Disaster Strikes Spring Rock

Disaster struck last week while we were out shopping.  Graeme and I entered the local farmers' co-op without a care in the world.  I browsed the clothes on special while Graeme headed off to buy dog and cat food and then the bomb dropped.  the co-op was out of our cats' brand of cat food, except for the fish flavour.  Now you might wonder why this caused such consternation in the Spring Rock household.  The fact is the ferrets can't stand the fish flavour.  They would rather go hungry than let fish flavoured kibble pass their little toothy mouths.  The cats are fine with fish of course, but Tristan, Ambrosia and Nefertiti have never been privileged to taste it due to the ferrets' prejudice re fish flavours.  Rabbit, lamb or whatever else Whiskas produces are all fine with the ferrets so those are the only flavours that are allowed to enter our home.  Tristan, Ambrosia and Neferiti have never learned what they are missing and keeping them in ignorance is fine by me.  If they were to discover that delicious flavour out there they just might strike for better kibble flavours every day.

Graeme who knows what a waste of money it would be to buy the fish flavour only to have it well and truly rejected by the ferrets and have to feed them solely on expensive tinned food until a more acceptable flavour could be purchased came back from his cat kibble hunt to report the bad news to me.  There was another brand available that we'd tried before, but this brand had rather drastic effects on the cats' digestive system.  The smells the cats emitted would have made a dog proud!  Also neither the cats nor the ferrets were keen on this other brand, picking at their food and muttering about how disgraceful it was that inferior quality food was being served.  We stood in the co-op weighing up the pros and cons of the two unacceptable options to try and decide which was the least unacceptable.  In the end I decided that the other brand in lamb flavour was the better of two bad options.  We'd buy it now and buy a Whiskas one as soon as we could and mix the other brand in, a bit at a time, until it was all gone.  In the meantime the cats and ferret would have to endure the other brand straight.

We were off to a White Suffolk conference in South Australia in a few days so I mixed the little bit of Whiskas that was left with a small portion of the other brand in an effort to convince our cat kibble munchers to eat it. At first the cats carefully chose their preferred brand by picking up the other brand in their teeth and dropping it on the floor, only munching when their tongue detected the Whiskas kibble.  The ferrets just sent all the kibble flying, thus making the kelpies waiting below their wire floored cage very happy little dogs.  The dogs don't differentiate between brands.  Cat kibble is cat kibble and all three canines love it.

I tried to explain that this was all there was until our next shop after we returned from South Australia.  I was ignored.  They wasted so much kibble in the few days before we left that by the time I filled up their automatic feeders it was pure other brand.  The cats just turned up their noses and tails and stalked out of the room.  The ferrets continued to mine for better tasting kibble without success.  The automatic feeder meant that all the kibble landed on the ground on in the waiting kelpies' mouths.  The kelpies had taken up almost permanent residence under the ferret cage and were having the time of their life.  Life just didn't get better than this for two old dogs.  I removed the automatic feeder from the ferret cage and reinstalled their ordinary ice cream container with little squares cut out of the side for ferret heads to poke in to eat.  At least it was more difficult to scoop out large quantities of cat kibble from there.

We headed off for South Australia after setting up all the pets to be self sufficient for the three days and three nights we were going to be gone.  Of course I worried about the cat kibble situation.  I always worry about something, and so far cat and ferret attitude to the new kibble hadn't boded well.

Sure enough when we arrived home their displeasure was clearly evident, although I think the ferrets were regretting their form of protest.  The cats had dug all the kibble out of the automatic feeder and spread it around the kitchen floor.  Here they could at least nibble on some when they were hungry, albeit with a sour look of distaste planted firmly on their feline features.  The ferrets on the other hand had tried the same protest manoeuvres with rather drastic results.  They hadn't taken wire floor of their cage into account and ended up with nothing to eat.  I only hope it took them a day or two to empty their feeder and they didn't starve for the three days.  I am rather certain this was the case because when I refilled their dish with more of the other brand kibble they once again turned up their little pointy noses and stalked away.  I did notice that they didn't start scattering the kibble far and wide though.  The kelpies had placed themselves under the cage with expectant looks on their faces as soon as they saw me heading that way with the kibble in hand, so I was pretty sure the kelpies had eaten well during our absence. 

The cats' protesting digestive system now made being in the same room with them rather a trial.  They were totally unrepentent, glaring at us and clearly stating that if we forced inferior food on their delicate tummies then this was the price we paid.  Windows were kept open, cats avoided like the plague and tinned cat food pressed on them at every given opportunity.  This they basically ignored.  Our cats have been off tinned food for a while now.  I've no idea why, maybe they consider it a winter food like we do casseroles.  Who knows?

We arrived home Wednesday afternoon.  On Thursday Graeme headed to town for some farm shopping.  At the top of his list was Whiskas kibble, farm equipment came a very poor second.

It's Back!

The hairy panic has moved in again.  With all the rain we've had this summer it's a bumper crop.  I have great visions of convincing florists that the wispy little seed heads are the next big thing in floral arrangements.  Once they catch on to this cutting edge idea they'll be beating a path to my door (through the shoulder high piles of hairy panic) and I'll make a fortune!!  We've been told on the local news, by a very disapproving agronomist, yes the weed infestation has made the local news, that it's really called witch grass and the habit Riverina folk have of calling it hairy panic is incorrect.  We continue to call it hairy panic (panic for short) around here and will always do so.  I think the name hairy panic suits it much better and doesn't go offending innocent witches.  The house is nearly buried in it.  We have to wade through it when we go outside and any attempts to move it away from the house and garden are lost causes.  The first light wind that comes up will bring it all back along with a lot more of its friends.  Tristan, the red headed cat, hates it.  

Hairy panic is a lot taller than Tristan so, when he wishes to come inside for breakfast or morning tea or whatever,  he stands outside the lounge room window, buried deep in the panic and meows pathetically to let us know he's ready to pay us a visit.  Graeme doesn't appear to be able to hear these pathetic pleas.  Maybe Tristan's meow is pitched at too high a frequency for Graeme's ears, but I doubt it.  Anyway, it always ends with me having to go out there, wade through the panic and pick Tristan up, brush off the excess panic from his fur, and bring him inside.  This wouldn't be so bad, but as I believe I've mentioned before, Tristan hates being on the wrong side of a door, and whatever side of the door he is on is the wrong side.  Once in, he catches up on all the inside cats' news -  Ambrosia and Nefertiti always greet him like a long lost love, even if he's been gone for only a few minutes.  He then has a snack and a drink of water and stays inside for all of ten minutes before he wants to go out again.  

His strategy for letting me know his visit has come to an end is to jump on me if I'm sitting down, jump down again, walk a little way away from me while looking over his shoulder at me in a significant way, then returning to jump on me again.  Tristan is no lightweight cat.  When you've been jumped on by Tristan you are left in no doubt that you've been jumped on.  His landings are often accompanied by an "Ooof!" from me as his paws hit my stomach (I tend to lay back on the lounge with my feet up you see).  If I'm standing up he winds his way around my legs, doing his best to trip me up so he can jump on me I'm sure.  Then heads off door-wards while throwing me that significant look once again and returns to wind himself around me again.

I eventually get the hint and open the back door for him, after all I can't be sure after the snack and drink that nature isn't calling.  Tristan then walks out the door, tail held high, and stops - horrified to see that the hairy panic is still there.  I think he expects me to race out there and clear it all off while he's eating breakfast.  I can't think of any other reason he's surprised to see the panic is still in residence all over the back porch and path.  Tristan then turns his head and gives me a look mingled with supreme disappointment and hope.  The hope is that I'll feel so guilty that the panic is still there, threatening an innocent ca,t that I'll pick him up and carry him to a panic free location on the farm (wherever that may be).  I disappoint him every time and refuse to carry him back through, so he sits on the back porch surveying the expanse of panic and works up his courage until he can finally bring himself to work his way through it.  This he does as slowly as possible expecting the panic to attack at any moment I'm sure, or maybe hoping that I'm watching and I'll take pity on a poor beleaguered cat and lift him up and out of the weedy torture.

Then of course, a few minutes later the pathetic meowing starts again because Tristan is once again on the wrong side of a door.  I have hardened my heart to this second plea to be allowed in.  I've spent too much of my time acting as doorman to Tristan and have a lot better things to do with my day.  Besides, how many doormen do you know who actually carry people through the doors?   I don't go get him the second time - well, not until I get fed up with the meowing, not that that takes very long I must admit.  Once he's inside this time I refuse to let him out when he says he's visited for long enough once more.  So Tristan is kept prisoner for a while.  His subtle hints that he'd like to go outside now that I've had time to clear away the panic are ignored while I try my best to go about my day without getting tripped up by a red headed battering ram.  

Tristan does manage to execute an escape though.  He simply waits until Graeme or I go outside, then he slips through the door, sits once again in disbelief that the panic is yet again present and accounted for while ignoring with supreme indifference all my invitations and threats to come back inside.  If I try to grab him, he dashes through the panic like it's not there.  

Cats!  Who'd have them? 

Buffy

My friend Jane's (http://five-minutes-of-fame.blogspot.com) cat Moggy isn't well.  Jane was telling me  about having to give Moggy tablets and Moggy's sneakiness in pretending to take it like a good girl then depositing the tablet later on her bed.  This story reminded me of a little whippet I used to own named Buffy.  I know, I know.  How does a person who loves St Bernards end up with a whippet instead?  Well, the usual way actually.  I rescued her from death (I tend to get a lot of pets that way).

Buffy was a tiny brindle whippet and a funny looking little thing.  She had a hair lip and buck teeth, but I thought she looked very pretty anyway.  She was graceful and dainty but could run like the wind.  I inherited her from neighbours who were going to have her put down rather than take her with them to New Zealand.  I also inherited their cat who was sold with the house, but preferred me to his new owners and moved in without an invitation to become a permanent member of the family.  

Unlike the cat Merlin (nee Puss), Buffy didn't take well to changing families.  She was convinced that I had stolen her from her beloved family and tried to run away a few times to the house in town her owners had rented after selling their house and before flying out to New Zealand.  Eventually Buffy realised they didn't want her any more and stopped getting even with me by chewing beyond repair one of each pair of my shoes.  Why Buffy targeted me as the one to punish I don't know.  She left Graeme's and the kids' shoes alone and only sought out mine, but after she realised home was now with me she became my devoted companion and a very loving little dog.  At the time we had Aasta, our Old English Sheepdog (a compromise between Graeme and me instead of a St Bernard) and Buffy and Aasta made a very strange looking pair.  They became great friends so Buffy always had a warm body to snuggle up to should she feel chilly, and being a skinny, practically hairless little dog she could feel chilly on even warm days.


In winter Buffy could be seen wearing the latest season's second hand baby jumpers I purchased from the local charity shop.  These didn't last long because Buffy loved to explore our properties and barbed wire fences often ended up wearing the jumper while Buffy returned home shivering and requesting a new jumper please. Luckily I kept a supply on hand.

Buffy often fought above her weight.  Well nearly everything she encountered was above her weight. but she was a fearless little defender of her property.  Aasta, a dog of peace, would leave her to it and wait back on the veranda for Buffy to come home from whatever battle she'd charged off to fight.  She hated foxes with a vengeance and the first sniff of one on her property would send her hurtling off in search of the intruder only to turn up later with an air of the returning hero along with cuts and scrapes that needed tending. All my scolding and good advice to leave the foxes to our bigger farm dogs fell on deaf ears.  Buffy had a mission to rid the world of foxes and that was all there was to it.

One thing Buffy didn't do was take tablets.  There was no two ways about it - she just didn't.  She lived her entire life without being wormed once.  Oh I'd tried.  I'd tried all the tricks in the book from pushing the tablets to the back of her throat, holding her little buck toothed face shut tight and stroking her throat to mixing a crushed tablet up in some fresh meat.  Nothing worked.  Buffy could go indefinitely without swallowing, the drool leaking out the side of her mouth, a wounded expression that I could do such a thing to her, planted on her face.  If I tried to block her nose in an effort to make her swallow before taking a gulp of air (as advised by a non-whippet owning friend) Buffy would just suck air in through her long muzzle and there was noway I could stop that.   She ate the meat around whole tablets and refused to eat meat with crushed tablets in them.  She'd give them a disdainful sniff or two, fix me with a stern stair and stalk off, the picture of hurt feelings.  I used to tell her if she contracted a fatal disease that only tablets could fix she was in trouble.

I thought that had happened one day.  Buffy had been coughing and choking for a day and obviously suffering a sore throat.  If she'd been human I was sure she'd have a hoarse voice.  I took her to our local vet who sadly preferred farm animals to spoiled pets.  He took one look at the little whippet standing on his examination table coughing gently - looking the picture of misery, and pronounced Buffy to be an obese whippet.  Buffy glared at him and was patently saying that no one asked him for his opinion.  I looked at the my whippet's tiny frame and asked where?  the vet pointed to her chest and said she was carrying too much weight.  Buffy gave him a disdainful look and I echoed it.  We both knew it was all muscle (well there was no way we could use the big boned excuse in this case).  After properly examining her, the vet said that she had trachyitis and she'd need to take tablets twice a day for a week.  I shook my head and told him she didn't take tablets.  He told me tablets were the only cure so she would just have to.  He suggested many of my tried and failed methods so I repeated that Buffy didn't take tablets.  The vet pooh-poohed this assertion and said I just needed to know how to do it.  I told him I tried all the ways he'd suggested and failed.  I even added a few methods I'd tried that he hadn't suggested.  He gave me a superior look and said he'd get a tablet down her.  He took a long syringe with a rubber thingy with a slit in the end to hold the tablet, popped the tablet in the slit and poked the rubber thingy right down Buffy's throat and pushed on the plunger.  Then he closed her mouth and waited until she swallowed.  Buffy appeared to swallow, assumed a defeated expression and he let her go.

"There," he said, "That's how you give a dog a tablet."

I looked suitably chastened and was just about to ask if I too could have one of those tablet dispenser thingies when Buffy got a thoughtful expression on her face, gave a ladylike cough and  deposited the tablet on the table.  She looked down at the tablet, I looked down at the tablet and the vet looked down at the tablet.  I could have sworn Buffy had a smirk on her face as she looked up at the vet.  I tried not to smile, but I don't think I managed very well.  I repeated, "She doesn't take tablets," just to rub it in.

The vet continued to look at the tablet like he couldn't believe it and said, "Well, what are we going to do now?"   I had no suggestions to offer, not being medically trained but assured him I'd prefer it if Buffy was cured of her condition (the sore throat condition that was - I had little hope of her non-taking of tablets condition ever being cured).  In the end he gave her an injection and said it wasn't as effective as the tablets but would have to do her.  On the way home I gave her a big pat and told her I was proud of her.  The vet had been so dismissive of my ability to treat a sick pet that he'd put my back up.  With one little cough Buffy had put him in his place.  

The injection worked well and Buffy made a full recovery.  The vet remembered her every time she visited after that. I can't say she was his favourite patient but they came to an understanding and he never again suggested a tablet as treatment.

Getting Help With Christmas.

 Nefertiti defending her stash of decorations.

Christmas is almost here.  I LOVE Christmas.  The house begins to explode in Christmas decorations on 1^st December.  It takes me a few days to get all the decorations up and where I’m happy with them.

Graeme brought in my decorations from the old farmhouse where I store them all year.  As he hauled in the last of the boxes he said, "Please don't buy any more decorations."  I tried not to let my eyes shift to the huge bag of decorations I'd bought at last year's sales and kept in the house all year securely hidden until this moment.  I think I got away with it.  Nothing has been said about the huge bag anyway.

I don’t know if it’s the result of the trauma of carrying all those heavy boxes inside but Graeme has gone into Scrooge mode and is bah humbugging all my decorations.  We had stern words about it for a while.  I pointed out they weren't actually hurting him.  He disagreed, and my thoughts turned to Graeme carrying those heavy boxes.  He is now learning to live with the decorations quietly, but I imagine he shudders every time he thinks of returning them to storage.  Graeme does like the tree lights though.  Apparently they can be set for a few different sequences and fiddling with electronic boxes is just what Graeme likes.  So he’s in charge of the sequencing and happiness reigns once again.

I'm having a lot of help with the decorating - unfortunately.  The first thing I put up is the Christmas tree.  Decorate it heavily, complete with lights and angel on top.  This year it took twice as long to decorate – not because of all the extra decorations we’re not going to mention to Graeme (please remember that if you meet him), but because of all this help I was getting.

 Ambrosia followed me around the tree and stood  on her back paws, put her front two paws together and plucked off the decoration I’d just added and dropped it on the floor.  At first I didn't notice what she was doing and looked back to see all the decorations scattered around the base of the tree instead of on the branches.  Christmas trees experience an autumn?  I thought.  I sighed heavily and rehung them all.  That’s when I met Ambrosia coming around the tree from the other side, plucking decorations as she went. The guilty look on her face said it all.  Nefertiti was keeping a low profile under the tree, but was just as involved with the deciduous decorations.  From time to time a little tortoiseshell paw would delicately hook around a fallen ornament and scoop it under the tree to be inspected and chewed just a little bit.  She had amassed quite a pile before I noticed her there.  She left the real dirty work to Ambrosia as usual, but found her own fun in it all.

Ambrosia then decided that if removing decorations was going to be that frowned upon she’d wait until I’d finished and walked away, when she could de-decorate the tree to her heart’s content.  In the meantime she’d find other forms of amusement with this wonderful addition to the house.  What are trees for?  She asked herself.  Climbing!!!  She answered herself and fitted the thought with the deed in no time flat.

 Ambrosia with the evidence.

Once again I was taken by surprise.  I heard here scuffling around under the tree and decided to investigate after I’d returned all the decorations to the lower branches.  Before I’d accomplished that a striped paw shot out of the branches and tried to take the decoration I was adding out of my hand.  To say it took me by surprise is an understatement.  I screamed, jumped back and nearly landed in the boxes of decorations.  When my heart returned to its approved site within my body I thought this needed documenting pictorially so I got the camera and you can see it all.

Once the photos were taken I was left with the cat in the tree problem.  I knew that just removing her would do no good.  She’d be back up that tree as soon as her paws hit the ground.  Ambrosia was having so much fun communing with nature (even if nature was in the form of a plastic Christmas tree).  I could see her imagining herself back in rainforest with her wild ancestors, the Asian Leopard Cats, hunting the wild life (in this case Christmas ornaments) and living the good life of a beast of prey.  I brought the trusty water spray bottle into play and by the end of the day tree climbing had been reduced to only very occasionally when the call of the wild was just too hard to resist.

Next up was putting up the tinsel.  This activity was soon reduced to a tug of war between me and the two cats.  As I climbed the kitchen step ladder, trailing tinsel as I went, I’d feel a gentle tug on the free end which soon turned into all out warfare.  I did try draping the hanging part of the tinsel around my neck and shoulders but from time to time it slipped off and Ambrosia and Nefertiti were waiting at the bottom of the step ladder to deal with any tinsel ends that came their way.  Of course I won the battles every time with my superior human strength, but the tinsel did suffer damage.  By the time the tinsel was up in the loungeroom, kitchen and dining room the floor looked more sparkly that the walls!  This was fine by the girls.  Ambrosia and Nefertiti stalked the highly dangerous glittery stuff, pounced on it, threw it up in the air and generally reduced each bit of amputated tinsel to a quivering heap on the floor.  Thankfully this battled raged for quite some time, allowing me to get the rest of my decorations up. 

Decorating this year was much more a case of putting the delicate ones up high and the sturdy and/or soft ones lower  rather than putting them in the spot to show them at their best – just like decorating with a toddler in the house.  I’ve had to drastically reduce the number and type of decorations in the bathroom.  Ambrosia and Nefertiti sleep in there and as they are unsupervised, fun was had by all - except the decorations.  Each morning I’d pick up the decorations from the floor, throw out the more chewed ones and find a new home for them.  In the end I found that one handmade, sewn and stuffed fabric tree, one large felt reindeer and a basket of pine cones are the only decorations that can cope with all the nocturnal attention.  I still have to return them to their rightful spots most mornings but at least they are unharmed.

Now that the presents are wrapped and under the tree the cats seem to think that there must be something in there with their names on them.  To this end they spend as much time as they can get away with under the tree investigating the parcels.  I’ve had to repair a few already and the wrapping, never wonderful to begin with, is looking decidedly second hand.  Never mind, my family is used to this.  The ferrets love nothing better than to get in amongst the presents when they come in for a run from time to time.  Now they have the cats to help them, the presents are in mortal danger each day.  The spray bottle won’t work here because the water may damage to paper and or gifts.  Constant vigilance on my part is the only answer. 

Ah, Christmas.  I do love it so, but this year it seems to be more hectic than usual.  I wonder why?

My Day

Billy here. Mum usually writes to tell you all about the happenings here at Spring Rock, but I thought I'd put paw to keyboard and tell you about my day yesterday.

Wednesday afternoon Mum discovered something I'd been trying to keep secret - a big abscess on my right front foot. After a bit of prodding which I could have done without she surprised me by leaving it alone and just going inside and talking on the phone to someone.

I knew something was up yesterday morning. First up, no breakfast. I love my breakfast, but no amount of rattling my dish or looking hurt when Mum or Dad came out got them to fill the dish. Then Mum came into the laundry and gave me a bit of a wash. Not a whole wash, she just rubbed down my legs, head and chin with a cloth and soapy water. I helped by moving around a lot and the laundry ended up flooded. Mum wasn't so happy about that, but I thought at least I'll be allowed out now to go and roll in some dirt. Mum must have read my mind because she kept the laundry door tightly closed and cleaned up the floor. She left me in there and mumbled something about I'd never dry in time now. I decided to try to ignore my tummy rumblings and have a nap.

Later in the morning Dad came in and put a lead on me. Hmmm, I thought. I never have the lead put on. Something is definitely up. We walked to the back of his four wheel drive and he told me to get up in there. Well!!!! That just never happens unless there is a visit to the vet in the offing. That's OK with me. I love the vets'. Everyone there makes a big fuss of me and I feel like a king. But this hopping up bit was just asking too much. I put my chin on the floor of the car and swiveled my eyes around to Dad to show him I was willing but would need some help here. Mum was there too by now and told Dad I was never able to jump up that high. She made some unnecessary comments about my weight, but I'll just move on with the story here. Dad tried to lift my paws onto the the car's floor but that wasn't as successful as you might think. They just slid off. Dad then got a big tub and put it near my feet. I still had my chin on the floor to show willingness, so I couldn't get a good look at it. He then told Mum to lift my left paw again while he lifted the right paw. Then he put my back legs onto the tub. Well, I was now a lot closer to the car floor but I wasn't about to try to climb up myself. What if it didn't work. That would be just too embarrassing. Dad finally gave in and lifted my back end into the car, strapped me in and we headed off in the car.

I love car rides and enjoyed the trip. Mum put all the windows down and said something about wet dog smell and how she had to go shopping smelling like that. I can't see the problem. After I'd rubbed my wet fur all over her I thought she smelled rather good.

We got to the vets' ( I was right you see) and I walked in and waited for the attention to flow. There was only one girl in the room, but she was very nice and said complimentary things about me. Then she decided I needed to be weighed. She wasn't sure I'd fit on the scales and neither was I. I wasn't keen on letting everyone know my weight either, it could result in a nasty thing called a diet and I didn't want anything to do with one of those things. So every time Dad maneuvered me onto the scales I turned to the side and stepped off, usually before they had managed to get my back feet on. Mum tried to guard my exit but I just moved off and snuggled up to her. In the end they decided to estimate my weight at 70kgs. Dad is inclined to think I weigh more, but he'll never know.

We sat and waited in that room for a while and I started investigating all the treats and toys. Mum got a bit worried about this and moved me to a spot where there was absolutely nothing to investigate. I lay down and tried to get some sleep. Then this little lady come into the room and called my name. I sat up and looked at her and Mum and Dad took me into this room. We all looked at this little metal table and Mum said, "You don't want him up there do you?" The little vet agreed she'd rather look at me from the floor. The first thing she did was grab my sore foot and try to look at it. I politely withdrew it, but she grabbed it again and Mum moved to my front and told me to let her have my foot. I heaved a big sigh and dropped to the floor so the vet had to get right down there with me if she wanted that foot. She did!!!!! There was a lot of talk backwards and forwards between Mum, Dad and the vet, but I wasn't paying attention. I was smelling all the smells some interesting others very concerning. The vet stood up and took my lead from Mum's hand. Mum stepped back and the vet tried to lead me out of the room. Without Mum!!!!! No way. I just kept moving over to where Mum stood and dragging the little vet along with me. Mum asked the vet if she'd like her, Mum, to take me where I had to go. The vet said no, she could manage and tried to move me towards the door again. I didn't budge. Mum moved towards the door and said, "Come on Billy," so I followed her and walked through the door. The vet said she'd see Mum and Dad later and closed the door. Well, that was a nasty trick. I thought Mum was coming with me. I kept moving around the vet in circles, trying to get back to the door where I last saw Mum. The vet kept pulling for all she was worth trying to stop me heading for the door.  I was winning though. I saw another door open briefly and Mum and Dad were standing at the desk in the first room again. The vet tugged on my lead and told someone to close the door as I tried to reach Mum again.

Now things get a bit blurry. I was heaved and hauled onto a metal table by a great number of people all commenting on my weight. They then discovered their table was too small and someone had to stand by to make sure I didn't overflow and fall off. My leg was shaved in a little spot and I was given a needle!!! Another needle was put into my sore foot and very soon I couldn't feel a thing in my foot. Ahhh, the relief. I started to feel very pleased with the whole world. Then this little vet tried to hold my paw again. I withdrew it gently and told her we hadn't been formally introduced. She took hold of my paw again. Again, I withdrew it and told her I only hold paws with best friends and loved ones. She grabbed it again and tried to hold on tightly! I withdrew it and said I'd rather not. She grabbed it again, I withdrew it and said make me! I was polite the entire time, careful not to show my teeth (humans hate it when I get a bit mad and show my teeth so I haven't done it since I was a puppy) but there was no way she was going to hold my paw. I only let her hold it in that little room because Mum said I had to. She left me with my body guard (the one making sure I didn't fall off this tiny table) and rang someone. It turned out to be Dad. There was a bit of a conversation and I thought I heard Dad laugh a bit, but when it was over the vet returned, shaved a bit off my other leg and put another needle in.

Well, that's the last thing I remember for a while. When I woke up I wasn't on the table anymore but in a little cage. My foot felt a bit better and I noticed there was a big cut in the sorest part. I went back to sleep. After a while I heard Mum's voice out in the first room again. The girl at the desk was saying something about me being a big, gorgeous puppy. I liked her too - she didn't try to get too familiar with me while still being admiring and friendly. I forgave her for trying to reveal my weight to the world. After a short while she came to my cage, put my lead on and walked me to the door. Things were a bit strange and I couldn't figure out where Mum's voice had come from. I walked around the room with the girl attached. All the people in that room came over to say goodbye to me. I nodded to each of them and said I forgave them all. I also politely accepted good bye pats. The girl opened a door and I heard Mum call my name. I dashed off (well dashed as fast as my foggy head would allow) and headed for where I thought the voice had come from. The girl tried to pull me a different way, and then I saw Mum!!!! Everything was going to be fine. I walked over to her and we started to leave when a woman with a little dog spoke to me. She asked me if I'd like to go home with her instead. I walked over, taking Mum with me on the end of my lead, to say hello and explain that I was very happy living with Mum and Dad, even if Mum does love ferrets. I was patted and complimented yet again. I do love going to the vets'. Mum took me out to the car where Dad was waiting with the back door open. Now I had the best excuse there was. I couldn't see straight, so there was no way I'd get myself into that car!!! Dad heaved a big sigh and put my front leg into the back and quickly lifted my back legs in as well before my front legs could slide off. I settled down and we headed home.

When we got home, mum put me back in the laundry and gave me some of my favourite food. I went back to sleep. After a while I thought I'd go outside and make sure all was well and nothing drastic had happened while I was gone. Maybe Mum had seen the light and got rid of the ferrets!!!, but no, they were all still there making rude comments about the bald patches on my legs and toes. Then I saw it. The back door of the car was open. Dad said later that he was trying to get the wet dog smell out. I made the supreme effort and jumped into the back all by myself (if anyone asks I'm going to say the Kelpies helped me up there) and settled down for a nap. Maybe they'd take me for another drive. Maybe back to the vets' for some more love and adulation - but no paw holding though!!! When Dad found me in the car he seemed rather upset. Words were said about him having to lift me twice today and I could do it all by myself even when drugged to the eyeballs. I explained about the Kelpies but Dad didn't believe it. He pulled me out and closed the door almost shut. When he wasn't looking I tried to open the door to get back in, but I couldn't get it opened enough. I returned to the laundry and settled down for a big, well earned sleep.

So you see that was my day. I think I handled the whole thing rather well I thought. I was firm but kind with the vet and enjoyed meeting all the new people. I managed to keep my real weight a secret still and my foot even feels a lot better this morning. I think I'll just wander over and see if the back door of the car is open again.


Love,
Billy

Rams

Young rams on the move.  These boys behaved themselves today unlike the two mentioned below.

I've gone off rams a bit this morning.  We were out in the sheep yards at 6.30 drafting the ewe lambs and ram lambs for LambPlan scanning this morning.  LambPlan for the initiated is a system where lambs are weighed at different times in their development and scanned for eye muscle and fat depth when they are a few months old.  This allows them to be compared to all rams in the LambPlan system and rated according to breeding quality potential.  

When drafting ewes all I have to do is wave my arms gently while making a quiet shooshing noise to get them into the race yard and down the race where Graeme moves a drafting gate in one of three directions according to where he wants that particular ewe.  The rams are a bit more difficult.  I have to fill a race yard and then get in there with them and forcefully encourage them to move up to where Graeme is to be drafted.  Rams aren't as frightened of humans so it takes that bit more effort to draft them.

Farrer has rubbed off on a couple of the adult rams and they now want scratches and pats too.  (You can read Farrer's story here  http://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2009/01/sheep-drafting-spring-spring-rock-style.html )  Farrer is getting old and slow so he doesn't tend to be rounded up with the rest of the rams if he's not actually needed these days so thankfully he wasn't present for today's fun and games.  Today two rams gave me a lot of trouble.  Adult rams weight around 150+ kgs each and when they want a scratch they want a scratch.  The Ashmore Ram (we bought him from the Ashmore stud so we call him The Ashmore Ram) was very eager for scratches today.  In true Farrer fashion he planted himself in front of me at every opportunity and hinted that a scratch would be more than welcome.  His hints basically consisted of refusing to get out of my way until a scratch was administered.  I gave him a scratch in passing each time he stopped in front of me, more in self defence than because it was convenient.  More about him in a minute.

The other trouble maker was  ram lamb.  He is one of this year's bottle babies and had a vague notion that he knew us and we should be giving him something tasty.  He weighs in around 60+kgs.  He wasn't 100% sure what it was he wanted from me, or why he wasn't afraid of us, but this general lack of fear gave him quite a bit of bravado.  Now a young ram lamb in his teenage stage is a pain in the neck at the best of times.  They think they are good stuff and tend to take some convincing as to why they should do what you want them to do.  Add to this that this young ram knew he wanted something from me and wasn't getting it and things heated up a bit.  He got increasingly annoyed with me and began to pretend to butt me, lowering his head and jerking it at me.  I fended him off with a touch to the head each time and he backed off temporarily.  I don't think he was really going to butt me, but I had to let him know I wasn't going to just stand and let him either.  I had to find a happy medium between doing nothing and being too aggressive in my reaction thus egging him on, so just a touch to the head and a stern word seemed the best idea.  It worked well, but I had to keep doing it. 

Most of what I've described above took place in the sheep yard that leads into the race yard.  Of course the young ram and The Ashmore Ram were in the last lot to go into the race yard.  They hung back in the sheep yards until they were made to go into the race yard where they stood together and compared notes on how to make my life just that bit more difficult while I moved the other rams along.  They hit on the most effective strategy they could.  The Ashmore Ram wandered up and pushed me from behind at regular intervals, asking for a scratch, while I was occupied moving the rest of the rams up the race.  He and the ram lamb kept to the back of the mob so that they weren't pushed through the race earlier.  While I was dealing with him the young ram would prance up, lower his head and jerk it at me while my hands were occupied with The Ashmore Ram.  Some times they co-ordinated themselves so well that while I was bent over fending off the ram lamb The Ashmore Ram pushed me from the back at the same time.  This sandwich effect is not something I'd recommend the faint of heart experience. It's a bit startling to find yourself squished between a huge, friendly ram's head and a much smaller, but far less friendly ram lamb's head while they both push towards each other.  Needless to say that my back has had it for the day.

And that's why I've gone off rams.

In Need Of A New Screen Door

Today I priced new screen doors for the front and back doors.  The old ones have been here since the house was built in the early 1960's by the looks of them.  The front door has the fly screen separated from the bottom corner and all the cats who have shared the house with me, except for Ambrosia and Nefertiti have used it as an entrance and exit spot - so too, I'm sure have many, many flies and other creepy crawlies in summer.  The back door no longer shuts properly and all you have to do is push it to open it - no need to use the handle at all.  It's because of this door that I've decided to buy new, modern screen doors - because of the door and Ambrosia to be truthful.

When I first met Ambrosia she was communing with nature (while heavily supervised) in her owner's front yard.  Ambrosia, her sister and her mother were having a wonderful time ambushing each other from the undergrowth and exploring every bit of garden they came across.  Their owner told me the cats came out twice a day and loved it.  I thought of my very large garden area with sheep wire for fences and populated with a large and beautiful variety of native birds and made the decision that hence forth Ambrosia would be an inside cat.  Her hunting instincts and supreme skill meant that little of our beautiful bird life would not survive if she were to go out and commune with nature at Spring Rock. Ambrosia was young, she had a little friend in the shape of Nefertiti coming to keep her company so I thought she'd adjust to the rugged life of only having carpet under her feet and soft furniture to sleep or sit on.  Nefertiti is also an inside cat, more in solidarity with Ambrosia than because she's a threat to wild life.

Ambrosia hasn't taken well to her enforced homebody status.  Whenever I go out into the garden I'm stalked by a little leopard cat who follows me around the house from window sill to window sill starting in the lounge room at the back of the house, moving to the bathroom window at the side of the house and onto our bedroom window at the front.  The only window on the fourth side of the house is the kitchen window and as the sill if full of pot plants she can't get herself up there to complete here complaints.  She doesn't follow silently either.  Ambrosia has the loudest wail I've ever heard from a cat.  My time in the garden now is always accompanied by accusing wails from a cat demanding to be let out for her share of the fun.

During the day she lurks around the back door waiting for an opportunity to streak outside and lead us a not so merry chase around the farm. Worse still, lately she has learned to open the door by pushing on it.  Thankfully she is not successful in opening it far enough to get through before it closes again, but with persistence she manages to escape at least once a day if we don't remember to close the back door. If she hears the front door open she is there and out the door almost before it's been opened, and with that gaping screen at the bottom she doesn't even have to wait for us to open the screen door.  Graeme and I now take a few precautions before going outside.  Like maximum security prison guards we ensure that the feline prisoner is contained or at least impeded in nay planned dash to an open door, before we open a door. 

The weak point in all this has proved to be Tristan.  I think I've mentioned before that Tristan hates being on the wrong side of a closed door. Whatever side he's on is the wrong side.  Pre-Ambrosia Tristan spent a lot of his time (and mine) going outside, changing his mind, coming back inside and starting the process all over again.  Now, because he is huffy that once he goes out no-one rushes to let him in again straight away, he takes his time considering if he wants to come inside 9or go outside as the case may be) while I hold the door open waiting for the big decision to be made.  While he ponders the advantages of inside versus outside I usually have my body blocking the small space created by the slightly opened door while Ambrosia does everything she can think of to squeeze through and escape to the countryside.  Graeme tells me to leave Tristan out there, but those of you who know me by now will know that I can't do that, especially if it's raining.

Once Ambrosia has managed to get outside the fun is on.  She skips past Billy and the kelpies, barely giving them a looks as she zooms by, where she proceeds to roll on the ground and wail in triumph. With a resigned sigh (because I know what is going to happen) I go after her.  Ambrosia waits until I've almost caught up, just lowering my hands to grab any bit of her I can reach,  She then cannons off again only to stop a few feet away and repeat the process beginning with the wailing in triumph. Thus we do circuits of the house, sometimes moving out to the paddock outside the house for a change of scenery - Ambrosia zooming off for a few feet, stopping to look back at me and wail a taunting phrase or two, sometimes even going so far as to lie down and roll on the ground just to rub in how unlikely I am to catch her. 

Billy likes to help with the cat hunt and in the past has actually been a big help.  He often manages to corner her, and hold her there until I catch up.  Unfortunately Billy is now getting too big for his boots and has tried to take a nip at Ambrosia for good measure.  While I'm all in favour of the nip after having stalked Ambrosia around the house for far too long, I'm not inclined to encourage Billy to bully the cats.  I'm worried he'll take his duties a bit too seriously and all I'll get back is a thoroughly chomped cat. Ambrosia is becoming a bit wary of him, but not enough to give him a wide berth or to prevent her initial escape.

While all this is playing out Nefertiti sits at the back door on the inside, and dreams of being as bad as her spotted sister.