I Have To Wonder

Before I start I just want to say to my friend Jane that I know you want photos.  I'm not a person who thinks of photos so all the events below have gone unphotographed and some are just impossible to photograph.  If I manage to have my camera and a pet behaving strangely in the near future I promise to add a photo or two to this blog at a future date.

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There are times when the behaviour of the Spring Rock menagerie cause me to sit and wonder. Recently I found myself creating a mental list of why's.

Why does Nefertiti prefer to eat in the bathroom? I have cat kibble and water layed on in the kitchen for the tree cats but Nefertiti will do little more than take a desperate nibble when hunger gets too much for her if the bathroom cat dish is empty. Nefertiti and Ambrosia sleep in the bathroom so I consider the bathroom food dish just for late night snacks. Nefertiti considers it the only really acceptable food receptacle in the house. Why?

Why does Ambrosia consider an afternoon spent pulling pin out of my pincushion or sewing an afternoon well spent? Yesterday I left some applique on my chair while I went off to do some much needed housework. When I returned the floor was littered with pins while the edges of the applique shape flapped in the breeze. Ambrosia was nowhere to be seen, but I know it was her. She's the only cat in the house that spends her spare time pulling pins out of things. It takes quite a bit of oral dexterity I must admit, but I just can't see the entertainment value in it.

Speaking of my sewing supplies. Why do ferrets steal and stash my sewing tools. Isabella, the first ferret I ever owned, built up huge stashes of thread spools behind our very large bookcase. She added such essential items as orange peels stolen from the bin and if life was really good to her a banana skin or two as well, but time would come when I couldn't find any thread to sew with and had to go and buy not only the thread but a long length of timber to reach the thread stashed at the end of the bookcase. Most of it was only good for the bin when retrieved (what with the dried orange peel and banana skins stuck to it and all) but some was savable. I used to wonder if Isabella had a large sewing project planned. Every other ferret I've owned has found my sewing supplies irresistible and if not caught in the act will take off with whatever they can fit in their tiny little mouths. They have had a bad influence on Ambrosia who finds my thimbles and thread conditioner boxes too tempting to leave wherever she finds them.

Speaking of ferret and their history, why did Isabella's mate Theodore like to steal and stash shoes? None of them would fit him except possibly as a bed. He was so desperate to stash a shoe he found one day that he ignored the fact that Justin was still in it. Theodore just sore the size 13 shoe and he had to have it. He grabbed the edge of it in his mouth and tugged with all his mite trying to get the shoe (and Justin) under the lounge where he could add it to his collection.

Why is Tristan never happy with the side of the door on which he finds himself. Tristan, as mentioned in an earlier posting meows pitifully until I open the door for him to let him in. He then proceeds to meow and fuss until he's let out. Minutes (sometimes seconds) later he is meowing to be let in again only to stay a few minutes and realise outside is where it's all happening and he needs to be. His world record was the day he came inside, just cleared the open door and turned around as the door closed and demanded to be let out.

Why do Hedwig and Hermes, my two galahs, constantly build and rebuild a nest they've made in the hollow log in the aviary? The log's real purpose was to act as a vase for branches of native trees with seed pods or flowers on it for their delectation. These tasty offering were quickly removed and nest renovations resumed so often that I've stopped using it as a branch receptacle and left them to have it as a potential nest. It's been years in the making though and never seems to be just what they'd envisaged when making their renovations. Such things as seed and water dishes from their birdcage and small sticks are carefully placed in the log. The seed dishes cause a major problem because the dish will only fit in the hole in one direction and no amount of banging it will change its shape - not that they don't try over and over again. Once it's finally in there though it's pulled out within days as a new plan for the nest layout takes shape. The log has never been used as a nest (thankfully). I imagine because it's never been brought up to Hedwig's high standards.



Why do the kelpies prefer Billy's bed to their own? Their bed and Billy's bed are exactly the same except in colour. I've tried changing the bedding around after washing it and the girls are more than happy to settle down on what was Billy's bed and feel that life is good. Billy is then the problem. He wants his bed back. Lately this has become moot. Billy in his later life has decided to abandon to the laundry at night and share the kelpies bed, whichever one it is. This doesn't mean that the kelpies are allowed to relocate to Billy's much more desirable bed in the laundry. Billy still defended that bed too by non-stop barking until I got up and sort things out. The girls don't look too thrilled to have to share there bedding with a huge St Bernard, so I've added his bedding beside theirs so they all have a better chance of fitting in. Juno has assumed a permanently resigned expression on her face while Dione keeps trying to garner more of the space on the rugs. There's not much room for a kelpie or two when Billy plants himself in the middle of the two beds. Billy just flops down, closes his eyes and is snoring before any arguments can be delivered.

There's the age old why do the ferrets hate Billy and Billy hate the ferrets. It was hate at first site with no apparent reason for the animosity. Billy took one look at the ferrets, the ferrets sneered back at Billy and war was declared. Billy has lived here for seven years now and he's seen a number of ferrets come and go. He hates every new ferret with the same passion he reserved for its precedents and each new ferret hates Billy on site. The ferrets don't have a problem with the kelpies and the kelpies actually seem to like the ferrets. After all, the ferrets happily drop some of their cat kibble through the wire cage floor for the kelpies to scoop up. It's turned into quite a symbiotic relationship.

Why is it that when I lie down of an afternoon there is a general rush from all cats present to place themselves right up against my right side as close to my armpit as possible?  The first cat there digs in and prepares to defend this prime spot of real estate.  The two unsuccessful cats find other spots on the bed close to my body but with an air of settling for second best.   The left side of my body usually remains cat free for some reason.  Why?  Back when Guinevere was still with us she refused to accept defeat if she was beaten to the prime location beside me and would begin washing whichever cat got there first.  Guinevere's washing was more of a punishment that a grooming exercise and eventually the very soggy cat subjected to Guinevere's tongue would get up and leave to go dry off on another part of the bed.  Guinevere triumphantly took possession of The Spot and I was able to get back to my rest.  Tristan used to try tucking his head right under my arm in an effort to give Guinevere a smaller target.  It didn't work, she just washed whatever was still sticking out. Thankfully non of the present group of cats employs guerrilla warfare.

These are just some of my why's related to the menagerie. I don't have any answers despite pondering these questions from time to time. There are members of my family who say that every one of my pets was as sane as the next animal until it came to live with me. This sounds far too much to me like my nearest and dearest are attributing my pets’ peculiarities on my influence. I refuse to dignify their comments with a response.

Is This Species in Danger?

An Asian Leopard Cat on the floor.  The safest place for it to be I'm coming to think.

I'm very worried about Asian Leopard Cats.  I've never met one you understand, but having lived with Ambrosia, our Bengal cat who is half Asian Leopard Cat, for over 12 months I'm wondering how the pure jungle species has survived.  I mean they live in trees right?  Living in trees requires a certain amount of balance and fitness to ensure you don't fall out of that tree right?  Falling out of trees can't be good for your health, especially if you fall out of them on a regular basis right?

Well, Ambrosia is a klutz.  There's not polite way of saying it.  She is the clumsiest cat I've ever met.  Actually she is the only clumsy cat I've ever met.  That's why I worry about the Asian Leopard Cat.  Everyone of my ordinary moggy cats and the one Rag Doll and two Persians I've owned over the years have been the epitome of grace and balance under pressure.  I even had one tortoiseshell cat who could navigate her way across the kitchen wall,s to impossible to reach otherwise cupboard tops, via the top of the door jam without putting a foot wrong.  All these cats have sat on windowsills, tops of lounge chairs, lounge chair seats and any other surface higher than floor level and manage to stay there for as long as they chose.  When they did decide to leave they gracefully rose to their feet, usually stretched daintilly, and descended to the floor with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of feline fluidity.  Poetry in motion you might say - and nothing less would be expected of a cat.  Ambrosia on the other hand, is incapable of remaining on a raised surface without falling off and as the only difference between her and other cat breeds is her beautiful Asian Leopard Cat heritage, I am inclined to think the jungle cat is in serious jeopardy.

With unwavering klutziness Ambrosia manages to fall off said raised surfaces more times than she manages to stay put.  If Graeme and I are in another room when we hear a loud thud we no longer go to investigate, we just look at each other, nod and say, "Ambrosia," and leave it at that.  Many times during the night after the cats have been put to bed in the bathroom we hear the gentle thud of Ambrosia falling off the side of the tub, top of the litter box cover, windowsill or a slightly raised floor tile.  I've now put the cats' bed inside the bathtub in an effort to encourage her to settle down and stay put in protected safety, but without success.

After many months of observing this un-cat-like behaviour I have come to the conclusion that Ambrosia doesn't take the dimensions of the surface in relation to the dimensions of herself into account.  She insists on rolling, scratching, stretching or any number of other movements guaranteed to send her floorwards, while perched precariously on a narrow surface.  Any other cat could most likely manage to stretch, scratch or whatever on this surface, but you'd think Ambrosia would have twigged by now to the fact that she can't.  I suppose watching Nefertiti manage these manoeuvres over and over again while remaining comfortably stable on the raised surface just makes Ambrosia believe it can be done.  Well, I suppose it can be done.  Nefertiti does it all the time.  Tristan who isn't a great heights loving cat, preferring to stretch out on the floor, can even manage to lie on a lounge chair without falling when to mood takes him.  Ambrosia sees her siblings enjoying high places and believes it's the God given right of cats to be up high.  It is, except for Ambrosia.

One of her favourite spots from which to fall is my old treadle sewing machine in the family room.  The extended table at the side of the sewing machine is large enough to accommodate a number of cats but unfortunately far too small to accommodate Ambrosia.  She stretches out on the extended table and slowly but surely oozes over to the edge as she contorts her little body in all sorts of weird and wonderful shapes while she enjoys the texture of the old wood beneath her.  Without fail she eventually falls off and unlike your normal cat, Ambrosia doesn't land on her feet.  This is another worry about those tree living Asian Leopard Cats.  If they don't land on their feet how can they claim to belong to the cat family?  Once she's sprawled out on the floor she looks up at me with an obvious question on her lips - "What happened?"  You'd think by now, after 18 months of meeting the floor unexpectedly (I'm assuming she had this disability since she took her first steps), she'd know what happened, but it always seems to come as a surprise to Ambrosia.

Ambrosia loves to stretch out on my lap while I'm resting on the lounge with my feet up.  Even though I'm trying to read or sew  I have to keep a wary eye on the Bengal.  She invariably begins to thoroughly enjoy snuggling on my lap and begins to think a tummy rub would just add that extra bit of bliss.  She then begins to roll on her back in the hope that I will pick up on this subtle hint and rub away to her heart's content.  Sadly she always choose to roll towards the edge of the lounge rather than towards the back.  Bits of Ambrosia slip off my lap and slowly but surely she begins to sink towards the floor.  I have to drop my book or needlework quickly and scoop in the drooping bits of the cat.  I've found it easiest to then arrange her on her back and rub her tummy

Just recently Ambrosia has developed an interest in Graeme's morning ablutions.  To observe the male of the house going about his morning routine she needs a good vantage point and what better spot that the bathroom window sill?  As soon as Graeme enters the bathroom Ambrosia follows, skipping ahead and making her way to the window sill.  From here she sits down and watches Graeme carefully.  He begins with a shave.  Ambrosia finds this interesting but not exciting.  She's suspicious of the noise his razor makes so she's happy to keep a good distance between them.  Ambrosia sits quietly and waits for further developments to take place. You can see where this is going can't you?  Once he's shaved for the day, Graeme brushes his teeth.  Once he's bent over the sink Ambrosia moves in for closer inspection and bends over the edge of the sill to get a better look at this strange human behaviour.  It only took one mis-step during her study of the human male morning routine, and before he knew it Graeme had a surprised, prickly footed cat landing on the back of his neck.  Graeme reacted just as we'd expect him to and Ambrosia is now banned from the bathroom while Graeme prepares for the day.  Graeme never gives a pet a second chance.

I've given up worrying that she will cause herself some injury.  I used to race to her side while she was still gathering her dignity about her once again, pick her up and inspect every inch of her little body.  Luckily Ambrosia does share the normal cat's supple body characteristics.  She may not land on her feet, but she still manages to walk away from every landing.  Maybe this is the trick that has helped the Asian Leopard Cat survive in the wild.

Graeme insists that the Asian Leopard Cat is fine and there's no need for me to start a Teach The Asian Leopard Cat Balancing Skills Fund.  He insists that Ambrosia's klutziness is more than likely solely an Ambrosia trait - not a species one.

That can't be right can it?

An Asian Leopard Cat in a tree.  How long before it falls out I worry.

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