Update On The Patient.

Billy would like to thank everyone who sent him get well messages and kind thoughts.  He is finally feeling a lot better.  Last night he ate two and a half servings of his kibble for dinner - the first meal of dry food he's eaten since he took ill.  He is outside eating another serving of kibble for breakfast as I write and tonight I'll offer him tinned dog food instead of cat food.

Yesterday things started looking up when Billy noticed I was holding his grooming comb.  He bustled out to the porch from his sick room (the laundry) and took up his "groom me" stance.  He stayed there enjoying the combing until my arm got tired and I called a halt.  He looked disappointed that it was over and returned to his sick bed, but it was a definite improvement.

Things looked grim for Billy's and my love affair for a while.  While Graeme and I were in Melbourne my neighbour came over twice a day to check on Billy and spoil him a bit.  I had asked her if she could check him once a day and see if he would eat something.  I only asked for once a day because my neighbour lives about  a 15 minute drive and six closed gates away, but she loves Billy and made the effort to check him more often.  She's a wonderful woman. Billy was much happier staying home with my neighbour checking on him than he would have been in a cage at the vet's.  On her first visit she brought over some steak rissoles to see if she could tempt him, and tempt him she did.  Billy scoffed the lot, one at a time out of her hand and looked for more. My friend had to have a complete wash down after the event, but she said she didn't mind, she was just glad he ate something.  Billy refused all offers of tinned cat food in the hope that more rissoles would appear.  I didn't leave his tablets out for her to give him because Billy resisted taking those tablets quite strenuously and my neighbour is nearly 80 years old.  When I got home the tablet insertion into Billy resumed and only tinned cat food was available.  I would have bought him rissoles or whatever his little heart desired but it was the Easter weekend and all shops were shut.  Billy made it perfectly clear he didn't love me anymore.  Every time I entered the laundry he'd duck his head or turn his face away.  When I offered him tinned cat food (his former favourite food) Billy clearly said that he wanted my neighbour back as his nurse, and if she brought more rissoles so much the better.  She knew how to treat a sick fellow he said, none of this forcing nasty tasting white things down his throat; just kind words and tasty treats.  Now that he's had the last of his tablets we are back to our love fest with each other again.

I was really worried when I wrote last week about Billy being ill.  I thought I was going to lose him. He was so sick and looked close to death's door.  It's taken quite a while for the big fellow to recover and the vet still doesn't know what the problem was.  He feels that the huge mouth ulcer and the nose bleeds were symptoms rather than causes.  I'm just grateful that Billy is now feeling that life is good once again.

I don't imagine it will be long before Billy makes his way down to the ferret cage to resume exchanging insults with The Gang Of Four.  I think they've missed him too.

Billy Is Sick

Billy is sick.  He isn't interested in tummy rubs, being brushed, having his bib put on and rushing inside or even exchanging insults with the ferrets.  Billy is very sick.  He just lies on the laundry floor and lets the Kelpies steal his food. 

Last night we made an emergency after hours visit to the vet.  Billy had been lethargic all day and didn't eat his dog kibble breakfast.  When I fed him tinned food for dinner tried to eat it but jumped back in obvious pain when he tried. I investigated and discovered blood in his mouth.  Billy is a very sick little boy. At first the vet thought he had rat bait poisoning because of the bleeding from his nose and mouth and he has very yucky looking eyes as well as taking lethargy to a new level. We have lots of rat baits out at the moment as Spring Rock is in the grip of a mouse plague. The vet says they have been run off their feet with rat bait poisoned pets, but the blood clotting test (the definitive test for rat bait poisoning) proved negative so it's not rat bait poisoning. I told the vet all along that we'd be very surprised if it was because we have made sure none of our pets can get at any of the baits. The thought was he may have caught a mouse that had eaten some, but as I said rat bait is not the problem.

The vet gave Billy a thorough check up and found nothing amiss aside from the fact that Billy just lay there and let the vet poke and prod him all over. He says Billy is a perfect specimen of an older St Bernard, but Billy and I already knew that. We weighed him and he weighed in at 68kilos so he's a good weight for his breed. The fact that we actually got Billy on the scales shows just how sick he is.  Every time we've taken him to the vet he has refused point blank to get on the silver platform. Estimates of his weight have always been taken and medication worked out from there. It only took two tries last night and Billy's true weight was finally revealed.  He's not dehydrated, his tummy and other vital organs all feel healthy according the the vet and he's not even running much of a temperature.

Billy just lay on the floor and gave me a long suffering look while all this was going on. Billy's examinations always take place on the floor because no-one wants to lift him onto the tiny metal table to save crawling around the floor.  He didn't try and make friends with the vet, or tell all our family secrets or any of his usual visit to the vet behaviour. He even let the vet, a total stranger, lift his paws, open his mouth and look inside, generally man handle him for ages and poke needles in various parts of his anatomy.  The only objection he made, and that was a very feeble one, was when the vet took Billy's temperature and I think Billy's indignation was very justified.  The vet found a large bleeding ulcer in the front of his mouth but no reason for it - all his teeth are fine. There seemed to be no explanation for the bleeding nose or yucky eyes either.

At the moment Billy has been given, to quote the vet, "a massive dose of antibiotics and a big dose of anti-inflamatories". He is to have two doses of the strongest antibiotics the vet has twice a day.  The vet said if Billy wasn't better today he will be spending our trip to Melbourne at the vet's so an eye can be kept on him and he can be given his tablets for those two days.

It's all a mystery at the moment and I'm very worried about him. If he doesn't improve the vet wants to do a series of blood tests to see if something shows up. Graeme is starting to mentally add up the bill. I pointed out that Billy is worth it. Graeme said, he supposed Billy was a fixture (his way of saying we would pay what we had to). I pointed out he was more than a fixture, Billy holds a very large place in my heart.

Billy seems to feel a bit better this morning.  He's still very sick, but he ate the food I spoon fed him and looked a bit more interested in life.  I have just arranged with my neighbour for her to babysit Billy for the two days we're away.  I thought Billy would have to go back to the vet's just to be given his tablets and fed soft food, but my neighbour, wonderful woman that she is, is going to keep Billy in a pen in the wool shed where it's quiet and her Kelpies won't object to Billy's presence on the farm.  She will feed Billy spoonfuls of food night and morning and slip his tablets in his food.  Billy loves my neighbour and she is very fond of him too, so it will be a lot better for Billy than staying in a cage at the vet's.  Whether it's a lot better for my neighbour or not I don't want to dwell on at the moment.  It's enough to say I'll be buying her a BIG thank you present for her kindness.

I am not going to enjoy my trip to Melbourne very much if Billy's not anybetter before we leave. Graeme is taking me to the Melbourne Museum to see the Tutankhamen exhibition for our anniversary on Thursday. The hotel and tickets have been paid for for weeks now. What with seven bottle fed lambs we are dropping off for my daughter in law to feed, cats to incarcerate in the house because of the rat baits and now Billy being ill, I know I'm just going to worry the whole time - especially about a big, sooky dog back at Spring Rock.

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.