The Very First Time I Dyed and Broke the Four Minute Mile.

I’ve been reading a great new blog http://fibrefanatic.wordpress.com and promised Nadie that I’d send her this story.  After I sent it I thought the rest of you might like to read it too. 

This instalment contains no animals (unless you count the passing mention of my Aasta, my Old English Sheepdog from years ago and my comeback sheep, Tiffany who produced the wool).  So here is the animal free zone story of how I learned to dye and break the one minute mile in the process.

About 35 years ago I bought an Old English Sheepdog.  She needed something to herd (she tried magpies but they kept flying off) so we bought a sheep from a backyard in Penrith when we were out on a drive one day.  Every year Tiffany needed to be shorn and her wool started to accumulate.  With no thoughts of stockpiling it and becoming wool barons, I learned to spin – basically in self defence.  Tiffany produced kilos of wool every year and we lived in a very small house. 

Learning to spin was fraught with dangers not previously considered.  Of course, like everyone else the first thing I did was closely examine the spinning wheel for the sharp object that pricked Sleeping Beauty’s finger and put her to sleep for 100 years.  While there were times in my life with a twelve month old baby girl that a long sleep was very tempting the thoughts of what she’d accomplish left unsupervised was a nightmare all by itself.  Just for the record, I’ve never met a spinning wheel with a finger pricking sharp piece attached to it.  I can only assume that Sleeping Beauty was a real klutz. 

Anyway, back to my spinning lessons.  I lived on an acre at the bottom of a deserted street miles from the little village of Hill Top in the Southern Highlands and couldn’t drive so if I wanted to learn anything I had to borrow books from the library when Graeme drove me to Bowral each week and teach myself.  Bec, added another hurdle to learning to spin because she thought the spinning wheel just perfect for poking pudgy fingers in to see what happened.  I ended up, book on my lap, safely enclosed in Bec’s playpen while she free ranged around the loungeroom with her toys, perfecting my spinning.

Once I could produce a reasonable skein of yarn I taught Graeme's Aunt Rae to spin (and then she took herself off to TAFE and is now a master spinner and master weaver!)  Rae lived up at Eungai (far north coast of NSW) and we used to visit for a couple of weeks each year.  During our visits Rae and I would usually try out new crafts together (believe it or not, Rae never wanted to try quilting!).

The holiday where I taught Rae to spin she took to it like a duck to water.  Rae took full advantage of my spinning wheel being in residence and we even took in on picnics with us so we could keep spinning while Graeme, his Uncle Robert and our kids (we had two by now) could enjoy themselves in the canoe.  With quite a few skeins produced, we decided to have a go at natural dying the skeins and some fleece.  Of course I had a few books on the subject and we set about getting all our supplies together.  We needed a range of mordants to experiment with the various colours they would produce with the gum leaves, barks, lichens etc that we’d gathered, so we headed off to Macksville (nearest largish town to Eungai) to get the equipment and mordants we needed.

Rae went to the co-op for the equipment and I was put on chemist detail.  I was a bit of a hippy in my youth, flowered jeans, long hair, head band around the forehead, flowing cheesecloth tops etc.  (I don't know if this had anything to do with the next part of my story, but it may have contributed.)  I asked the girl behind the counter to sell me some chemicals (I can't remember the actual chemicals now, but I asked for each by name).  The girl gave me a long look and asked what I wanted these chemicals for.  Without thinking it through (see I was just as scatterbrained in my youth) I said in my most confident artisan's voice, "Dying".

She then gave me a scared look, put her hands up as if to calm a wild animal and said, "Just wait here, I'll get the chemist."  She then disappeared out the back, where I could hear a whispered conversation taking place.  The chemist came out, the girl pointed to me and he headed in my direction.  He gave me a professionally concerned look and asked what I wanted these chemicals for.

Once again I said, "Dying" (the penny still hadn't dropped with me).  The look on the chemist's face finally penetrated my little brain that was overflowing with artistic plans and I quickly said, "Dying wool not me!!!).  The chemist looked sceptical at first but I managed to convince him that I really had a load of wool at home and wanted to boiled it up with leaves and lichen and needed the chemicals to help set the colours.  He agreed to sell me the chemicals, but I couldn't get him to sell me the quantities I actually wanted.  He rationed them out very sparingly.  I thanked him in a chastened voice and slunk out of the shop.

Rae and I decided not to push our luck by sending Rae in to get some more.  We'd just use what we were given.  We returned to the farm and set up our dying workshop in the kitchen.  The kitchen took on the appearance of a very dedicated witch’s kitchen with leaves, lichens, ferns and flowers scatted in piles on the table and benches.  The chemicals were kept over on a separate counter and treated with a very large amount of respect.  We were quite twitchy by now about using these mordants.  To add to the witch’s kitchen look, Rae had a fuel stove and used it whenever possible because it also heated the house's hot water.  Rae put the pot on the stove and carefully added the mordant while I stood well back in case it jumped off the measuring spoon and attacked. 

All was quiet as the water heated on the stove.  A few seconds later a very loud POP! sound  erupted  from the stove.  Without even looking at each other, Rae and I hightailed it out of the house, banging the screen door closed as we passed and dived off the back veranda and stood out in the garden almost hugging each other in fright.  We left that kitchen  so quickly I’m sure we must have broken the sound barrier.  Graeme, Robert, Bec and Josh sat out there where they’d been quietly chatting about farming and life in general, but now staring at us with puzzled expressions on their face.  The pop hadn’t even been loud enough for them to hear it on the back porch.  It suddenly occurred to me that these chemicals were poisonous, not explosive.  I relayed my epiphany to Rae who nodded her head and we both laughed nervously in relief.

Even with this comforting knowledge, we were reluctant to go back to the kitchen, but we gathered our courage (what little there was left of it) and bravely (???) re-entered the kitchen.  The popping sound had been made by a little bit of water boiling between the base of the pot and the top of the stove and having no where to escape.  Thankfully all such water had evaporated by the time we ventured back into the kitchen.

We spent the rest of the day creating beautiful muted colours in skeins and fleece and decided that while natural dying could be a very scary experience it was worth it.  I should have taken the wool back to the chemist to show 1. I was still alive and 2. I’d been telling the truth, but it never occurred to me at the time.

Happy Christmas

Ambrosia

Nefertiti

Jocie

                                                                                 

Horton

Tristan

Billy

                                                              

We hope you all have a wonderful Christmas filled with love, family (both the two and four legged styles) and lots and lots of presents.

From,
Rosemary & The Menagerie

Billy's Advice

I've had a few friends feeling under the weather lately.  Billy likes to send them a get well message and this advice.  So for anyone out there feeling less than 100% here is Billy's message for you.

Ears Are Highly Overrated Anyway.

I was chatting with a friend a few days ago and somehow the conversation turned towards my cat Sapphire.  I can't remember how we got there, but it wasn't a surprise.  A lot of my conversations with people end up with me telling them something strange about one or more of my pets.  There's just so much material from which to choose!  Anyway, after telling her all about Sapphire's adventures all those years ago I thought I'd share it with all of you too.

I first met Sapphire in 1973 when a sneaky friend of mine presented her to me as a wedding present.  My friend was a Mothers' Helper as they were called back then (I don't know what the term is today), and looked after three children and did various jobs to help the working mum cope.  The working mum had come across this batch of dumped kittens and brought them back to her flat.  Once the kittens began to grow she realised her decision hadn't been the best one she could have made and handed the job of finding homes for them over to my friend, with the addendum that any kittens left over at the end of the week would be "disposed of".  That's all it took for me to accept my wedding present - the term "disposed of" sends chills up my spine.  Graeme was a little less than thrilled.  Realisation of his future hadn't quite hit him in the face at this time, but he was starting to suspect that I had a unique ability to acquire pets without actively trying to do so and he was worried.

While I was knee deep in wedding preparations I had sent Graeme out to find rental accommodation we could afford and that allowed me to keep a cat. He found such a flat and handed over the deposit and signed the lease. When I sent Graeme on this mission I had one cat that was coming to live with us (Topaz).  The rest of my menagerie were rather ancient and I didn't want to disturb their retirement with a big move.  They would live out the rest of their lives at my mother's house where they had always been.  I told Graeme that an extra cat wouldn't make much difference and everything was fine.  In the end we moved in with three kittens, Topaz the tortoiseshell, Sapphire the white cat with a few dabs of grey fur, and Ophelia a neurotic black and white cat.

We lived in the flat for two years with me acquiring more pets along the way.  You can read about all my extra pets  here  The cats lived in the flat nearly all the time venturing outside only occasionally.  We then moved to an acre near Mittagong and the cats learned to go outside more often and enjoy the fresh air and sunshine.  Unfortunately for Sapphire sunshine wasn't a good idea.  Every summer her white ears and pink nose would get sunburned and after a few years of this she ended up with some skin damage.  We took her to the vet and he said it was either a case of keeping her inside at all times or tattooing her ears and nose with a dark ink to proved protection from the sun.  We chose the tattooing option so Sapphire could continue to enjoy her new outdoor access.  We left her there overnight and made arrangements to pick her up the next day.

The vet rang before we headed off the next day to say that Sapphire had had a bad reaction to the dye and her face had swollen up drastically.  He had her on a drip and needed to keep her in until the swelling went down.  I agreed and went into worry mode - a common mode for me with the menagerie and later my children.  We visited Sapphire that afternoon and she was a sorry sight with her dark, scabby ears and nose on a face so swelled up she looked grotesque. It was hard to believe we'd always considered Sapphire the beauty of the family.  The swelling was so bad she could barely open her mouth to complain about the treatment she was receiving and the fact that she was now tattooed and didnt' get to choose the design.

After a few days the swelling went down, Sapphire was able to voice her disapproval of the whole incident again in loud meows.  She came home and told her troubles to the three other cats, settled down for a good sleep and continued healing.  The scabs on her ears and nose where still there but the vet said this was normal and the scabs would drop off in a few days.  He was right.  The only thing he didn't mention was that her ears and a small part of her nose would drop off too! 

We came home from a day out to find Sapphire with one ear missing and the other tip hanging at a drunken angle over her eye.  I rang the vet to seek advice on the catastrophe (excuse the pun - I couldn't resist).  He was less than impressed with the phone call.  He told me that he'd spent the day performing Cesarean operations on a herd of small heifers where a huge bull had got into their paddock nine moths previously and he wasn't in the mood for jokes.  I asked him why I would possibly think it was funny to ring him and tell him my cat's ear had fallen off.  I was serious.  The vet heaved a sigh and told us to bring Sapphire in straight away.  I think he thought maybe the scab had come off and we were confused or something.

We arrived at the vet's carrying a ticked off cat and presented her for his inspection.  There it was in all it's glory - an earlessearless on both sides.  He apologised profusely and said he'd never seen anything like this before. He continued to play with the ear tip while he talked to us, running it through his fingers, giving it a little flip and catching it.  I had to concentrate on what he was saying because I found his absent minded treatment of Sapphires ear very off putting in a ghoulish sort of way.  I pointed out that the blood coming from Sapphire's ear where he'd pulled the ear off was a thick, gunky blue.  He had a closer look and agreed.  Sapphire once again spent the night at the vet's while he tried to figure out what to do next.  In the end she came home the next day in perfect health but without ears and a small part of her nose.

Later when I examined Sapphire closely I saw that her skin had turned blue under her white fur.  She was darkest blue on her face with the colour fading the further down her body you moved.  She now had what looked like Kohl pencil eyes with the skin around them no longer the normal, cat approved pink, but now a dark indigo - very exotic looking.   The dye ink had got into her blood stream and stained her skin along the way.  How she survived with that much ink in her blood we'll never know but survive she did.

Years went buy and Sapphire lived a long and happy life.  She remained blue (and of course earless) and just a few years later, while still a young cat, went blind.  Whether the dye had anything to do with that I don't know, but I suspect it did.  That was when I gave up rearranging furniture in the house.  I used to rearrange the furniture every few months just for a different look.  The first time I did that after blindness struck our Sapphire she kept ricocheting off the furniture.  She expected everything to be just where she'd left it the day before and when it wasn't she bumped into it. She was often found in a corner of the room meowing plaintively that she didn't know where she was anymore - everything was strange.  Rather than have Sapphire resemble a ball bearing in a  pinball machine for ever more, I gave up on my decorating pretensions and stopped moving things about.  

Sapphire lived until the ripe old age of 18. She remained the boss of the cats and most of the dogs even after losing her sight, and led a happy normal life.  She did attract a lot of notice when visitors met the blue skinned, earless cat for the first time.  They'd ask what happened and I'd tell Sapphire's story once again. One time the question was asked Graeme's brother piped in quickly answering the new visitor's question of what happened to Sapphire's ears with "They were delicious!"  The visitor took a few horrified steps back and I quickly intervened with the true story.

One unexpected outcome from Sapphires brush with tattoo ink was that the vet never charged us full price for anything again.  He came out to help with my horse Christie one time when she had colic.  After hours of working on her and getting her back to normal, he was packing up his gear.  Sapphire spotted him and wandered over to say, "No hard feelings," and pass the time of day with her medical practitioner.  She rubbed up against him preparatory to opening the conversation and the vet looked down, shuddered and said, "That cat still haunts me."  He proceeded to charge just for the medications used, not his time or travelling.  I explained that we didn't blame him for Sapphire's new look, but he refused to take a cent more. For a few years there we had the  cheapest vet bills we'd ever had.  Sapphire smiled a smug smile when I mentioned this to Graeme and I could almost see her saying, "You're welcome."

Showering With A Friend.

This is my view while having a shower each day.

I have had occasion to write about the ordeals related to my personal hygiene activities before.  I've mentioned showering with a duck (on purpose but reluctantly), almost getting a bath with Billy (definitely not on purpose and very reluctantly!).  I have also showered with ferrets unintentionally - they just muscled in on my shower one day and passed rude comments about my weight while paddling around in the water on the shower floor.  I've also written about the trials and tribulations of using our toilet here especially during the early hours of the morning. This is mostly due to Billy's presence in the laundry and his determination to become one with the toilet pedestal.  Now showering has once again become fraught with potential bodily harm.  

When they were kittens Ambrosia and Nefertiti were much like toddlers.  They wouldn't let me out of their sight and followed me everywhere I went to see what new and exciting activity I was about to embark on.  In their efforts to keep tabs on me at that time in their lives, Ambrosia and Nefertiti both wandered into the shower at various times.  That's the disadvantage of a shower curtain compared to a glass screen.  Nefertiti visited just once, found the falling water decidedly not to her taste and has remained on the outside of the shower curtain ever since.  Ambrosia, on the other hand, visited a few times passing the time of day with me while batting at the falling water before deciding that nothing exciting was going on in there.  She's not adverse to a bit of water to play with but in her opinion I took up far too much of the shower recess to allow for free access to the water, so she stopped visiting - much to my delight.

Now, Ambrosia has rediscovered where I disappear to each morning and has decided to join the party.  First she peeks behind the shower curtain to make sure it's me in there and not Graeme.  I don't know if Graeme has had words with her on the subject of disturbing his shower, or she just prefers to visit with me alone, but when she finds it's me in there, she springs up onto the shower wall and sits looking at me for a little while.  While she is considering the sight of me naked and dripping wet I begin to worry - not because I have body image issues, but because I value my skin in one piece.  All enjoyment of the shower has now disappeared and I have to keep a wary eye on the Bengal above my head.  If Ambrosia jumps up there before I have washed my hair I am in real danger of getting soap in my eyes as I try to lather up and keep an eye on her at the same time.  Then she gets the brilliant idea that now would be a good time to ask for a pat or a tummy rub.  She indicates her readiness by flipping over on the timber wall top and attempting to display the tummy area needing attention. I am quick to comply so that her contortions are kept to a minimum, trying to get the pat in before she actually flips on her back because you may remember that Ambrosia has a terrible sense of balance (actually she has no sense of balance to speak of at all) so my showers are now a very exciting activity.  When Ambrosia flips on her back on a narrow surface she invariably ends up on the floor with a confused look on her face.  The fact that my body stands between Ambrosia's fall and the floor is painfully obvious to me.  An excitement I could do without.  Ambrosia doesn't seem to mind my wet hands.  As I've said before she doesn't mind water at all.   Ambrosia, as you can see in the photo, doesn't  consider her balance challenged nature and performs all sorts of contortions in an effort to receive a pat or two while I'm otherwise occupied.  Heaven help me if I ignore her and she feels obligated to try harder!!! I'm just lucky that the man who built this house felt the need for a very wide top to the shower wall.  I doubt he had shower visiting cats in mind when he chose that bit of timber for the top, but I bless him every morning.

I'm not comfortable excluding her from the bathroom while I'm in there.  The litter tray lives in the bathroom and Ambrosia wouldn't be above finding somewhere else to use instead if she was denied access, even if it was just to get even for closing the door on her.  So it's access all areas, or at least access the bathroom for Ambrosia at all times.  

Well, I'm off to have my shower now.  Let's all keep our fingers crossed that Ambrosia continues to remain on top of the shower and not come flying through the air towards my very vulnerable body.

How To Tell When Your Ferret Is Getting Old

Miette when she was a little old ferret.

I usually have at least one elderly ferret and two younger ones amongst the Spring Rock Menagerie.  When one of an older pair of ferrets sadly dies I contact the Ferret Welfare Association of New South Wales and put in an emergency request for two young rescued ferrets.  After spending its life with a friend, I find that older ferrets lose interest in going on with life without another ferret to play and share nefarious deeds with.  Bringing in two younger ferrets has always renewed their interest in life and they get over the loss of their friend while making new friends.  Ferrets only live for a very short time - six or seven years - far to short a time for such beautiful little creatures.  So over the years I'd had plenty of opportunity to study the aging habits of ferrets.

Horton has begun showing signs of old age and while giving him a cuddle a few days ago I stopped and considered the signs of aging in a ferret.  They aren't quite the same as for dogs and cats although the greying around the muzzle and eyes often happens.  Horton is a white ferret so there's no greying to see.  He is showing his age in other, peculiar to ferrets ways.

1.  Old ferrets like to have long cuddles.  By long cuddles I mean all of a few minutes, but in the life of a busy ferret that is a very long time.  Young ferrets don't have time for anything but a quick cuddle and even then they are constantly on the move climbing up your chest to sit on one shoulder and then the other while looking for more adventure.  You have to get your pats and cuddles in as quickly as possible because young ferrets have places to be and thimbles to steal.  Old ferrets stop what they are doing, walk over to your feet and gaze up with that look that says, "Cuddle please." They then snuggle in your arms for a few minutes while lapping up the pats and attention.  To tell the truth I think that it's a face saving strategy so the younger ferrets don't realise the old ferret has run out of puff.  "You lot go on without me for a while," the older ferret says.  "I feel the strange need to cuddle with my human for a bit."  Once the old ferret has caught its breath and recharged its batteries it will start to climb down to rejoin the mayhem on the floor.

2.  Old ferrets get careless about hiding their stash.  Young ferrets will stash anything they can get their mouths around and seek out a well hidden, secret hiding place.  As soon as they pick up the new treasure they get a shifty look on their face, slink low to the ground in an effort to become invisible and head for their wherever they have hidden their stash.  Ferrets hide their stash from both other ferrets and humans.  This hiding place is usually set up early in life and grows over time unless discovered by the humans and cleaned out.  Treasures include a diverse range of items including, but not limited to cotton reels (unravelling of course), grapes, banana skins, orange skins, thimbles, small items of clothing such as socks left on the floor, small toys and much, much more.  It's fair to say if they can pick it up it's a ferret treasure.  Old ferrets don't lose interest in amassing treasure, they still get the shifty look and slink low to the ground once they've picked up their new treasure but they just find the trips back and forward to their old hiding place rather onerous.  Horton has begun to stash his treasures on the lounge room carpet in full view of everyone.  He's always miffed when I retrieve whatever he's appropriated of mine from his stash or the other ferrets steal his grapes or fruit peels. to place in their stash.

3.  Older ferrets make me think twice about sliding them across the kitchen floor.  Ferrets both young and old love this game.  I sit on the kitchen vinyl floor and a ferret will present itself to me for the game.  I lay the ferret on its side and give a push to send the ferret zooming across the floor. once the slide comes to an end the ferret will right itself and scamper back to me for a repeat performance. Soon there is a line up of ferrets all wanting to join in the fun.  These days when Horton presents himself I worry about old bones and only give him a small push.  Horton just can't figure out why he doesn't travel as fast and as far as he used to.  

4.  Old ferrets often find younger ferrets very trying.  Just like the older generation of any species, older ferrets find the fun and games of younger ferrets too much to take at times.  Don't get me wrong, 90% of the time the older ferret is right there in the middle of the ferret chaos enjoying every minute, but occasionally the boisterousness of the younger generation just gets to be too much.  Older ferrets then either have shrill words to say on the matter or decide it's time for one of those cuddles mentioned earlier.  Younger ferrets don't know what's happened when told off by an elderly ferret.  After all they were just being normal active ferrets.  I can almost see them shrug their shoulders before getting back to the game while  the older ferret removes itself from the game to go commune with its human.

So you see, Horton is showing all these classic signs of ferret aging.  He's still fit and healthy and enjoying life to the full in his own old ferret way.  Jocie will be the next one to start slowing down, but she assures me she has many young years ahead of her.

That's the thing about a ferret getting old.  It seems to sneak up on them when they least expect it and suddenly the need for a long cuddle hits them.  It's the downward slide to old age from there.

Learning At The Paws Of The Master

 "The Kittens" Guinevere & Lancelot with Tristan thrown in because he was in this photo.  Tristan never met Mum Puss he arrived about a year after Mum Puss went to that big mouse hunting field in the sky.

This story is from the archives.  The mouse plague here is almost over thank goodness and I was thinking that if Mum Puss had been alive it would have been over a lot sooner.  

********

Mum-Puss doesn’t care that I’ve done my time at University, gained a First Class Honours Degree and gone on to a successful teaching career, even earning the promotion of Assistant Principal before I was injured and medically retired. She considers all those achievements as useless, cerebral stuff not worth the lifting of a furry eyebrow. Nor has she shown respect for my years as a mother, raising three children who have all gone on to lead responsible, independent and happy lives. Mum-Puss argues that I’ve failed miserably in my parenting duties in one crucial area and she’s going to address this gap in my education if it kills one of us!

For the past couple of months Mum-Puss, our one-eyed mother cat we acquired with the farm (or as Mum-Puss prefers to see it – bought her for a record price paid for a cat and got the farm thrown in), has been gallantly fighting a losing battle to teach the dullest student she’s ever encountered to provide for herself and her family. Who is this dullard? A new intellectually challenged kitten? Her seven year old, thick as a brick son, Lancelot? No, the dumbest student Mum-Puss has ever encountered is me!

Mum-Puss is getting on in years now and realises if her new family of humans is to survive after she’s gone there’s only one thing she can do to ensure our survival – teach the matriarch of the humans, that dolt Rosemary, to hunt and catch her own food. Oh yes, Mum-Puss has heard rumours of my being a vegetarian, but she doesn’t believe that anything that’s grown as large as I have could possibly turn her nose up at a good, fresh mouse.

Mum-Puss began her lessons like all good teachers. She arrived at the back door, meowing that special meow that cats use when boasting about a particularly good catch. I went to the back door dreading what I’d find. Mum-Puss sat at the bottom of the steps with her catch lying dead at her feet, looked steadily at me with her one bright eye and suggested that I come and have a taste. I, not unreasonably to my way of thinking, declined her generous offer, scooped the corpse up with a garden trowel and deposited it in a shallow, anonymous grave in the herb garden. Behind me Mum-Puss gazed at my small, but respectful funeral service in disbelief, meowed once more, this time a “washing my hands of this imbecile” meow and stalked off with her tail in the air - the picture of an insulted benefactor.

All was quiet on the mouse front for a week or so. Then, one afternoon while I was sewing away without a care in the world, I heard That Meow again, not the “washing my hands” one - the “come out and share this wonderful treat I’ve caught just for you” one. I trudged to the back door and, sure enough, there sat my feline survival coach with another mouse at her feet and a look in her eye that dared me to even think about interring this fine specimen in my ever growing mouse mortuary. One look in that determined eye and I quailed. I didn’t want a fight on my hands or to permanently loose Mum-Puss’ respect, so I took the coward’s way out. “Puss, puss, puss!” I called, aimed not at Mum-Puss but at Lancelot and Guinevere, her two kittens who have overstayed their welcome by more than seven years now (Mum Puss's opinion not mine - I love them). Lancelot, who believes the only good mouse is a mouse inside his tummy, came hurtling down the yard, skidded around Mum-Puss, dodging a swat of her paw as he went, scooped up the defunct mouse and disappeared the way he came all in the blink of an eye.

Mum-Puss just sat there looking at me with a sad, almost hopeless look on her face. Here she just may have met her match, she was thinking. Never in all her years of training kittens to be self sufficient had she come across one so thick! True, she thought that Lancelot had been a challenge to teach the fine art of mousing; Lancelot isn’t the sharpest pencil in the box (Hell! let’s call a spade a spade – he’s the dumbest cat I’ve ever met). He believes he can force his way though glass by continually throwing his body at it, to hunt birds and is surprised every time his head makes contact with a solid object. You can’t get much dumber than that now, can you? I could see Mum-Puss’s little brain working overtime. She reviewed her teaching methods and decided that “hands on” was the next method to try. She wasted no time in putting her new system into practice, returning the very next afternoon with a mouse still alive, but with all the fight taken out of it. Mum-Puss sat in her usual teaching position, using the bottom step as her lectern, and gently batted the poor little furry offering in my direction.

My first reaction just caused Mum-Puss more anguish. I screamed at the top of my lungs. I don’t suppose I need to tell you that I’m not frightened of mice, rats or anything with less than eight legs, but the poor little mouse, still being alive startled me. I took emotional refuge in yesterday’s successful manoeuvre and once again called the “kittens”. Lancelot once again turned on his “now you see me now you don’t and you don’t see the mouse anymore either” act of yesterday and peace was restored to my world. I couldn’t look Mum-Puss in the eye. She left me in no doubt that I was the slowest, most troublesome student it had ever been her lot to educate, before once again stalking off, mumbling about the need for more funding for remedial classes for the hopelessly slow mouser students.

I returned to my sewing room with relief, hoping against hope that Mum-Puss would abandon all ideas of instructing me in the fine art of mouse catching. As it turned out it was a futile hope. Mum-Puss is clearly a never-say-die cat. She’d taught litter after litter and even Lancelot, how to catch their daily meal just in case the humans forgot to feed them one day (as if they’d allow that to happen!) and if she could teach Lancelot to become a more than competent mouser, surely this poor excuse for a human huntress could be whipped into shape eventually.

With these admirable sentiments in mind Mum-Puss began an intensive teaching program by bringing a mouse to her brick lectern each day and calling me to class. All these mice were alive to some extent or another. I attended class each day dreading what I might find. I couldn’t ignore her call for two reasons, one the mouse might be suffering and need Lancelot’s immediate attention, and two I still had to live with Mum-Puss in her non-teaching hours and I didn’t want to get well and truly on her wrong side. It was bad enough that she thought me mentally deficient – I didn’t want her to think me insolent as well. She just might remember that this is her house after all and kick me out.

I adopted two different tactics to deal with the mouse situation. If it was relatively unhurt I gently picked it up, examined it for wounds and let it go out in the paddock. If it was too far-gone I called Lancelot. You may have noticed that while I answered Mum-Puss’ call neither of her kittens came when they heard it. This is because they knew that if they sabotaged Mum-Puss’ lesson by stealing her teaching aids she’d exact quick and painful revenge, but all bets were off once I’d invited them to class. The first time I picked up the mouse Mum-Puss gave a little cheer of a meow, “Now we’re getting somewhere!” she thought. “This is more like it. I knew no-one could be that dumb and still walking around.” When I set it free on the other side of the fence, Mum-Puss gasped with disbelief. Who had ever heard of letting a nice juicy mouse being set free?! Mum-Puss considered the appalling action she’d just witnessed and came to the conclusion that I hadn’t really meant to let it go. Obviously I had taken it away from her to try my clumsy hand at catching it for myself and had stupidly put it over the fence with me on the wrong side. Mum-Puss gave me points for trying and stepped up her teaching program. She refused to give in. She’d teach me to catch mice or die in the attempt.

Just when she was beginning to wonder if the second of these options was the likely outcome of her quest to turn me into an efficient family provider, Billy the St. Bernard came to live with us. Mum-Puss’ bottom step lectern became a favourite haunt of this oversized dog and it was absolutely useless for her to try to teach from there anymore. Sitting outside and calling me to class wasn’t going to work either, because Billy was only too happy to join the class and change the syllabus to teaching me how to catch cats instead.

Mum-Puss has now retired from the education profession. She’s biding her time. One day I’ll come to my senses and beg her to teach me to catch mice. On that day she’ll generously agree on the condition that Billy goes – she doesn’t care where, just so long as he’s gone. Then maybe, I’ll pay more attention to her instructions, do my homework and pass all my exams. Until that time, Mum-Puss is in retirement and can be found lying in front of the heater or in a warm sunny spot in the sewing room consoling herself that she’s only had one abject failure in her whole teaching career. And when you think about it that’s a pretty good achievement.