I can judge her. The large gap between Shadow’s feet and the ground lasted for two days before she finally delivered her brood. During these two days I lived in trepidation that she was going to need a caesarean to deliver her pups, and that Graeme would finally disown me. In the end there was no problem at all with Shadow’s confinement, she delivered her entire brood of nine pups naturally while we were asleep.
Now we were in deep trouble. Graeme’s patience with the rest of his family’s pre-disposition to welcome any and all animals into the fold, had worn extra thin. I think his breaking point came when I very recklessly pointed out that the dog count on our Razorback property was now 23! Our Maremma bitch, Robbie had recently given birth to a litter of ten pups. Apollo, our male Maremma and Socks our Kelpie made up the extra numbers. After taking in what I had said, Graeme turned pale, tottered to the nearest chair and didn’t speak for some time (for which the rest of us were extremely grateful). When he did regain his powers of speech it was to ask us what we thought we were going to do with all these pups.
Robbie’s litter was not a problem. They were purebred Maremmas and very much in demand for guarding farm livestock. Shadow’s brood was most likely less than pure-bred Silky Terrier, and likely to prove a challenge in finding homes for all eight of them (Shadow, believing nine an unlucky number squashed the ninth pup in her sleep). Rebecca, Joshua and Justin, recognising a state of emergency when they saw one were galvanised into action. They began doing the groundwork on their school bus and at school by telling everyone they could that we had eight of the most beautiful pups anyone had ever seen being given away free. We could have given the pups away several times over for all the children who wanted one but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to dole out pups willy-nilly. I refused to hand over a pup without a parent present and in favour of taking it on. Things were starting to look grim. The pups had reached eight weeks of age and we hadn’t found a home for even one of them. Robbie’s brood on the other hand, had all left home to begin their careers as guarding dogs on other people’s property, so at least the dog count had reduced to 13. Graeme refused to be consoled by this piece of mathematics. In his estimation we were still at least ten dogs too many, if not 13!.
Thank God that six weeks later we hosted JOTA for the Scouts and Guides. JOTA, for those uninitiated in Scout and Guide lore, stands for Jamboree On The Air. Guides and Scouts gather at various venues around the world on a weekend in October to contact Guides and Scouts in other parts of the country or even in other parts of the world via ham radios and the internet. Our farm on the top of a mountain was ideal for radio reception so a camping weekend was organised for the Scouts and Guides and that weekend we played hosts to over 300 uniformed children and their leaders.
Now the wonderful thing about 300 plus children who are a captive audience for two whole days and at close quarters with a litter of adorable pups is that they very quickly devise plans not to go home at the end of the weekend without at least one little furry bundle. As each parent arrived they were met with a child and his or her treasured pup, in a lot of cases already named by the Scout or Guide, before they had been warned and had time to make up a convincing argument against taking on one of Shadow’s team of eight. Consequently we found a home for seven of the pups, one of them going to a Scout’s grandparents who had arrived to pick him up. All pups found good homes and most were spoilt beyond their wildest dreams.
Our pet count returned to almost normal, but Graeme had seen the signs of things to come if he didn’t maintain constant vigilance. There would be no getting future additions to the menagerie passed him so easily in future.
Now if there’s one thing of which we can never accuse Shadow it’s being an ungrateful dog. She settled into our family quite easily and within a few days, even learned to love the rest of us. Her attitude was if her personal god Joshua liked us then that was all she needed for a recommendation in our favour. Before too many days had past, I discovered that Shadow’s round shape wasn’t due to an excess of worms, but rather an excess of pups! Day by day this little Silky type grew rounder and rounder, taking on the shape of an over-inflated balloon and just like the balloon, threatening to pop at any moment. Walking became more and more difficult for Shadow as her belly grew, until finally her feet were no longer able to touch the ground. Try as she might, all she could manage was to roll around on her tummy like those dolls with bases filled with sand that swayed when you set them in motion. Shadow looked exactly like a cartoon dog that had been blown up by an air pump. Rolling around on her tummy proved very uncomfortable, so she spent her days resting on her bed or indicating by a series of sharp barks that she needed her new human family to rally round and give her some assistance so that she could answer calls of nature.
Thus I spent my days while everyone else was a school or work. Keeping my ears open for Shadow’s distress call and rushing outside to help with toilet duties then bringing her back to her bed. Picking her up had its own special problems. There was no obvious spot to grab hold and she squealed every time I tried to lift her. Shadow was a very cowardly little dog during those last few days of her pregnancy. She seemed to squawk at nearly everything that happened to her, but I don't point the finger - I've never been pregnant with a litter of nine so I don't feel that I can judge her. The large gap between Shadow’s feet and the ground lasted for two days before she finally delivered her brood. During these two days I lived in trepidation that she was going to need a caesarean to deliver her pups, and that Graeme would finally disown me. In the end there was no problem at all with Shadow’s confinement, she delivered her entire brood of nine pups naturally while we were asleep.
Now we were in deep trouble. Graeme’s patience with the rest of his family’s pre-disposition to welcome any and all animals into the fold, had worn extra thin. I think his breaking point came when I very recklessly pointed out that the dog count on our Razorback property was now 23! Our Maremma bitch, Robbie had recently given birth to a litter of ten pups. Apollo, our male Maremma and Socks our Kelpie made up the extra numbers. After taking in what I had said, Graeme turned pale, tottered to the nearest chair and didn’t speak for some time (for which the rest of us were extremely grateful). When he did regain his powers of speech it was to ask us what we thought we were going to do with all these pups.
Robbie’s litter was not a problem. They were purebred Maremmas and very much in demand for guarding farm livestock. Shadow’s brood was most likely less than pure-bred Silky Terrier, and likely to prove a challenge in finding homes for all eight of them (Shadow, believing nine an unlucky number squashed the ninth pup in her sleep). Rebecca, Joshua and Justin, recognising a state of emergency when they saw one were galvanised into action. They began doing the groundwork on their school bus and at school by telling everyone they could that we had eight of the most beautiful pups anyone had ever seen being given away free. We could have given the pups away several times over for all the children who wanted one but my conscience wouldn’t allow me to dole out pups willy-nilly. I refused to hand over a pup without a parent present and in favour of taking it on. Things were starting to look grim. The pups had reached eight weeks of age and we hadn’t found a home for even one of them. Robbie’s brood on the other hand, had all left home to begin their careers as guarding dogs on other people’s property, so at least the dog count had reduced to 13. Graeme refused to be consoled by this piece of mathematics. In his estimation we were still at least ten dogs too many, if not 13!.
Thank God that six weeks later we hosted JOTA for the Scouts and Guides. JOTA, for those uninitiated in Scout and Guide lore, stands for Jamboree On The Air. Guides and Scouts gather at various venues around the world on a weekend in October to contact Guides and Scouts in other parts of the country or even in other parts of the world via ham radios and the internet. Our farm on the top of a mountain was ideal for radio reception so a camping weekend was organised for the Scouts and Guides and that weekend we played hosts to over 300 uniformed children and their leaders.
Now the wonderful thing about 300 plus children who are a captive audience for two whole days and at close quarters with a litter of adorable pups is that they very quickly devise plans not to go home at the end of the weekend without at least one little furry bundle. As each parent arrived they were met with a child and his or her treasured pup, in a lot of cases already named by the Scout or Guide, before they had been warned and had time to make up a convincing argument against taking on one of Shadow’s team of eight. Consequently we found a home for seven of the pups, one of them going to a Scout’s grandparents who had arrived to pick him up. All pups found good homes and most were spoilt beyond their wildest dreams.
Our pet count returned to almost normal, but Graeme had seen the signs of things to come if he didn’t maintain constant vigilance. There would be no getting future additions to the menagerie passed him so easily in future.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Apollo And The Greyhounds
Justa quick note before I tell you about my beloved Apollo.
The comments option has mysteriously disappeared from this blog. I've put in an urgent call to my blog mentor Jane http://five-minutes-of-fame.blogspot.com/ to advise me on how to track it down and return it to its proper place. If you want to leave a comment please come back later.
The comments option has mysteriously disappeared from this blog. I've put in an urgent call to my blog mentor Jane http://five-minutes-of-fame.blogspot.com/ to advise me on how to track it down and return it to its proper place. If you want to leave a comment please come back later.
Now about Apollo....
All my photos of Apollo are from pre-digital camera days and not very good quality. This photo of a Maremma is from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Maremma_sheepdog.jpg
All my photos of Apollo are from pre-digital camera days and not very good quality. This photo of a Maremma is from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Image:Maremma_sheepdog.jpg
At one stage in our farming career we decided to go into breeding Maremma Shepherd dogs. Our reasons for breeding Maremmas was twofold. One: the dogs would guard the members of our then Angora Goat stud, and two: earn us some income through selling their pups at the considerably inflated prices Maremmas were going for back then. After three litters we’d managed to sell all but one of the offspring. We had more than re-couped the cost of Robbie and Apollo and with visions of having one dog left over from each litter we decided not to breed Maremmas anymore so we had Robbie and Apollo and their daughter Penny desexed.
There was a vet about half an hour from where we lived who desexed dogs for a greatly reduced fee, even though his specialisation was in Greyhound veterinary services. Robbie and Penny were spayed first as the vet could only fit two more in on this particular day. We then took Apollo there for his turn a few weeks later. We arrived at the vet's with Apollo in the back of the car spoiling for a fight. Being a Maremma, he wasn't impressed with being wrested from his goat flock and exposing them to who knew what dangers now that they were unprotected. He was in his prime back then and was a huge, muscular specimen that no human or dog would want to want to meet up a dark alley. As I always did when we took Apollo to the vet's, I left Graeme and Apollo in the car and set out on reconnaissance duty. I entered the surgery looking for other dogs and potential Apollo victims. As soon as I walked through the door my heart sank. Today was obviously Greyhound health-care day. The room was full, as far as the eye could see, there were people holding Greyhounds of all colours and sizes. There had to be around 16 of them - Greyhounds that is - there were a few less people because some were holding multiple Greyhounds.
I tottered to the receptionist and told her in hushed tones that I was bringing in a Maremma for de-sexing (as per appointment) and tried to impress upon her that this particular Maremma would consider all these scrawny dogs no more than a light snack. She was a bit of a battle-axe and took the line that she was an experienced vet nurse who could handle any doggy drama that might come her way. She wouldn't be told anything about dogs from a mere owner.
“Everything will be fine if you just keep hold of your dog and everyone here keeps hold of theirs,” she said.
I tried to point out that that would simply make the greyhounds easier for Apollo to catch, but she wouldn't listen.
The only thing I could do was turn around to the now quite interested audience, most of them sitting on the edge of their chairs so that they could better hear my conversation with the battle-axe, and say in my most take-me-seriously, concerned voice, "Whatever you do, HOLD ON TO YOUR DOGS!!!"
A few of them looked a little nervous, but every one of them clutched their skinny charge to their breasts. As I got to the door, I turned around again, and as a parting shot, said, "Make sure you hold on to them tightly." I then departed to get Apollo, with the air of the ancient Greek seer Cassandra after she’d foretold ensuing carnage only to be laughed at by the general populous.
Being seriously out-classed in the weight and strength department, I opted for Graeme to lead Apollo into the surgery. It was around this time that I regretted never thinking of buying a muzzle before. Apollo never left the property(this was his first excursion since he'd come to us a a four week old pup five years ago) and was a pussy cat in his dealings with family and friends. Graeme held tightly to Apollo’s lead and headed for the surgery. It took us less than two minutes from when I'd left the surgery to opening the door again. I was just about to go through my "Hold your dogs" spiel once more, when I looked around the room with disbelief.
Somehow in the space of about a minute and a half the many Greyhound owners had managed to empty the room! There wasn't a Greyhound or Greyhound owner to be seen. Apollo looked around the room, with a satisfied sneer on his face and pulled Graeme over to the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist, goggling at the site of this massive white dog who obviously felt nothing but ill-will towards all strangers, was now much more polite in her dealings with me. Keeping one eye on Apollo who was watching her intently with the steely gaze he reserved for his next victim, she slowly backed out of the room to call a vet to see to us immediately. I don’t know what she said to the vet but it apparently impressed him. He arrived with a sedative which he insisted on giving Apollo before he even weighed him. Apart from regular vengeful glares and the odd curled lip accompanied by his trademark low rumble, Apollo behaved himself very well. Admittledly he had Graeme holding on tight to the lead and me holding on tight to his jaws. I can't say he was the pussycat he is at home among friends and family, but he didn't actually bite anyone so that had to be a plus in his favour. He looked a bit vague with the sedative inside him but he was visibly mellowed out.
I never did find out what happened to the Greyhounds and their owners. I imagine that, after my earnest pleas to protect their dogs, one of them grew curious and looked out the window when six feet tall Graeme was being dragged to the building by Apollo. I suppose he or she then sounded the alarm for everyone to get out and get out quick! I've kept a vision of them all crammed into a cupboard somewhere, nursing their dogs, trying not to tread on each other's toes, whispering "Ouch!" when someone did, and hiding out until that huge dog with the pitiless eyes was well and truly under the anaesthetic.
There was a vet about half an hour from where we lived who desexed dogs for a greatly reduced fee, even though his specialisation was in Greyhound veterinary services. Robbie and Penny were spayed first as the vet could only fit two more in on this particular day. We then took Apollo there for his turn a few weeks later. We arrived at the vet's with Apollo in the back of the car spoiling for a fight. Being a Maremma, he wasn't impressed with being wrested from his goat flock and exposing them to who knew what dangers now that they were unprotected. He was in his prime back then and was a huge, muscular specimen that no human or dog would want to want to meet up a dark alley. As I always did when we took Apollo to the vet's, I left Graeme and Apollo in the car and set out on reconnaissance duty. I entered the surgery looking for other dogs and potential Apollo victims. As soon as I walked through the door my heart sank. Today was obviously Greyhound health-care day. The room was full, as far as the eye could see, there were people holding Greyhounds of all colours and sizes. There had to be around 16 of them - Greyhounds that is - there were a few less people because some were holding multiple Greyhounds.
I tottered to the receptionist and told her in hushed tones that I was bringing in a Maremma for de-sexing (as per appointment) and tried to impress upon her that this particular Maremma would consider all these scrawny dogs no more than a light snack. She was a bit of a battle-axe and took the line that she was an experienced vet nurse who could handle any doggy drama that might come her way. She wouldn't be told anything about dogs from a mere owner.
“Everything will be fine if you just keep hold of your dog and everyone here keeps hold of theirs,” she said.
I tried to point out that that would simply make the greyhounds easier for Apollo to catch, but she wouldn't listen.
The only thing I could do was turn around to the now quite interested audience, most of them sitting on the edge of their chairs so that they could better hear my conversation with the battle-axe, and say in my most take-me-seriously, concerned voice, "Whatever you do, HOLD ON TO YOUR DOGS!!!"
A few of them looked a little nervous, but every one of them clutched their skinny charge to their breasts. As I got to the door, I turned around again, and as a parting shot, said, "Make sure you hold on to them tightly." I then departed to get Apollo, with the air of the ancient Greek seer Cassandra after she’d foretold ensuing carnage only to be laughed at by the general populous.
Being seriously out-classed in the weight and strength department, I opted for Graeme to lead Apollo into the surgery. It was around this time that I regretted never thinking of buying a muzzle before. Apollo never left the property(this was his first excursion since he'd come to us a a four week old pup five years ago) and was a pussy cat in his dealings with family and friends. Graeme held tightly to Apollo’s lead and headed for the surgery. It took us less than two minutes from when I'd left the surgery to opening the door again. I was just about to go through my "Hold your dogs" spiel once more, when I looked around the room with disbelief.
Somehow in the space of about a minute and a half the many Greyhound owners had managed to empty the room! There wasn't a Greyhound or Greyhound owner to be seen. Apollo looked around the room, with a satisfied sneer on his face and pulled Graeme over to the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist, goggling at the site of this massive white dog who obviously felt nothing but ill-will towards all strangers, was now much more polite in her dealings with me. Keeping one eye on Apollo who was watching her intently with the steely gaze he reserved for his next victim, she slowly backed out of the room to call a vet to see to us immediately. I don’t know what she said to the vet but it apparently impressed him. He arrived with a sedative which he insisted on giving Apollo before he even weighed him. Apart from regular vengeful glares and the odd curled lip accompanied by his trademark low rumble, Apollo behaved himself very well. Admittledly he had Graeme holding on tight to the lead and me holding on tight to his jaws. I can't say he was the pussycat he is at home among friends and family, but he didn't actually bite anyone so that had to be a plus in his favour. He looked a bit vague with the sedative inside him but he was visibly mellowed out.
I never did find out what happened to the Greyhounds and their owners. I imagine that, after my earnest pleas to protect their dogs, one of them grew curious and looked out the window when six feet tall Graeme was being dragged to the building by Apollo. I suppose he or she then sounded the alarm for everyone to get out and get out quick! I've kept a vision of them all crammed into a cupboard somewhere, nursing their dogs, trying not to tread on each other's toes, whispering "Ouch!" when someone did, and hiding out until that huge dog with the pitiless eyes was well and truly under the anaesthetic.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
How To Bathe With A Duck And Keep Your Extremities
After moving to 25 acres outside of Camden and realising I now had five times as many acres as I’d had at our old place, I began a new campaign to acquire more pets to fill the gaps. I've never found it difficult to add to my pet collection – I have a bigger problem not adding to it, so it wasn’t long before my menagerie was the better off by one large, white drake.
Bob was a poultry factory refugee. The local hatchery had a policy of incubating twice as many eggs as ducks needed to fill their orders. This quaint custom tended to produce a lot more ducklings than required - always causing surprise and consternation at management level I imagine. The result of this overpopulation problem resulted in a company policy of dispatching all excess ducklings to the great duck pond in the sky. Jan, one of my Year 1 students’ mothers, worked at the poultry factory and was known to be a softy at heart who’d obviously got into the wrong line of work. She spent quite a bit of her spare time finding homes for the surplus hatchlings. I was also known far and wide as a softy or more likely a real sucker for a hard luck story. I agreed to take two ducklings and planned to tell Graeme about it later – much later. I began plotting and calculating how long I could keep two ducklings hidden before having to come clean.
Jan, as often happened when she was finding home for ducklings in peril, developed a severe mathematics problem and for two ducklings read seven. She delivered them in a box to my classroom veranda while I was too busy teaching to count duckbills, and shot through. This drop and run technique it seems was also part of her very effective strategy to find homes for all the excess ducklings. There was obviously no way I could hide seven quacking, squitting (as my Nana termed it) ducklings from Graeme’s sight even for a short while, so I owned up immediately Graeme arrived home that night. I was very relieved to hear only a few grumbles and finally resignation, before we moved onto safer subjects. Note to self: always spring new pets on Graeme at the end of a hard day’s work when he’s too tired to protest.
All seven ducklings were soon ensconced in a large box fitted with a heat lamp. Unfortunately, no sooner had the ducklings arrived than they began to lie down in their box, take on a pale and interesting look and die. Our local vet declared that they had an incurable virus that he suspected came with them from the factory. This proved to be the case with the hatchery shutting down a week later. One by one the little yellow fluff balls weakened and died, except for one little fellow who just refused to give in. Bob the duckling soldiered on in the now scrubbed clean and much roomier box with only the heat lamp to keep him company. There he could be seen at all hours of the day, warming himself by his own private lamp, lifting his head every now and then to pass the time of day with any family member who happened by for a chat. All he needed for complete happiness was a beach towel, some sunnies, an esky and sand. Bob was a duck who was obviously made of strong stuff. He not only didn’t die, he didn’t even get sick. Bob became Super Bob in our minds and went from strength to strength.
His daily ablutions caused the family a great deal of trouble and discussion. Bob required regular bathing to keep his now adolescent white fluff clean and smell free. We were constantly worried about his catching cold - in retrospect a stupid thing to worry about, hadn’t he just survived in the face of the killer virus? At first we bathed him in the bathroom sink, giving him ample opportunity to exercise his little webbed feet and explore the possibilities of life on the water. When the tidal waves in the sink began flooding the bathroom floor, it was obvious that Bob was now too big to wash in the sink. Bob was still too young to be repatriated to the back yard, and still needed daily bathing to preserve his personal freshness. In the end the only solution was for Bob to graduate to showers. After many trials and errors I finally learned that the only way to successfully shower a duck is to shower with it. That’s when the family debates began. The discussions tended to centre around exactly with whom he’d have these showers. While the kids were prepared to try it once, I can’t say that the sport actually caught on amongst the younger crowd and Bob became my personal shower buddy.
Now showering with a duck is an experience I don’t really think I can recommend! If you’ve never had to fight a duck for your share of the water and the shower floor, I don’t suggest you try it. One isn’t at one’s best standing there dripping wet and naked, trying to protect the fleshier parts of one’s body while attempting to shoo a duck over to a neutral corner of the shower, especially when that duck is drunk with power and intent on getting the giant’s share of the water. All in all it was not a pretty sight. There I was, trying to command my share of the shower floor and there was Bob, determined to enjoy the experience to its utmost. Bob’s strategy was simple but effective. He’d waddle into the middle of the shower recess, regardless of any other feet that might have laid prior claim to the spot, and stood there with his beak pointing skywards allowing the water to drizzle down his body. His little ducky claws were very sharp when accompanied by the full weight of Bob (remember he was bred to grow big and heavy). I made many attempts to share the joy of showering with a duck with Rebecca, Joshua and Justin, but all three flatly refused to endanger their persons by showering with Bob ever again. I was therefore fated to be the only one who risked life, limb and dignity and I’m sad to report that Bob usually came out the victor of these shower sessions.
I was more than relieved when I was able to declare Bob all grown up and ready to face the rigors of living outside.
Bob was a poultry factory refugee. The local hatchery had a policy of incubating twice as many eggs as ducks needed to fill their orders. This quaint custom tended to produce a lot more ducklings than required - always causing surprise and consternation at management level I imagine. The result of this overpopulation problem resulted in a company policy of dispatching all excess ducklings to the great duck pond in the sky. Jan, one of my Year 1 students’ mothers, worked at the poultry factory and was known to be a softy at heart who’d obviously got into the wrong line of work. She spent quite a bit of her spare time finding homes for the surplus hatchlings. I was also known far and wide as a softy or more likely a real sucker for a hard luck story. I agreed to take two ducklings and planned to tell Graeme about it later – much later. I began plotting and calculating how long I could keep two ducklings hidden before having to come clean.
Jan, as often happened when she was finding home for ducklings in peril, developed a severe mathematics problem and for two ducklings read seven. She delivered them in a box to my classroom veranda while I was too busy teaching to count duckbills, and shot through. This drop and run technique it seems was also part of her very effective strategy to find homes for all the excess ducklings. There was obviously no way I could hide seven quacking, squitting (as my Nana termed it) ducklings from Graeme’s sight even for a short while, so I owned up immediately Graeme arrived home that night. I was very relieved to hear only a few grumbles and finally resignation, before we moved onto safer subjects. Note to self: always spring new pets on Graeme at the end of a hard day’s work when he’s too tired to protest.
All seven ducklings were soon ensconced in a large box fitted with a heat lamp. Unfortunately, no sooner had the ducklings arrived than they began to lie down in their box, take on a pale and interesting look and die. Our local vet declared that they had an incurable virus that he suspected came with them from the factory. This proved to be the case with the hatchery shutting down a week later. One by one the little yellow fluff balls weakened and died, except for one little fellow who just refused to give in. Bob the duckling soldiered on in the now scrubbed clean and much roomier box with only the heat lamp to keep him company. There he could be seen at all hours of the day, warming himself by his own private lamp, lifting his head every now and then to pass the time of day with any family member who happened by for a chat. All he needed for complete happiness was a beach towel, some sunnies, an esky and sand. Bob was a duck who was obviously made of strong stuff. He not only didn’t die, he didn’t even get sick. Bob became Super Bob in our minds and went from strength to strength.
His daily ablutions caused the family a great deal of trouble and discussion. Bob required regular bathing to keep his now adolescent white fluff clean and smell free. We were constantly worried about his catching cold - in retrospect a stupid thing to worry about, hadn’t he just survived in the face of the killer virus? At first we bathed him in the bathroom sink, giving him ample opportunity to exercise his little webbed feet and explore the possibilities of life on the water. When the tidal waves in the sink began flooding the bathroom floor, it was obvious that Bob was now too big to wash in the sink. Bob was still too young to be repatriated to the back yard, and still needed daily bathing to preserve his personal freshness. In the end the only solution was for Bob to graduate to showers. After many trials and errors I finally learned that the only way to successfully shower a duck is to shower with it. That’s when the family debates began. The discussions tended to centre around exactly with whom he’d have these showers. While the kids were prepared to try it once, I can’t say that the sport actually caught on amongst the younger crowd and Bob became my personal shower buddy.
Now showering with a duck is an experience I don’t really think I can recommend! If you’ve never had to fight a duck for your share of the water and the shower floor, I don’t suggest you try it. One isn’t at one’s best standing there dripping wet and naked, trying to protect the fleshier parts of one’s body while attempting to shoo a duck over to a neutral corner of the shower, especially when that duck is drunk with power and intent on getting the giant’s share of the water. All in all it was not a pretty sight. There I was, trying to command my share of the shower floor and there was Bob, determined to enjoy the experience to its utmost. Bob’s strategy was simple but effective. He’d waddle into the middle of the shower recess, regardless of any other feet that might have laid prior claim to the spot, and stood there with his beak pointing skywards allowing the water to drizzle down his body. His little ducky claws were very sharp when accompanied by the full weight of Bob (remember he was bred to grow big and heavy). I made many attempts to share the joy of showering with a duck with Rebecca, Joshua and Justin, but all three flatly refused to endanger their persons by showering with Bob ever again. I was therefore fated to be the only one who risked life, limb and dignity and I’m sad to report that Bob usually came out the victor of these shower sessions.
I was more than relieved when I was able to declare Bob all grown up and ready to face the rigors of living outside.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Help Whether I Want It Or Not
Lancelot helping me take a photo of a quilt block.
I doubt you realise the difficult circumstances under which I post my blog entry each day. The older stories are from a file of stories I've written over the years and I simply cut and paste them into the draft window. I then read and edit the story to make sure it's easily understood by all. Other entries, like this one are typed as I go. With both types of entry I have more help than I really need.
Take now for example. Lancelot is lying, draped over my lap, head as close to the keyboard as he can get and regularly stretching a paw up to suggest a better key for me to click. I've learned to type around cats and dexterously remove paws as I go without missing a beat. From time to time Lancelot tires of just lying there and stretches his whole body. This always results in his head and upper torso ending up on the keyboard. Lancelot tends to create damage proportional to the importance of the text - the more important the text the greater the damage done.
"Why don't you put him off your lap?" you ask? Because he'll just jump right back on. It's no good suggesting I put him out of the room either. Our house is the open plan style and apart from locking him in the bedroom, where Graeme is still sleeping, he can always make his way back to me. Now let's just consider what would happen if I locked him in the bedroom with Graeme for a minute ... no, best not to I think about it. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight.
Actually, Lancelot's presence on my lap isn't the worst that happens while I type. I can cope with the wayward paws and head. I'm used to them. One thing I've never been able to adjust to is when one of the other cats decides to challenge Lancelot for my lap. It begins with Lancelot looking far too comfortable and either Guinevere or Tristan deciding that my lap is the place to be. Guinevere will then jump on the lounge near the computer; hop onto the CPU which is just inches from my lap and to the left and then tentatively bat Lancelot with a paw. Depending on Lancelot's humour at the time, he will either ignore the subtle hint to give someone else a turn or he'll growl a warning that he's not in the mood for any funny business. Neither reaction makes the her back off.
Guinevere will slowly climb onto my lap (via the keyboard) and move in behind Lancelot. She'll then begin washing him. Guinevere's usual strategy to get rid of a cat that's where she wants to be is to wash its head. She will wash that head until it's quite soggy, if the offending cat is stubborn enough to try to hold his ground. If Lancelot doesn't take the hint and hop off my lap, leaving Guinevere the sole possessor, she will begin moving closer and closer to him until she's just about pushed him off my lap. This is when I intervene. Past experience has shown me that I'll be the one to come off worst in this battle, as Lancelot digs his claws into any fleshy part of my body that comes to hand, or rather to paw, in order to get a better hold on his territory. A battle then begins with Lancelot batting Guinevere with one paw while holding his ground with claws in my leg with the other. In case you're wondering, I've stopped trying to type anything by this time. Both cats are put on the floor and I'm able to get back to work for a few minutes. Guinevere usually manages to be the one to hop back up first. Lancelot contents himself with sitting next to my chair and glaring at Guinevere who is blissfully unaware of her brother's feelings.
If Tristan is the one who wants to depose Lancelot, I get up pretty quickly and head him off at the pass. Lancelot and Tristan are sworn enemies and have been ever since Tristan arrived as a cute little ball of orange fluff three years ago. While Lancelot will put up with quite a bit from his sister, he will not tolerate Tristan even looking like he's contemplating deposing him from my lap. A battle to the death (or at least that's what it sounds like) results when Lancelot jumps down from my lap and fires the first shot. Tristan is no angel in these matters either. He loves nothing better than to taunt Lancelot and has even been known to begin an attack when Lancelot is peacefully sleeping somewhere (usually, but not always, on my lap).
So, now you understand. It's pretty much a miracle that you get to read anything of the happenings at Spring Rock.
Tristan also helping. He might look like he's just sitting there but take special note of that paw near the corner of the block. He kept dragging the block out of shape each time I tried to photograph it. I think Tristan was aiming for the artistic, abstract effect.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
The Saving of Goldie (Well Temporarily Anyway)
I’ve been the owner of a large variety of pets. I’ve owned cats, dogs, galahs, horses, rats, rabbits, chooks and many other species of domesticated and some not so domesticated animals. One pet I’d never owned was a fish as a child. I can’t account for this sad deficiency in my pet owning experiences, but there it was – I’d never owned a fish and that was that. Consequently I knew very little about the care and maintenance of fish when I bought a black, goggled eyed fish and a common gold coloured fish from the pet shop to live in my garden pond at The Oaks. The fish spent their days swimming around, as fish do, and causing us no problems at all. They ate whatever nature provided and the little water fall kept their pond clean and fresh. They were the least bothersome pets I’ve ever owned.
When we sold that property, I decided to pack up the fish and take them with us to our new home as I couldn’t be sure the new owners would prove to be responsible fish owners. For all I knew they might get the whim to drain the pond, leaving the fish high and dry, or take to over feeding them. Leaving the fish with these unknown new owners was definitely fraught with danger from the fish's perspective. My steadfast decision to take them with us caused not a little discussion between Graeme and me, but eventually our differences were resolved and the fish were to accompany us to our next home. I had to buy them a fish tank of course, because I’d put them straight from the plastic bag provided by the pet shop into the pond. I also had to buy a filter, aerator, water-weed and tank decorations. Graeme kept a tally of how much these fifty cent fish were going to cost us and I can tell you it was an impressive sum at the end! They’d not only been my least bothersome pets but also my least expensive ones, but that had all changed now without either of them even lifting a fin.
Once installed in our youngest son’s bedroom in our new home, life for the fish went on uneventfully for some while. Justin duly named them Blackie and Goldie for obvious reasons and I turned my attentions to things other than goldfish. After a time Blackie expired and Goldie was left in sole possession of the tank. Goldie was one of your average boring goldfish in every way except for one small quirk. Goldie was a thrill seeker – the Evil Keneval of the goldfish world. He had everything a goldfish could want to live a happy, fulfilled life. Why then he felt he needed to add excitement to his days by jumping out of his bowl and flopping on the floor until a family member rescued him, I don’t know, but jump out of his tank he did with alarming regularity. He must have enjoyed the sensation of the blood rushing to his little fishy brain, or the rush of adrenaline that followed finding himself in an inhospitable environment because he continued to jump out of his tank until steps were taken to make exiting his watery habitat impossible. The answer to curbing Goldie’s adventures was easy. We simply placed a thin piece of wood to act as a lid on top of his bowl. There was always the worry at the back of my mind that Goldie would give himself concussion by constantly hitting his little head against the lid, but that was the chance we had to take.
Justin, who was about four at the time, was officially Goldie’s owner. Goldie lived in Justin’s bedroom so he claimed the equivalent of a sort of reverse squatters’ rights and made himself personally responsible for Goldie’s welfare. It was Justin who fed Goldie each day or stopped for a chat with the fish every now then on his way in or out of his bedroom. Goldie accepted all these little attentions with calm good will and a swish of his tail, in between butting his head against his new tank lid.
And so our days rolled on with barely a thought by any of us about goldfish in general or Goldie in particular. Until one night when Justin had been up and down throughout the night with asthma. I staggered into his bedroom around 2 o’clock in the morning (I’m not a morning person at the best of times – 2.00 a.m. is in my opinion the worst of times!) to check on his latest bout of coughing. Justin was in fact improving and I began to think that with any luck I might just be able to get back to bed and stay there this time. As I began to gratefully return to my own bed Justin sat up in bed “What’s that on the floor?” he asked. “Nothing. Go to sleep,” I answered. I didn’t care if it was a tarantula (and I’m arachnophobic!), I was not going to be kept from my bed. Then I looked at the small, shiny figure lying on the floor and realised that bed was going to have to wait a little longer. I’d forgotten to replace Goldie’s tank lid when I had relieved the wheezing Justin of feeding duties and fed Goldie myself earlier that evening. Goldie was obviously up to his old tricks and thrill seeking again. Only tonight he’d mistimed his fishy equivalent of a Bungy Jump and leaped from his tank in the middle of the night. There he lay expiring before my eyes and worse still, before Justin’s eyes.
Not knowing how long Goldie had been lying on the floor (or how I’d managed not to step on him when I first came into the room); I approached the sad, flat little figure with real trepidation. Just as I was about to pick him up and begin my soothing speech about Goldie being in goldfish heaven, he gave a weak little flip of his tail. Goldie wasn’t dead!
“He’s alive Justin,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “I’ll just pop him back in the tank and everything will be fine.”
I duly popped him back in his tank but everything was far from fine. Goldie just sort of slowly sank to the bottom of the tank and lay on the gravel in much the same fading-fast look in his eyes as when I found him on the carpet – looking doomed and deflated. I lifted him out of the water quickly and tried poking him gently with my finger while my more rational self asked what I thought I was doing at this ungodly hour of the morning. In my sleep deprived mind I was administering external heart massage or some such thing and I didn't even know where a fish kept it's heart.
Poking unsurprisingly had no effect whatsoever. He continued to lie limply in my hand looking like the only thing I could do for him was administer his last rights. It was obvious that I was running out of time and ideas for saving Goldie – he was quite literally almost at his last gasp. In a last ditch effort I called on all my first aid training and began to administer mouth to gill resuscitation. After all what did I have to lose except my dignity and credibility, and at that time of the morning I doubted if I had either anyway. Graeme by this time had heard Justin’s and my desperate tones when we first found Goldie and he wondered what was going on. He wandered in to see what we were up to and came face to face with his wife desperately blowing in a fish’s gills.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked not unreasonably.
“I’m saving Goldie,” I replied between puffs.
“Do you honestly think that’s going to work?” Graeme said.
I hadn’t stopped to consider the odds of saving an oxygen-deprived fish by blowing in its gills, but I gamely replied, “It’s worth a try.”
“It’s 2 o’clock in the morning!” said Graeme as if giving mouth to gill resuscitation should only be carried out during office hours. There was no appropriate answer to this statement so I saved my breath to give to Goldie and continued goldfish C.P.R.
After blowing into Goldie’s gills every few puffs, I then dunked him in his tank and tried sort of swishing him round a bit with my finger, ignoring my brain which was desperate to shut down for the night. Finally I put Goldie back into his tank and prevented him from sinking by the simple expedient of placing two fingers under his middle. By guiding him back and forth through the water, accompanied by Graeme’s exasperated and disbelieving comments, I was able to get Goldie to first float and then to swim on his own. I’d saved Goldie and won Justin’s undying gratitude. Well, undying for the rest of that day anyway. I was able to get back to bed with a clear conscience. Before setting off for bed I made sure of one thing - the lid was firmly placed on Goldie’s cage.
It would be great if the story ended there. Unfortunately there was an unexpected sequel. After Goldie’s mid-night rambles I began to worry that he was too cramped in his little tank. I co-erced the family into helping me make a large garden pond so that Goldie could return to more spacious accommodation. Now if you think back to the beginning of this story you’ll find that I freely admitted to knowing very little about the care and maintenance of a gold fish. As soon as the pond was finished we plonked Goldie into the water, carefully allowing him to slowly adjust to the change inwater temperature by scooping him out of his tank and placing him a plastic bag with a generous amount of tank water (I knew that much at least!). What I didn’t know was that the water in the pond should have been left for a couple of weeks. Apparently something in the fresh concrete (that’s as technical as I can get) poisons fish, if said fish are plonked in by unsuspecting owners, straight after the concrete has set. Goldie and I found this out the hard way the next morning.
Even mouth to gill resuscitation was useless this time.
When we sold that property, I decided to pack up the fish and take them with us to our new home as I couldn’t be sure the new owners would prove to be responsible fish owners. For all I knew they might get the whim to drain the pond, leaving the fish high and dry, or take to over feeding them. Leaving the fish with these unknown new owners was definitely fraught with danger from the fish's perspective. My steadfast decision to take them with us caused not a little discussion between Graeme and me, but eventually our differences were resolved and the fish were to accompany us to our next home. I had to buy them a fish tank of course, because I’d put them straight from the plastic bag provided by the pet shop into the pond. I also had to buy a filter, aerator, water-weed and tank decorations. Graeme kept a tally of how much these fifty cent fish were going to cost us and I can tell you it was an impressive sum at the end! They’d not only been my least bothersome pets but also my least expensive ones, but that had all changed now without either of them even lifting a fin.
Once installed in our youngest son’s bedroom in our new home, life for the fish went on uneventfully for some while. Justin duly named them Blackie and Goldie for obvious reasons and I turned my attentions to things other than goldfish. After a time Blackie expired and Goldie was left in sole possession of the tank. Goldie was one of your average boring goldfish in every way except for one small quirk. Goldie was a thrill seeker – the Evil Keneval of the goldfish world. He had everything a goldfish could want to live a happy, fulfilled life. Why then he felt he needed to add excitement to his days by jumping out of his bowl and flopping on the floor until a family member rescued him, I don’t know, but jump out of his tank he did with alarming regularity. He must have enjoyed the sensation of the blood rushing to his little fishy brain, or the rush of adrenaline that followed finding himself in an inhospitable environment because he continued to jump out of his tank until steps were taken to make exiting his watery habitat impossible. The answer to curbing Goldie’s adventures was easy. We simply placed a thin piece of wood to act as a lid on top of his bowl. There was always the worry at the back of my mind that Goldie would give himself concussion by constantly hitting his little head against the lid, but that was the chance we had to take.
Justin, who was about four at the time, was officially Goldie’s owner. Goldie lived in Justin’s bedroom so he claimed the equivalent of a sort of reverse squatters’ rights and made himself personally responsible for Goldie’s welfare. It was Justin who fed Goldie each day or stopped for a chat with the fish every now then on his way in or out of his bedroom. Goldie accepted all these little attentions with calm good will and a swish of his tail, in between butting his head against his new tank lid.
And so our days rolled on with barely a thought by any of us about goldfish in general or Goldie in particular. Until one night when Justin had been up and down throughout the night with asthma. I staggered into his bedroom around 2 o’clock in the morning (I’m not a morning person at the best of times – 2.00 a.m. is in my opinion the worst of times!) to check on his latest bout of coughing. Justin was in fact improving and I began to think that with any luck I might just be able to get back to bed and stay there this time. As I began to gratefully return to my own bed Justin sat up in bed “What’s that on the floor?” he asked. “Nothing. Go to sleep,” I answered. I didn’t care if it was a tarantula (and I’m arachnophobic!), I was not going to be kept from my bed. Then I looked at the small, shiny figure lying on the floor and realised that bed was going to have to wait a little longer. I’d forgotten to replace Goldie’s tank lid when I had relieved the wheezing Justin of feeding duties and fed Goldie myself earlier that evening. Goldie was obviously up to his old tricks and thrill seeking again. Only tonight he’d mistimed his fishy equivalent of a Bungy Jump and leaped from his tank in the middle of the night. There he lay expiring before my eyes and worse still, before Justin’s eyes.
Not knowing how long Goldie had been lying on the floor (or how I’d managed not to step on him when I first came into the room); I approached the sad, flat little figure with real trepidation. Just as I was about to pick him up and begin my soothing speech about Goldie being in goldfish heaven, he gave a weak little flip of his tail. Goldie wasn’t dead!
“He’s alive Justin,” I said in my most reassuring voice. “I’ll just pop him back in the tank and everything will be fine.”
I duly popped him back in his tank but everything was far from fine. Goldie just sort of slowly sank to the bottom of the tank and lay on the gravel in much the same fading-fast look in his eyes as when I found him on the carpet – looking doomed and deflated. I lifted him out of the water quickly and tried poking him gently with my finger while my more rational self asked what I thought I was doing at this ungodly hour of the morning. In my sleep deprived mind I was administering external heart massage or some such thing and I didn't even know where a fish kept it's heart.
Poking unsurprisingly had no effect whatsoever. He continued to lie limply in my hand looking like the only thing I could do for him was administer his last rights. It was obvious that I was running out of time and ideas for saving Goldie – he was quite literally almost at his last gasp. In a last ditch effort I called on all my first aid training and began to administer mouth to gill resuscitation. After all what did I have to lose except my dignity and credibility, and at that time of the morning I doubted if I had either anyway. Graeme by this time had heard Justin’s and my desperate tones when we first found Goldie and he wondered what was going on. He wandered in to see what we were up to and came face to face with his wife desperately blowing in a fish’s gills.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked not unreasonably.
“I’m saving Goldie,” I replied between puffs.
“Do you honestly think that’s going to work?” Graeme said.
I hadn’t stopped to consider the odds of saving an oxygen-deprived fish by blowing in its gills, but I gamely replied, “It’s worth a try.”
“It’s 2 o’clock in the morning!” said Graeme as if giving mouth to gill resuscitation should only be carried out during office hours. There was no appropriate answer to this statement so I saved my breath to give to Goldie and continued goldfish C.P.R.
After blowing into Goldie’s gills every few puffs, I then dunked him in his tank and tried sort of swishing him round a bit with my finger, ignoring my brain which was desperate to shut down for the night. Finally I put Goldie back into his tank and prevented him from sinking by the simple expedient of placing two fingers under his middle. By guiding him back and forth through the water, accompanied by Graeme’s exasperated and disbelieving comments, I was able to get Goldie to first float and then to swim on his own. I’d saved Goldie and won Justin’s undying gratitude. Well, undying for the rest of that day anyway. I was able to get back to bed with a clear conscience. Before setting off for bed I made sure of one thing - the lid was firmly placed on Goldie’s cage.
It would be great if the story ended there. Unfortunately there was an unexpected sequel. After Goldie’s mid-night rambles I began to worry that he was too cramped in his little tank. I co-erced the family into helping me make a large garden pond so that Goldie could return to more spacious accommodation. Now if you think back to the beginning of this story you’ll find that I freely admitted to knowing very little about the care and maintenance of a gold fish. As soon as the pond was finished we plonked Goldie into the water, carefully allowing him to slowly adjust to the change inwater temperature by scooping him out of his tank and placing him a plastic bag with a generous amount of tank water (I knew that much at least!). What I didn’t know was that the water in the pond should have been left for a couple of weeks. Apparently something in the fresh concrete (that’s as technical as I can get) poisons fish, if said fish are plonked in by unsuspecting owners, straight after the concrete has set. Goldie and I found this out the hard way the next morning.
Even mouth to gill resuscitation was useless this time.
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