In Which We Once Again Visit My Toilet Habits

I know I have posted before about the dangers of using our toilet.  It's not that I'm obsessed or anything but just a warning.  This post is going to be cover that topic yet again.


For those of you that are new to Life At Spring Rock our only toilet is located in the laundry which is outside our back door on the porch.   All our dogs have tried to lay claim to it over the years.  Some have been successful, some have had to wait for the another, tougher dog to die of old age, and some are still being kicked out whenever they put a toe over the threshold (Juno and Dione, the Kelpies, will never give up though - they've been trying unsuccessfully for over 12 years now).  You can read about the wars for laundry domination here   http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/01/battle-for-laundry-floor.html  and the difficulties faced when using our facilities here   http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/04/please-take-care-when-using-our.html

Once gain, it's all about Billy.  I often tell him it's a good thing he's such a handsome fellow (just look at the photo above to see how gorgeous he is) because he certainly causes enough trouble in the menagerie.

Billy is now channelling his Swiss ancestors and enjoying the cooler weather, but he is becoming a bit of a problem in the laundry/toilet yet again.  I suppose it all started when I had to push him out and close the door a couple of days ago while I was dyeing fabric.  The laundry just isn't big enough for fabric, dyes, dye-pots and other dyeing paraphernalia, myself and one large St Bernard.  As Billy has yet to master the art of fabric dyeing that meant he was the one who had to go.  He tried closing his eyes so he couldn't see me pointing towards the door.  Being deaf, this is his supreme weapon in the fight to do as he pleases and Billy uses it at every opportunity.  Since being turfed out  that day he's re-claimed the laundry as his territory and refuses to budge an inch when I want to use the facilities.  Billy sprawls himself out the full length of the floor with the majority of his bulk right in front of the toilet, closes his eyes and assumes the look of an exhausted dog just catching up on some well earned sleep.  

I get up at 6am.  Well my body gets up, my brain takes another couple of hours to join it.  Consequently I try to operate on autopilot until my brain catches up.  Visiting the laundry used to be so simple I could do it with my eyes closed.  Lately I've encountered acres of St Bernard almost wrapped around the toilet base and overflowing out far too far to manoeuvre around him.   I tried, poking him with my foot, pushing him from one end or the other and just grumbling ineffectually to his deaf ears. Nothing worked.  Billy stayed put and feigned sleep.  I knew he wasn't really asleep because he wasn't snoring.  In the end I practically had to do the splits to accomplish my mission - no mean feat when your brain is stuck in neutral.   Billy didn't budge.  At one stage while still trying to position myself so I wouldn't fall off, I trod on Billy's leg.  Of course I apologised profusely - all Billy did was raise his head (giving the lie to being asleep), give me "That Look" and resumed his recumbent and possessive position around the toilet.  


I found myself apologising to Billy and making a bigger effort to not disturb Billy's pretend slumber any further ("That Look" has that effect on me I'm afraid).  One of these days I'm going to get a nasty injury trying to bend myself around Billy's recumbent figure while trying to use the toilet.  I shudder at the imagined scene in Emerency at the local hospital as I explain how I sustained the injury.



All I could do this morning was grumble to myself that this wouldn't happen to Graeme.

Protective Custody Spring Rock Style

Before I explain the title of this blog, Paula M asked: So the battle has been on-going for a couple of weeks now. Any sign of victory...for either side? My money is on the cat.  

Well Paula, we have had some success, but the battle hasn't been won yet by any means.  Ambrosia is jumping up less while we are around to do something about it, but we suspect she goes to town when we aren't in the house and sits on benches just to prove she can.  The over worked water bottle has been brought into use yet again for a new reason though, and that brings me to the title of this blog.

Chocha, my usually very boring axolotl has been placed in maximum security protective custody

That's my very heavy marble pastry board on top of her tank. 

Two nights ago, Ambrosia climbed on the box on the left side of this photo to have a drink of water.  We keep a bowl of water near the cats' food and they get a drink of milk every morning because they are spoiled cats, but Ambrosia and Tristan prefer Axolotl flavoured water.   As a matter of fact all our cats have preferred axolotl flavoured water.  Chocha, knowing her place in the food chain, has always shown good sense and stayed at the bottom of the tank doing her best submerged log impersonation and peace has reigned.  Ambrosia would have her drink and hop down without another thought about why the water tasted so much better than the water bowl water.

Two nights ago Chocha proved herself to be the dumbest axolotl on earth.  While Ambrosia was having her nightly drink of water Chocha could stand it no longer.  She swam to the top of the tank and rubbed noses with Ambrosia.  Ambrosia reacted just the way you'd expect a highly strung huntress to react.  First she rose about three feet in the air, performed a very fine double twist while she was up there and finally landed on the floor with a startled expression that had me regretting I don't keep the camera strapped to my body.  My next thought was that trouble was just around the corner and I was right.

Ambrosia sat down and had a little think about what had just passed.  Her normally calm water tank has sprung to wet, slimy life and touched her nose. Ewww!  Ewww! Ewww!  She stopped thinking in order to give said nose a good scrub followed by a thorough washing then resumed thinking.  Obviously there was something alive in her water tank.  If that was the case it was also obviously prey!  Why you ask?  Because to a young Bengal cat if it moves its prey.  It might be the play with it and stay friends type of prey (Nefertiti, Tristan and her favourite toy, The Christmas Duck)), play with it and feel superior because I am so much better at hunting than they are  type prey (Graeme and me), catch it, wrestle it to the ground and never quite win, but never give up until Mum intervenes prey (the ferrets) or the very, very rare, if you can catch it you can chomp on it prey (mice, moths and other insects).  Ambrosia suspected that this prey fell into the last category.

"Well now," we could see her thinking, "This is going to be FUN!!!"  Ambrosia climbed back onto the box and began her hunt.  This would take a bit of finesse.  She began by just sitting there waiting patiently for Chocha to come back up and rub noses again.  While Chocha may be the dumbest axolotl in the world she is not completely without self preservation instincts.  She went back to her submerged log mode and kept her head low.  Meanwhile, I  removed Ambrosia from the box and told her her fish tank water drinking days were over.  Ambrosia was no sooner on the floor  that she'd jumped up on the box again.  This time she knew she was going to be removed just as quickly so she dove her foot into the water trying to scoop Chocha out before she, Ambrosia, was removed to the floor once again.  Chocha panicked, an emotion of which I thought an axolotl incapable, and swam to the top of the other end of the tank. "Right!!" thought Ambrosia as she was dragged away, "Progress is being made!"

I sacrificed my sandpaper board (used for tracing patterns onto fabric) and placed the Contact covered underside on top of the tank.  This board is only made of sandpaper, cardboard and Contact so I wasn't hopeful that this would keep Ambrosia out.  I advised Graeme to ready the water spray bottle that was closer to him than me (he's a better aim anyway) and the battle began.  

At first Ambrosia inspected the board, sniffed it all over and decided it wasn't going to present much of a problem.  From where I was sitting I too was inspecting it for weaknesses and I was inclined to agree with Ambrosia.  I readjusted the end so that it was under the craft box's little overlap bit in an effort to stop the board simply being flipped off.  Huh!  Ambrosia wasn't going to try anything that delicate.  She jumped on the long edge of the board sending it flying, rushed up onto the box again while Graeme was scrabbling for the spray bottle and tried to scoop Chocha out yet again.  Water was everywhere, the spray bottle had been brought into play and little sprays of water marked the lounge chair, floor and craft box, Ambrosia's feet were wet and Chocha has actually managed to make a small wave that overflowed the top of the tank in her panic.  

This problem was going to take more thought on my part.  We needed either a new tank with a top on it or something heavy and waterproof to act as a top.  We'd only been in town shopping that morning so we couldn't find anything permanent for another week when we go to town for our next weekly grocery shopping day.  I sacrificed my marble pastry board.  Graeme settled in on top of the tank while Ambrosia watched from the floor.  I could see her little brain working out ways to dislodge this prey acquiring obstacle as well.  As soon as the marble board was settled in place she jumped up and tried the same trick she'd used for the sandpaper board.  No luck, also another jet of water streamed her way getting her right between the ears!  Ambrosia eventually called it a night and took up a disgruntled position near the heater while she planned her next move, to be executed at a later date.  Chocha returned to her normal routine of doing nothing and peace returned to our loungeroom.

Ambrosia is still considering her options.  Why she has been adopted by a pair of prey loving humans she doesn't know.  What she does know is that these humans are going to have to learn that this in now her house and all prey are hers by Divine Right.  Until then she'll have to settle for swatting and wrestling the occasional ferret and making jungle cat growley noises while eating her canned cat food.

The Spray Bottle - The Natural Enemy of the Cat

Things have become desperate here. Drastic action has had to be taken and Ambrosia is going to have a very damp time of it for a while. Nefertiti will most likely come in for some squirts too, but I doubt it will take long for her to learn her lesson and remain floor-bound from now on.

You see, Ambrosia is a jumper upper on tables, benches and bookcases. Worse still she is developing into a climber of shear surfaces. Any rock climber would be proud to have Ambrosia on his or her crew. She can climb surfaces that would leave just about anyone one else, not of the insect world, baffled.  I have had cause to mention Ambrosia's, and to a lesser extent, Nefertiti's bad habit of stealing my sewing tools (see http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2010/03/quilter-seeking-quiet-place-to.html ).  Ambrosia has now branched out to kitchen items, food left out and any other object not actually nailed or glued down.  Nefertiti is led astray very easily and not being as fleet of foot as Ambrosia, is often the only one left at the scene of the crime to take the blame.

Ambrosia's predilection to jump up on flat surfaces began almost as soon as she settled into her new home on Spring Rock. At first a stern word from either myself, or an ever sterner word from Graeme was enough to make her feel abashed and have here heading floor-ward once again with a guilty look on her pretty face. There she would slink away and turn up somewhere where the guilty expression had changed to an innocent one that clearly said, “What? I’ve been here all the time. It must have been my wicked twin”

I have been lucky in my more than 50 years of cat owning (I’ve owned cats since the day I was born).  Only once before in all that time have I owned an inveterate jumper upper on tables and benches. This cat was one of the cats I tried to hide in the kitchen cupboard of the flat we were renting (see http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2008/11/six-into-one-kitchen-cupboard-wont-go.html ).  I found him just two weeks before we were due to leave the flat and move to the Southern Highlands to take up residence in the very first house we’d owned. He was skinny, dirty, very smelly and owing to a street cleaner truck catching him unawares, very, very wet. I found him on the artist Michelangelo’s birthday so of course named him Michelangelo. A very grand name for a very bedraggled cat.

Michelangelo couldn’t believe his luck. From the cold streets of Cabramatta where scraps were few and street cleaning trucks plenty, to a home with walls, ceilings, a heater and food to be had simply by jumping up on the table and helping oneself  – life was definitely looking up. I put my taking in the stray down to the excitement of having my own land around me and being able to reclaim Christie, my pinto pony and fill the acre and three bedroom house with pets. Graeme put it down to a moment of madness on my part. He was to learn as the years passed that if a stray and I were to encounter each other, and Graeme wasn’t there to hold me back, the stray soon became a member of our family.

At the time I already had three cats in residence. Three beautifully behaved ladylike cats who wouldn’t jump on a table or bench top to save their lives. Sapphire, Topaz and Ophelia were often left inside while I had some sort of food thawing out or cooling down on the kitchen bench top. It never occurred to me that any one of them might be a thief and all three deserved the trust I placed in them. Michelangelo took the first opportunity to hunt down a chicken I was thawing out the day after he arrived. He then had a quiet talk to the girls and showed them just how easy it was to claim their own food in a similar way.

The girls were easily convinced to go back to their angelic ways – they felt a bit guilty stealing food, no matter what Michelangelo said about “to the hunter go the spoils”. It just wasn’t worth the stern words and slightly smacked bottom they received when I caught them. (The smack was much more of an indignity than painful.) Of course, once Michelangelo had brought the captured bounty to the floor, the girls had no prick of conscience and tucked in with gusto. Michelangelo on the other hand, who never forgot the lean years continued to be untrustworthy around food. I ended up re-training myself rather than the cat. No food was left out, things were thawed in the turned off oven and the spoils the hunter acquired became virtually no-existent. That was all back in the 1970’s. Michelangelo has long been just a wonderful memory and many cats have lived and sadly died with me since.

As the years went on, I forgot about jumping cats and slowly food began being left out for various reasons. Then along came Ambrosia. Ambrosia has no excuse for thieving. Unlike Michelangelo, she has never known a hungry day. The worst that has happened to Ambrosia is that she may have gone to the dry cat food bowl only to find it empty and had to find me and demand it be filled.

Sadly, removing all food had no effect on Ambrosia’s climbing ambitions. In a house where food in no longer left out she is reduced to jumping up to knock over vases, attack the dried flower arrangements in them, bat ornaments off shelves to see what happens when they hit the floor and of course, that old standard, stealing quilting tools. She climbs vertical surfaces of kitchen cabinets and linen cupboard shelves. Yesterday she hit a personal best in climbing (possibly a cat world record, but I don’t have the details to hand to claim that record as yet). She began the day by climbing onto the bathroom window sill (about six feet off the ground), knocking over the little vase on the vanity on her way down. She then moved into the kitchen, climbed the vertical cliff that is the kitchen cabinets (don’t ask me how I wasn’t there to witness the beginning of this event, just the disastrous consequences), arrived at the top of the cupboards and knocked off one of my decorative tea pots, smashing the teapot I actually use that was sitting on the bench below and chipping a bit off the spout of the decorative, handmade pottery one. She also sent egg cartons (empty thankfully) and a wire chook flying across the room. By the time I rushed to the kitchen to investigate the racket Ambrosia was nowhere to be seen.  She still continues to deny any involvement in the mayhem. Nefertiti was sitting on my lap at the time, so has an iron clad alibi and there were no other pets in the house at the time, no matter what Ambrosia says about seeing ferrets in the kitchen. Ambrosia also suggests that a very localised earth quake (just over the cabinets) must be responsible. From the kitchen she moved to the hall, and finding the linen cupboard door not completely closed, climbed to the very top shelf, right up there near the ceiling and proceeded to move to the back of the shelf, knocking aside the boxes and paraphernalia that we store up there. These of course came crashing down to the floor, once again bringing me hot foot to the scene of the crime. Ambrosia had a hard time denying this one because when I arrived she was standing on the top shelf, looking down at her handiwork.

Later, I moved to the bedroom to have my much needed afternoon lie down and Ambrosia and Nefertiti followed as usual. Nefertiti settled down on my stomach as usual but Ambrosia kept busy finding as much mischief as the bedroom could provide. And the bedroom could provide a surprising amount of mischief for one little determined cat! I spent the first half of my rest jumping up and saving various items around the room, removing an indignant Bengal cat from behind owl collections, on top of a stack of books, inside my cupboard (if she can get a paw in she can slide the door open) and being stuck between the bed head and the wall. Nefertiti joined in the fun after just a short time of watching Ambrosia’s determined effort to reduce the room to rubble. I ended up putting them on their bed in the bathroom and closing the door on them. This wasn’t the end of the trouble though. From time to time I’d hear a muted bang or other noise that needed investigating. I finally decided that there was nothing in there that they could damage and went back to reading my book and ignoring the sounds emanating from the bathroom.

I am now taking action. I have placed three spray bottles around the house in strategic spots, ready to be brought into action whenever needed. Ambrosia first encountered the spray bottle when it was looking decidedly innocent - just sitting on my sewing table minding its own business. Ambrosia decided it was harmless enough and returned to her nefarious ways. She soon found out the purpose of this little bottle.

As of this moment Ambrosia has experienced the effects of being squirted with a stream of water and she doesn’t like it. Unfortunately she has shown no signs of ceasing her dastardly jumping and climbing habits, but I live in hope. Stealth is the supreme weapon in this war. If she sees or hears me coming she is down off whatever piece of furniture she shouldn’t be on and streaking off to hide elsewhere until the spray bottle once again returns to its dormant state.

Now all I have to do is train Graeme in the art of stealth squirting. 

 

Note the alert expression – ready to flee at the first sign the bottle is about to start something.

Morning Mysteries

 This is the scene after a bit of tidying up was done (we had to be able to reach the toilet after all).  And to think that I'd given the laundry a thorough clean up just that day!

Today began with a mystery.  I was woken around 5.30 this morning by the sound of mini galloping.  I lay in my warm bed for a while rifling through options in my head.  Possums on the roof (no, we have a tin roof and this wasn't a metallic sound).  Something that Tristan had caught escaped and he was now chasing it around the house - possibly, but there was only one set of footsteps and they sounded a lot lighter and faster than our large orange cat.  A very miniature horse race being held in my house with fairies as jockeys? - Wake up Rosemary!!!!  As the galloping came close to my side of the bed yet again (whatever it was seemed to be doing laps of the bedroom) I put my hand down to catch whatever it was and believe it or not I did catch it.  I lifted the body up off the floor and tried to figure out what it felt like.  I'm not the best at 5.30am so it took a while.  Thankfully it wasn't a rat accidentally released by Tristan, or a wild possum that had got inside.  It would have been better if these possibilities had gone through my head before I picked up whatever this furry body was.  Then my brain clicked into gear and I realised I was holding a ferret.  Obviously one of the female ferrets because it was a sable ferret.  Whether it was Jocie or Cecilia I couldn't tell.  It was too dark to sort out the slightly different face markings.

Well, that was easily dealt with.  I dragged myself out of bed, mumbling to Graeme who had just come to, that I had a ferret and was returning it to its indoor cage in the kitchen.  Graeme left me to it and and went back to sleep.  I returned the disgruntled ferret to its cage and performed a cursory check of the cage for the escape route but couldn't find one anywhere.  To prove there was no escape route from the ferret cage, all four ferrets are still in there a couple of hours later.  If there was a way out Jocie and/or Cecilia would have used it by now.  That was mystery number one.

I then decided to visit the toilet while I was up.  I went outside to the laundry (where we keep our only toilet) and met the second mystery of this very early morning.  The laundry was A MESS!  Chaos reigned supreme.  No dogs were to be found anywhere - I suspect they'd taken to the hills when they heard me in the kitchen, and I don't blame them.  If they had been anywhere in sight serious questions would have been asked, and one thing my dogs don't like is me asking them serious questions.  They have to go to the trouble of putting on their sorry faces, hanging their heads and trying to look innocent all at the same time.  That's no easy feat that early in the morning.

I surveyed the chaos.  The bin had been upturned, emptied and its contents strewn around the room.  The top of the bin was missing in action (Graeme located it under the rubble when he got up this morning).  The vinyl cover over the dryer had been pulled off and the various bottles and jars I keep on top were in the strangest places you could imagine, three heavy boxes stacked on each other and holding my hand dyeing equipment had been moved out from the wall and the top box was now tottering precariously, threatening to add its contents to the already overloaded floor, the large bag of kitty litter was dragged out from under the sink but otherwise unmolested, the cat food bin was barely jostled.  This is a mystery in itself because all three dogs love dry cat food and if they were going to this much trouble to create a mess, surely they'd take the time to tip the bin over and eat the contents.  It wouldn't be the first time they'd raided the cat food after all . 

And most mysteriously of all the cardboard box of tinned dog food had been dragged to the middle of the room and chewed down to the level of the remaining tins.  Why had the dogs mauled the cardboard box?  Had they had an attack of the munchies during the night and ignored the cat food and had a craving for cardboard?  Had the box in some way offended them and they reacted violently?  Had they taken time out from their nefarious night time destruction and absent-mindedly gnawed on the box while plotting their next move?  It appears that they actually ate some of the cardboard because there wasn't enough cardboard litter on the floor to match the amount missing from the box as far as I could see.  Then again there was so much that was on the floor I might have missed it. 

I stood there for a few minutes trying to get my brain to make sense of this.  Unfortunately I can't make sense of anything during an ordinary morning, let alone all that lay scattered before me!  My brain just whirred with useless ideas like they'd chased a mouse, a possum had got into the laundry and they chased it (I don't know why I kept coming back to possums - we've never had one close to the house in the 13 years we've lived here, but possums kept intruding anyway), there had been a mini tornado, or possibly a very concentrated earth quake isolated to the laundry had struck.  An intruder had come along and looking for our valuables in the laundry rather than the house had created the mess and the dogs were off chasing him - that would explain the lack of dogs on the back porch at this time of morning at least.  But none of these scenarios explained the chewed dog food box.  It occurred to me that maybe I needed to go back to bed and think about this when I could think clearly in an hour or two. 

I returned to bed, told Graeme what I'd found and then lay there wide awake, questions whirling like dervishes in my mind.  He just grunted once or twice, so I told him I hadn't cleaned it up yet because I just wasn't up to it at this time in the morning.  Another grunt greeted that statement.   I get up at 6am anyway, so I got up ready to start my day.  My mind kept going over possible explanations, but other than you never know what my menagerie is going to throw at me, I couldn't find any rational explanation for this morning.

Graeme thinks the escaped ferret (no theory on how she escaped though) ran out the open front door (we leave it open at night so Tristan can come and go as he pleases), around the house, up the porch steps to the laundry at the back, ignoring the fact that it was full of dogs, caught the dogs' attention, they chased it around the laundry (in complete silence!?) until it finally escaped unscathed and then ran back to the front of the house, inside the front door, threw a right into our bedroom and started doing victory laps until I caught it.  It seems Graeme can't cope with two different mysteries this early in the morning and has to combine them to explain both.  He won't be swayed from this theory, even though, once again the chewed box isn't explained, nor the scattered bin contents for that matter.

I am a bit worried about Graeme.  It seems the animals are finally getting to him.

Winter Is Almost Here

Billy and Shadow.  Billy is about to bowl Shadow over so he can sniff her thoroughly. Shadow is not going to enjoy the process.

Looking back through my old stories (the ones I wrote before I began to blog), I came across this one from long ago. Many of the pets in this story are no longer with us, and new pets have arrived, but strangely little else in the story has changed. I now bring the ferrets inside during winter so I don't worry about them feeling too chilly (this has brought about a new set of logistic problems), Mum-Puss and her combative family are no longer with us to battle at dinner time, TOD the duck has gone to ducky heaven and the new breed of chooks are less panicky and therefore less interesting too Billy. Still, I thought you might enjoy reading about the menagerie way back when.

Winter is here at last. The days are getting shorter, the air has that sparkling, icy-misty look that only freezing winter days can produce and the countryside is finally turning green after months of brown. The reason I’m waxing lyrical about the cold weather is that winter is my favourite time of the year. In my opinion the only good thing about summer is the cricket matches. Take that away and all I’m left with is a menagerie of over heated animals all vying for the prime piece of real estate on the kitchen floor under the air conditioning duct.

In winter my thoughts turn to keeping the now decidedly chilly menagerie warm. The ferrets bring new worries as the days grow colder. They no longer lie in their cage looking like they are at their last gasp, rather they hibernate in their quilted polar fleece sleeping bag, coming out only to have dinner, seek the warmer climes of the house or, during one of Billy’s assaults on their cage, threatening to give Billy the thrashing of his life, if only he’d show some spunk and come into their cage and say that! I have now added a hand spun, hand woven woollen table runner I made years ago during my spinning and weaving phase, to their bedding. This entails going out into the freezing back yard, well after the sun has set, quietly opening the cage door, feeling around for the table runner without disturbing the sleeping furry ones and tucking them in for the night. If I disturb them Miette will come struggling out of the sleeping bag to find out what is going on in the hope that it’s Billy coming to start something. When she sees it’s only me, she’s perfectly happy to settle in for a chat. Persuading her to return to bed so I can go back into the warm house, is a lost cause. There’s nothing to be done but, return to the house and have another go in half an hour – when the night air will be even chillier. If I am very careful, I manage to tuck them in without disturbing the sociable Miette and once this little chore has been done, I go back inside with a clear conscience with only the duck and galahs to worry about. So far I haven’t figured out a way to keep these feathered pets any warmer than they can keep themselves. Graeme assures me that the ferrets have thick winter coats to insulate them against much colder weather than any Australia can throw at them. He also says that the quilted sleeping bag with two layers of polar fleece and two layers of batting would be enough to keep me warm should I want to spend the night outside. This could sounds like a veiled threat, but I’m too busy sorting out the cats to give it much attention.

Mum-Puss, Lancelot and Guinevere have different needs when the weather turns chilly. They spend their summer days lying on the kitchen floor within close proximity to the fridge and freezer’s cold blasts of air – always providing that Billy isn’t having an inside day. If Billy is amongst those present, the cats retire to the dining room, an extension off the kitchen with only the metal strip where the vinyl and carpet meet to indicate where the kitchen stops and the dining rooms begins, to poke their collective tongues out at Billy who’s not allowed to put one paw onto the carpet. Their winter days are spent following the sun around the lounge room carpet and cuffing any other cat who seems to have a better bit of sun. I repeatedly tell Mum-Puss that she is in dire need of parenting classes. “No mother worth her salt,” I say to Mum-Puss, “digs her claws into one of her children because it has the softer chair or warmer patch of carpet.” Mum-Puss glares at me with her one beady eye and asks for help disengaging her claw that seems to have somehow become hooked into the body of her daughter or son.

Now don’t imagine for a second that Lancelot and Guinevere are the innocent parties in all this. They have far too much of their mother in them to be above such things as starting fights with mother or sibling just for the sheer hell of it. Their combative natures have led them to developed a very subtle way of letting me know it’s dinner time. For some unfathomable reason, as soon as 4.30 p.m. rolls around, the cat version of World War III begins in whatever room has more than one cat in it and progresses throughout the house until they arrive in whatever room I may be. One minute all three cats are the picture of domestic bliss. Three little furry bodies intertwined in shades of black, white and grey lying on their pillows in front of the heater with not a thought in their heads except familial love. As soon as the clock indicates the dinner hour is approaching the peaceful scene is shattered with snarling, scratching and the most foul cat language you have ever heard. Heavens knows what it is they are saying to one another, but whatever it is it’s guaranteed to be R-rated! It’s times like this that I’m grateful I’m mono-linguistic. All this aggression disappears as soon as dinner is on the table (or in the cat’s case on the floor). Each cat has its own bowl and own space on the plastic place mat. Dishing out the food is an exact science. Others have tried but failed to master the intricate pattern required for all three cats to get their fair share of food while keeping peace in the feline community. I won’t go into the lengthy description of how to successfully feed the family, buy suffice to say it’s taken quite a while to perfect. Once the three tummies are full of the tinned food du jour they return to their fireside pillow, intertwine themselves once again and settle in for the night. Ah peace at last. The Spring Rock Terrors have settled down for the night and won’t return until 4.30 tomorrow afternoon. Now all I have to contend with is Billy’s Winter Pass Times.

Billy, ever true to his Swiss heritage, is in his element in the winter time. This unfortunately means that while the rest of the pets are only interested in finding sunny spots around the yard or house and hibernating until summer, Billy is at his metabolic peak resulting in excess energy and mischief making. He spends his days between terrorising the chooks, stalking TOD, our drake and seeking out other less than desirable (from my point of view) ways of amusing himself.

The chook/duck chasing isn’t too bad when compared to his other pastimes. The hens are safely tucked away in their chook pen with seven or eight feet high wire between them and Billy, but this simple matter of logic hasn’t occurred to them yet. As soon as Billy begins his mad run from the back porch down to the chook yard, ears and jowls flopping as he goes, the chooks begin their crazy, panicked flight to anywhere other than where they are. Given that we have nine hens and one rooster, a fair bit of the chook pen is taken up with chooks when they are as we might term “at rest”. Therefore when these chooks (and rooster) begin literally flapping about they tend to ricochet off each other, the chook wire, hen house and the odd tree in their yard. This in turn causes them to panic further, taking fright at the sight of each other panicking and so on. It’s my belief that one day they will end up bouncing off each other and the various objects in their yard ad infinitum. Add to this TOD’s mini-panic on the outside of the chook yard and our winter back yard is definitely not a peaceful refuge for the summer haters among us.

When Billy’s other winter past time is considered though, I’d choose the panicking chooks and drake any day. With the longer nights Billy has searched for a new form of amusement that can be safely conducted from the confines of the back porch. He’s tried bowling Shadow, the Silky Terrier Type, over and sniffing her from head to tail while she’s in her prone condition. Needles to say Shadow doesn’t take this lying down – well actually she does take it lying down, but as soon as she can get up she takes her little fluffy dog revenge, bailing Billy up against the porch wall while snapping and snarling to let Billy know how she feels about his new found past-time. Billy, squashed against the wall, looking down at the little ball of fury, has all the appearance of a bully brought to book for his sins, promising never to harm undersized little dogs again.

Eventually, Billy turned to other, less risky ways of passing his winter nights. Billy has taken up singing, or in light of his Swiss ancestors, possibly yodelling. Now you’d be forgiven in thinking he’d be a baritone – what with the size of him and all, but no, Billy is a male soprano. He sits on the back porch yipping and howling to his heart’s content, happy in the knowledge that not only is he enjoying his own musical interlude, but he is bringing a little joy into the cold winter nights for his family. It’s obvious that Billy sees us in his mind’s eye sitting in our lounge room, tenderly smiling at each other while commenting on the beautiful musical tones emanating from Billy’s oversized lungs. Billy is so sure that we are as happy about his new-found talent as he is. When one of us goes outside to let Billy know our true feeling about his impromptu recital he turns towards us, leaves off his singing often mid yodel, and invites whichever music lover in his family who has come outside, to join in. The hurt look on his face when growled at to be quiet is truly heart rending. Maybe with a professional’s help, just maybe we could turn those teeth grating yowls to something bearable?

I’m off now to go and look through phone books to try to find coaches for Swiss yodelling.

A Great Visit Was Had By All (Except The Tigers)

 Bec and the boys have been visiting for a few days.  They've gone home now so I get more computer time, but really I'd rather have more grandchildren time if I could.  We filled the days with lots of thing to do and seemed to be busy nearly all the time.  There was so much to do and so little time to fit it all in.

We all had a wonderful time feeding lambs, making interesting things, collecting eggs, going for walks to see the new lambs out in the paddock with their mums and generally enjoying farm life.   Ethan, (aged 3) is almost physically incapable of passing a large piece of farm equipment without getting into it.  Liam (aged 2 and a bit) is happy to follow and Michael (aged 5) likes to keep his options open, sometimes choosing to climb aboard and sometimes content to watch from the ground.  Ethan quickly attaches himself to the wheel of whatever piece of machinery he is in and proceeds to "drive" it.  Unlike a lot of little boys he doesn't bother with revving motor noises, he just enjoy the experience of being the tractor, header or truck driver, inspecting all the levers and pedals, trying them out to see if they can be moved and discussing the uses of most of them with me.  To tell the truth I don't know what half of them do, but Ethan doesn't mind if I don't know, he makes his own speculations about their purpose and we are both happy to accept that they do whatever he believes it is that they do.

 Michael driving the big tractor.  (I couldn't find one of Ethan or Liam too)

On the last visit here Ethan and I were sitting in one of the tractors admiring all the bits and pieces when he asked me if we could start the tractor up.  I said no or course.  Ethan then asked why, of course, and I responded that I didn't know how to drive it.  Ethan looked at me with his serious little face and said, "That's OK, I know how to drive it.  Granddad taught me last time we were here."  Well, how do you respond to that statement?

Meanwhile back to this visit.  On Thursday night Bec offered to cook dinner for us all.  Liam was feeling irritable while dinner was cooking and nothing would make him happy. There was no particular reason for the bad mood, just the general bad mood toddlers seem to adopt the minute Mum is busy cooking dinner. Seeing that Bec had taken over the kitchen, I lifted Liam onto my hip and took him outside to distract him for a while -that was my contribution to dinner preparation.  Ethan decided he'd like to come along too.  Michael was very busy saving turtles on a computer game and couldn't take time out from his mercy mission to go with us.  We put our farm boots on and I switched on the outside light.  We wandered down to the ferrets to get them out of bed so we could say hello.  Horton just raised his head out of the hammock, looked at us for a second out of bleary eyes and went back to sleep.  The others thought there might be a game in this and came out of the hammock ready for fun even though the sun had  gone down a while ago and it was past their bedtime.   Liam and Ethan had a great time talking to the ferrets.  They both like the ferrets as long as they have some bars between them and the little rogues and watching their antics.  The ferrets love all the grandchildren.  They are closer to their size, scream deliciously when pursued by a feisty little ferret and generally add to the excitement level of any play time the ferrets have, so they were very pleased to see the two boys and try to initiate games from the wrong side of the cage bars.

Once Liam had enough of the ferrets we returned to the house, but instead of going inside and finding Liam's bad mood again, we sat on the back steps until dinner was announced to be ready.  Billy was on the top step and welcomed us with lots of paws on the shoulders and sniffing of the back of our heads. Drool was shared too, but we won't dwell on that.  Ethan is fine with Billy but Liam is still a little scared of him, so I kept my back to Billy with Liam on my lap. It worked well.  Liam was happy not to be looking at all that dog and Billy was happy to share some quality time with his beloved short people.  

We sat quietly for a while,or as quietly as you can when Billy is amongst those present, looking at the stars and watching the ferrets make their way back to bed.  We discussed the stars (Ethan estimates there are about 100 stars in the night sky), aeroplanes that looked like stars and how dark it was out there.  After a short while Ethan went very quiet and sort of hunched over a bit.  I looked over at him and was just about to ask what was wrong when he looked at me very seriously and said, "I hope some tigers don't get us."  

The relief on his face when I told him there were no tigers in Australia except in zoos was a sight to see.  He straightened up, smiled and enjoyed the rest of our time sitting on the steps.  We discussed what night time animals lived on the farm and he was perfectly happy to share the night with possums, owls and bats.  When I thought about it later, I realised what a faithful little boy he is.  He honestly thought there was a chance that tigers would come out of the dark and get us, yet he sat on the steps to keep me company.  He didn't cry or carry on in anyway or run inside at the first opportunity to abandon me.  He sat tight and worried about tigers instead.  Now that's love!

Quilter, Seeking Quiet Place To Recuperate Mentally

 What do all these things have in common and why are they driving me crazy?  Read on and find out.

Ambrosia is trying to drive me crazy.   I don't know why she's set herself this goal, but the evidence is irrefutable.  The trouble is I think she's succeeding.

For those of you who haven't met Ambrosia and her sister (by adoption) Nefertiti, you can read about them here.  http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2010/01/introducing-ambrosia-and-nefertiti.html

My granddaughter Claire has moved into her Big Girl's Bed and of course needs a quilt to go on it.  On Saturday night, when I was frantically trying to get Claire's quilt finished to give to her on Sunday when we attended her baby sister's Christening,  I searched for my thread conditioner in the little blue box (Thread Heaven it's called).  I knew that the chances were pretty good that Ambrosia and once again failed to resist the lure of the little blue box and pilfered it.  I finally found it under the chair I sit on to hand sew my quilts.  I put it on the table beside my sewing chair in the lounge room (I was watching television while sewing) and got back to what I was doing. I needed to go get the cream thread from the sewing room to sew on the label.  I was sewing the label before I'd finished all the binding because it would be more difficult to sew down the label  in the car as we travelled up to see the grandchildren on Sunday.  I knew there was no way I'd get the quilt finished on Saturday night.  If I'd known the whole night would turn into one unsuccessful treasure hunt I may have given up there and then and gone to bed with an icepack on my head.  I put the thread on the table near my chair and then had to go do something else (I can't remember what - I was doing a number of things at the same time as usual).  When I returned to my chair I couldn't find the thread anywhere.  I checked under the chair, inside the chair, back to the sewing room in case I'd absent mindedly put it down in there.  I looked everywhere it could possibly be and some places it couldn't possibly be, but it was nowhere to be found.  I spent a lot of precious sewing time looking for the thread and finally decided it would be a lot faster to just go get another spool of a close enough colour.

I got another greyish cream thread, settled down to sew the label on and turned to get the thread conditioner from the table.  It wasn't there!!!. Holding on tightly to the spool of thread (I wasn't going to risk losing a second one!)  I searched all the places I'd just searched for the thread with just as much success.  By this time I was sure I was going mad.  I told Graeme the sad truth about my sanity and he mumbled something I couldn't hear - most probably that I'd been mad for years in his opinion, but as I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying and I was preoccupied with planning a nice long stay somewhere quiet while my brain recovered, I didn't take issue with whatever it was he said.  I just didn't have the time at the moment to debate the exact date I'd lost the plot in his opinion.   Besides he might have mumbled something complementary about my mental state.  Yes, that was obviously what he was doing right?

Even though I remembered putting both the cream thread and the Thread Heaven on the table, the table was definitely cream thread and Thread Heaven free.  Luckily I had a spare unopened box of Thread Heaven I'd been saving for when the one I was using was all used up, so I opened  that and finally got the label sewn on.  The rest of the night's sewing remained uneventful.  I didn't leave my chair for anything though, I wasn't going to risk coming back and finding some other sewing item had fallen into the black hole located somewhere near my sewing chair.  Neither missing object appeared throughout the night.

When I'd finally decided  that it was bedtime and I couldn't possibly sew another stitch, I put Ambrosia and Nefertiti in the bathroom for the night as usual.  I usually just pop them into the dark room and close the door quickly so I don't end up chasing them around the house after they've escaped.  We've had quite a few rodeos lately when they've managed to see my intent before I picked them up.  They bounce off the walls, skidding along the kitchen floor, scoot into the lounge room to hide under furniture and generally manage to evade my attempts to grab them.  But I digress.    

I went to bed still thinking about mental therapy options.  The next morning when Graeme was in the bathroom he came out with a spool of cream thread.  He told me that I'd put the thread on the vanity unit last night and walked away without it.  I was 100% sure I didn't go into the bathroom after I'd picked up the thread last night, but who can tell.  When you are going crazy, blank spots are as common as hallucinations.  Ambrosia, who was sitting on my lap at the computer, assumed her most innocent face and changed the subject as soon as she could.  Then it was my turn to visit the bathroom and there, beside the cats' bed, was my little blue box of Thread Heaven.  All was explained!  

I knew Ambrosia had turned into a sewing tools thief but I'd thought I'd checked all the likely places she'd hide her ill gotten gains.  The bathroom never occurred to me.  I am continually pulling pins out of her mouth as she tries to make a get away with a mouth full of glass head pins.  She will steal my scissors if she thinks she can get away with it.   The reason the Thread Heaven was under the chair is that she loves to lift it from my table, jump to the floor an bat it around in her spare time and my thimbles are number her one great game.  She climbs onto my chair and delicately picks the thimbles up in her teeth, drops to the floor, spits out the thimble, and the game begins.  Nefertiti will then join in the improvised football (or is it hockey, I can't figure out the rules so I'm not sure) game as I chase them through the house trying to get my hands on my thimble before it disappears under the fridge or some other large furniture item.  Ambrosia and Nefertiti are happy for me to join in the game as long as I don't actually manage to get hold of the thimble.  I just don't play by their rules and they know if I manage to snag the thimble that will be the last they see of it until Ambrosia can sneak up and steal it once again. They are very fast and very talented kittens when it comes to thimble football (or hockey as the case may be) and I now have three thimbles missing in action.

Hmmm, there seems to be a trend here.  Is it possible that Ambrosia is stockpiling sewing notions because she's planning a quilt of her own?  I'll have to keep an eye on her.  After all she knows where I keep my stash!