It's Been A While

 

It’s been a while since my last post.  Marlowe is now nine months old and has settled in as a beloved part of the menagerie.  We had some fraught times with him in the early months.  

Our doggy medical adventures began with Cleo.  She was losing weight at an alarming rate, had developed a large number of bare, sore and itchy areas on her skin and was basically miserable.  Our vets are wonderful and it's difficult to get an appointment under two weeks away.  While I waited for the appointment day I treated Cleo with various potions to help with the itch, tried various foods to tempt her appetite (tinned puppy food was the only thing she'd eat) and generally spent my days trying to stop her scratching her skin raw.

The vet appointment day finally arrived and Cleo and Marlowe visited the vet.  Marlowe was due for his next booster injection.  The vet blamed Marlowe for Cleo's hot spots and steroid tablets, antibiotics and various other remedies were prescribed.  The medication schedule for the menagerie was both extensive and confusing. Tristan has a daily arthritis medication to add to the extensive range of medicines, but it's still difficult to believe all the medicines were for just two dogs and one old cat.  I ended up writing up a table to help me sort it out.  Here is a photo of what the pet medication hub looked like back then.

The medical adventures continued the next day.

We have two feral, half-grown cats who visit our back porch at night to help themselves to the dog food.  Marlowe has become good friends with Venus, our ex-feral cat, although she still prefers Cleo, who Venus considers to be her dog.   It looks like Marlowe tried to befriend the feral cats.  One Wednesday morning I noticed a large swelling under Marlowe’s chin.  We’d only been to the vets’ the day before as a follow up for Cleo’s hot spots (they weren’t hot spots, but mites, most likely brought into our back yard by some of the rabbits on the farm).  After an ultrasound Jen, the vet, said the abscess on Marlowe’s neck wasn’t ready for lancing and she booked Marlowe in for surgery on the following Monday.  By Thursday night Marlowe was miserable.  He couldn’t swallow and was in so much pain, we decided to take him back to the vets’ on Friday in case the abscess was ready for surgery.

It was a good thing we did because Jen said it would have burst on Saturday night.  Marlowe had the surgery and came home with the cone of shame around his neck and a drain tube in the abscess.  Jen said the abscess had been a lot worse than she expected and went in quite deep – the reason poor Marlowe couldn’t swallow.  Jen said there was still a bit of a lump there but that would disappear over the next few days.  Antibiotic tablets were to be given twice a day. 

 Marlowe after his first abscess surgery

All was well until the following Tuesday when Marlowe was looking down in the dumps that morning.  By lunchtime he couldn’t stand up.  I rang the vets’ saying I was bringing Marlowe straight in.  We couldn’t fit Cleo in the back this time because the car fridge was still in there and there was no time to remove it.  Graeme carried a very sick little Marlowe into the surgery for me, because despite Marlowe still being a little Saint Bernard, he was now too big a Saint Bernard for me to carry.  We were shown into a room immediately and a vet nurse checked Marlowe while we waited for a vet to arrive. 

Amber was our vet this time and couldn’t find a reason for Marlowe’s collapse.  He was running a high temperature, but the abscess lump didn’t feel that bad to her.  We left Marlowe there for a range of tests and wandered around a park in Wagga to kill time before we could pick our little fellow up.  Amber rang to say she’d like to keep Marlowe in for the night and was getting one of the senior vets to consult with her once Rose, the senior vet, returned to the surgery.  The upshot was that the abscess had re-emerged and was in deep once more. 

We returned home without Marlowe and Cleo, who had up until this time tried to convince us she was not smitten with the puppy, went looking for him at the back of the car.  When Marlowe didn’t emerge she went to find her squeaky toy, whined, and mourned him the way she’d mourned the loss of Aslan.  I told her that she couldn’t convince us she didn’t love Marlowe after all, but Cleo was too busy feeling sad.  She remained attached to her squeaky toy until Marlowe returned from the vets’ later the next day.

Rose performed surgery the next day and put a super dooper drainage system in this time.  It had a little suction bulb attached and I needed to empty it a few times a day until it was removed.  This new drain warranted Marlowe wearing an old tee shirt of mine because the cone of shame didn’t work with this new system.  The tee shirt almost lasted the three days before the drain came out, but by the last day Marlowe, who was feeling a lot better, had reduced it to tatters.  Thankfully, the drain was removed and that was the last we saw of the abscess.  Our vet bill that month was eye watering!  We’d had Cleo to the vets’ twice with her mite problem; Marlowe had his final booster injection and then two surgeries, all adding up to more money than I want to think about.  They are worth it though.

 Marlowe wearing my old tee shirt to protect the high-tech drainage tube.

After recovering from their various ailments, the puppies settled down to a firm friendship together.  Soon it was harvest time on Spring Rock and what a harvest it turned out to be!  We, like everyone else on the east coast of Australia, have had a huge amount of rain this year.  This resulted in our paddocks becoming waterlogged and the springs, from which our farm gets its name, were running in all the paddocks, and for the first time, even on our farm driveway.  This necessitated us having to use firebreaks to get off the property and only then if it hadn’t actually rained within the last few hours. There were many days when we couldn't get to the outside world.

As I mentioned in a post from last year’s harvest, I drive the tractor to unbog the header when it encounters wet patches in the crops.  This year I have been called out multiple times a day to rescue Graeme and the header.  The routine is, I’d try to get things done around the house until Graeme rang to say he was bogged, I then drive the tractor out to wherever the header is and Graeme hitches it and our other tractor up and we tow the header out of the bog.  Earlier in the harvest, I would then stay out in the paddock in the tractor while Graeme continued harvesting.  It really wasn’t worth coming back to the house, because he invariably became bogged a few more times that day.  I started taking a book and a travel mug of tea out with me and read the days away.  Eventually I put together all the bits and pieces for an appliqué block for a quilt I’m working on and took an audiobook out as well and I now stitch the day away.  Harvest still isn’t over.  We are usually finished well before Christmas, but this harvest has been drawn out and horrible.  We’ll get there though.

Back to the menagerie – everyone is happy and healthy; Tristan is now 20 years old.  I realised that he’s lived with us longer than any of our children did.  I told Graeme that this gives Tristan voting rights on decisions to be made in the family, and of course, Tristan being English language (or any language for that matter) challenged, I’ll be his proxy.  Graeme is not in favour of this democratic turn of events, but Tristan and I outvoted him.  Tristan spends most of his day sleeping in wherever he feels is the most in the way spot he can find, and Graeme and I arrange ourselves around wherever Tristan has chosen to nap.

 Tristan enjoying his winter daybed.

Ambrosia, Nefertiti and Venus try to race Tristan to his personal bed on one of the lounge chairs.   I made up a little padded spot for his old bones a while ago and Tristan slept most of winter there, but he prefers different sleeping arrangements for summer so isn’t interested in the winter bed.  The other three cats haven’t realised this and I’m sure they think they have won again when they settle on Tristan’s bed while he chooses to sleep in the very middle of the lounge room floor or on my lounge chair, taking up the whole space so I have to find somewhere else to sit so I don’t wake the old gentleman.

Hedwig and Hermes have only had one visit from a snake this summer.  They are enjoying the peace and quiet of not having to call out snake alarms nearly every day as in past years.  We are enjoying not having to go out to the aviary with the snake deterrer and persuade another brown snake to leave the cage.

Freya and Charis, the ferrets are doing well.  They enjoyed the Christmas decoration time in the house.  I always decorate the top of their cage with baskets of Christmas flowers, pine-cones and other little decorations.  I then set the ferrets free each morning to romp among the decorations for a while.  They made little pathways, had competitions to see who could push the most decorations off the top of the cage and generally created mayhem – mayhem being what ferrets are best at.  When the decorations finally came down Freya and Charis were sad to see their little wonderland disappear, but they manage to find other ways to create havoc so all is not lost.

 Freyer and Charis celebrating Christmas

The inhabitants of the chook yard have been playing musical yards.  The chook yard is divided up into three yards – a large, general yard, a smaller, but still spacious yard where Phoenix used to live and the Silkies’ yard, which again, is quite spacious.  When Phoenix died, I opened the gate between his yard and the main yard giving everyone in the main yard a bigger area to use.  

I have three roosters – Opportunity, a beautiful little Silky rooster who was supposed to live with George and Emu, our two Silky hens, Monster, who was an egg Emu hatched (Monster is a Faverolle, Hamburg cross so a very large rooster) and Henry, our Hamburg rooster.  Henry was purchased as a hen and disagreed with the diagnosis of his gender and Opportunity came here to live because he was crowing to loudly in a back yard in my daughter in law's mother's urban home.   

Opportunity lived with the Silky girls for a few weeks and decided life was too quiet in the Silky yard (which just happens to be exactly how George and Emu like it).  He then jumped over the dividing fence, only to find Henry in residence. The fact that Henry is three times Opportunity’s size didn’t faze our intrepid little fellow.  Opportunity bashed Henry up and told him there was more of that to come if Henry still thought he was top rooster in the yard.  Henry, who is not a brave rooster at all, now keeps himself as far away from Opportunity as he can.  If he finds himself close to Opportunity accidentally, Henry will squawk in panic and run to the end of the chook yard.  I’ve tried putting Henry in with the Silkies – they were against this idea and turfed him out.  I’ve tried putting Henry in Phoenix’s old yard, but Henry hates being in there with all the action going on in the other yard, so Henry stays in the main yard and makes sure he keeps out of Opportunity’s way.

Monster began life with the Silkies when Emu hatched him, and was happy to share their yard.  One day he decided to try the main yard, just to see what the other chooks were enjoying.  He stayed there for a few weeks, being bullied by Opportunity and commiserating with Henry.  I put Monster back with the Silkies a few times when the main yard threatened to become a war zone, but the next morning would find Monster back in the main yard.  Then, one day, for no apparent reason, Monster decided he’d had enough of the exciting life and moved back in with his mum, Emu and Aunty George.  Life in the chook yard has now settled down to peace and quiet.  I wish the same could be said of the puppies.

It's all fun and games here at the moment.  Cleo, who is now an old lady, has come into season.  She is nine years old and should be thinking of a quiet retirement instead of putting romantic ideas into silly, young dog’s heads.  I've Googled to see if it existed, but found there's no such thing as doggy menopause.  Marlowe, who is nine months old and in his difficult teenage doggy years, thinks that coming into season was a very good idea of Cleo's.  He hadn’t realised she could be so interesting, but is definitely happy to take advantage of this new situation.  I, on the other hand, am very much against Marlowe taking advantage of the situation.  I have come up with a system whereby I alternate locking one of the puppies in the laundry and giving the other a couple of hours of freedom. 

Cleo is all in favour of being sequestered on whichever side of the laundry door she finds herself - she knows she's too old to consider being a first time mum.  Cleo has reached the age where lying in the sun or shade, depending on the weather, or even better, on the kitchen floor, relaxing her days away and occasionally joining in a game of tug of war with young Marlowe, is her idea of a day well spent. Cleo is looking for a peaceful, old age just whiling away the hours snoozing or eating.  Puppies would mean an end to all the peace, not to mention the dangers of an old age pregnancy.  No, Cleo feels life is good just the way it is.

Marlowe on the other hand is all in favour of teenage fatherhood.  He is full of energy, bigger than Cleo now, and feeling his wild oats – wild oats that he definitely wants to sow.   Marlowe objects strongly to being on the other side of the laundry door to Cleo.  He has stated he doesn’t mind if he’s in the laundry or outside the laundry as long as Cleo is inside or outside with him.  To express his displeasure clearly at having a door between him and his newfound love, Marlowe has nearly destroyed the laundry door, scratching and complaining that just when Cleo got to be very interesting he's no longer allowed to play with her.  Cleo, comfortable on whichever side of the door she finds herself, just rolls her eyes and goes back to sleep. 

Graeme, on the other hand, has no patience for teenage, love-struck puppies who try to tear down the barrier between himself and his true love.  Things are being said.  I'm doing my best to pretend I don't hear those things that are said and just change the dogs over and hope Marlowe learns a bit of self-control.  Thinking back to the human teenage boys I knew way back when, I'm not hopeful about the self-control bit though.

So, as you can imagine, my days have been full.  Is it any wonder it has taken me so long to write another blog post?

 Cleo and Marlowe pre Cleo's season

 

 

 

Introducing Marlowe

 

Marlowe a week after he arrived at Spring Rock

When I began looking for a Saint Bernard pup back at the end of March I realised I had a problem.  I applied to go on a waiting list with two breeders who had advertised they had litters due soon, but neither breeder got back to me.  I imagine their waiting list was so big I didn’t stand a chance of getting one of their pups.  I contacted Ann, Aslan’s breeder, to ask if she knew of anyone who had a litter of pups due which I might contact.  Ann replied that she had a litter due in April.  She wasn’t advertising this because she had a waiting list of 35 people, but because Ann knew, I’d give one of her pups a very happy forever home she offered to put me way up the list.  I jumped at the offer.  Aslan’s beautiful personality and calm attitude to life wasn’t a fluke – Ann breeds for those qualities and I was confident that any pup bought from Ann would be a great pet.

In early April Ann contacted me to say a littler of six had been born.  There were four girls and two boys.  I was promised a boy and Ann would send progress photos so I could choose which boy I wanted.  As the weeks passed and the puppy photos just got cuter and cuter, I set my heart on the boy with the little spot in the middle of his head.  Ann told me this is called a monk’s cap in Saint Bernards.  I enlisted my youngest granddaughter, Molly’s, help in naming the pup.  We made a list of possible names and together we chose Marlowe.  I had been reading about the Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe recently and thought his surname would make a great dog’s name – Molly agreed.

Marlowe is the puppy at the back with the spot on his head.

When I placed the deposit for Marlowe, I told Ann his name.  Ann started to call the pup Marlowe so he became used to the name.  All there was to do now was waiting for Marlowe to reach eight weeks old.  Ann was bringing him down to me and we were to meet at her friend’s home in Goulburn.  Finally, the day arrived and we drove to Goulburn with all sorts of puppy comforts onboard.  We met Ann at her friend’s place and I immediately made friends with a Chihuahua who also lived there.  She was on my lap and soaking up pats while Marlowe and two of his sisters slept in the back room.  Eventually it was time to put the Chihuahua down and go meet Marlowe.  He was reluctant to leave his sisters so I picked him up and carried him to the lounge room.  After some quick thank you’s and goodbyes (Marlowe was quite a weight to carry so I needed to get to the car) we took our precious bundle and a huge puppy pack, a gift from Ann to help ensure a quick settling in period for Marlowe, to the car.

The drive home was uneventful.  Marlowe travelled well and was happy to share our company on the four and a half hour trip home.  Once home we were greeted by Cleo who, upon seeing the little fluff ball gave us a “how could you?” look and walked away.  This came as a bit of a surprise.  Cleo has always loved puppies and taken them to her heart as soon as she’s had a chance to rub noses.  Not this time.  Cleo clearly felt she was now too old for puppy nonsense and resisted Marlowe’s efforts to win her over.  Thankfully, as time went on, Cleo became fond of Marlowe and was content to doze in the sun with Marlowe curled up beside her.

Like Cleo and Aslan, I’d decided to take weekly photos of Marlowe’s growth.  Unlike Aslan, Marlowe is an energetic, playful puppy (Aslan was always quiet and laid back) who doesn’t sit or stand still for selfies.  Getting Graeme, Marlowe and me in the same place once a week to pictorially record his increasing size proved difficult, and like many second or third children, there aren’t as many photos of Marlowe as there are of Cleo and Aslan as puppies.

 When the time came for Marlowe to have his booster vaccination, we drove him and Cleo to the vets’.  Cleo always enjoys a car ride and we didn’t want her seeing Marlowe off on a jaunt with her left behind.  Sharing the back of the car with Marlowe was a bit fraught for poor Cleo.  Marlowe wasn’t yet sure if he liked car rides or not and constantly demanded Cleo’s attention to reassure him this wasn’t the end of the world.  Cleo put up with Marlowe’s antics and did her best to enjoy the ride despite him.

I had to carry Marlowe into the vets’ because he wasn’t fully vaccinated yet.  Cleo and Graeme waited in the car.  I opened the door to the surgery with my little bundle of fluff in my arms and saw that there were two vet nurses, the receptionist and two clients in the waiting room.  As I walked in all five people said, “Awww,” at the same time.  Marlowe, who was glad he was out of the car and up close and personal to me barely paid attention to everyone.  I sat in a chair with Marlowe on my lap and he noticed the receptionist working away on her computer.  Marlowe became engrossed on her and wouldn’t take his eyes off her.  She must have looked up from time to time because she finally said, “Marlowe, I can’t work with you looking at me like that.”  As soon as he heard his name, Marlowe’s back end started wagging on my lap.  The receptionist came around the counter and asked if she could have a cuddle.  I handed Marlowe over, sure that it was fine with him.  Marlowe loves cuddles and doesn’t care who is giving them to him.  The receptionist then asked if she could take Marlowe out the back to show “those who weren’t lucky enough to see Marlowe when he arrived”.  I said yes and she disappeared for quite a while.  I’m sure Marlowe was holding the inaugural Marlowe Appreciation Club meeting, many of whose members were in the Aslan Appreciation Club. 

When Marlowe was returned, he and the receptionist were best friends.  He sat on my lap until it was our turn to see the vet and wagged his tail every time the receptionist looked up.  They must have bonded while out the back.

Cleo’s patience was tried sorely during Marlowe’s difficult Terrible Two’s months.  He still had his baby teeth and they both annoyed him and were very sharp.  I bought him a range of chew toys, but Marlowe’s favourite chew toy was Cleo.  Cleo ended up having to visit the vet because she’d broken out in bare, itchy patches of skin.  Clay, our vet this time, thought they were hot spots, caused my Marlowe’s teeth breaking Cleo’s skin and then bugs getting into the area.  Clay said unfortunately Marlowe was likely to chew on Cleo until his adult teeth started to come in at around the age of six months.  I was glad Cleo wasn’t proficient in English or she might have left home after that piece of news.  Of course, we stopped Marlowe chewing on Cleo whenever we saw him with her ear or paw in his mouth.  Cleo was no help at all.  She wouldn’t bark or grumble about being a large, hairy chew toy for the pup and would simply put up with it unless Marlowe caused her a significant amount of pain.  I was forever telling Cleo to tell him off, but the most Cleo did was give us an imploring look to detach the puppy please.  Marlowe is now five months old, and has mostly stopped gnawing on Cleo.  We still find him with his teeth attached to Cleo from time to time, but the frequency we find him doing so is getting fewer and fewer.

Marlowe loves to accompany me on my rounds to tend to the outside members of the menagerie.  As you might expect, this can sometimes be a bit fraught.  When I now clean out the fishpond pump I have to keep a careful eye on exactly where Marlowe is.  Even with my ever-vigilant checks, Marlowe has managed to fall into the fishpond twice!  The fishpond is not that big, and Marlowe managed to fill most of the available space.  What the fish think of these four hairy legs, attached to huge puppy feet, I don’t know, but I’m sure they are against such invasions.  Marlowe panicked the first time he took an unplanned dip in the pond, which made getting him out that much worse.  We both ended up soaked and Marlowe vowed to give the pond a wide birth after that.  Of course when the next time came to clean the pump Marlowe had forgotten the trauma of falling in and once again ended up in the pond.  This time it was only his front feet, but they proved almost as wet and difficult to extract as the entire puppy did.  Cleo, who also likes to accompany me on my rounds, just rolled her eyes and reminded me that this puppy was all my idea.

I gave Cleo and Marlowe a treat each in different parts of the kitchen.  Marlowe picked up his treat and placed it between Cleo's front legs.  They then both settled down to enjoying their own treats.

The galahs have declared war on Marlowe.  When I enter their aviary I do my best to exclude Marlowe, but the gate is a bit tricky to completely close from the inside.  Marlowe takes full advantage of this.  The first time he ventured into their cage he was just an interested tourist, checking out the new sights.  Hedwig and Hermes suspected he was up to no good and immediately went on the offensive, spreading their wings and screeching at the top of their voices.  Marlowe, who was surprised to see this bad tempered display tried to explain that he was just looking while I dragged him out by the collar.  Since then he’s only managed to get a foot or two into the aviary but the galahs are ready for him and voice their opinion on this ever-enlarging dog invading their home.

I allowed Marlowe to come into the chook pen with me from the first day he arrived home.  I hoped that by being familiar with the inhabitants of the chook yard Marlowe would be less inclined to dispatch any chook that managed to escape while he was out and about.  The first couple of weeks went well.  Marlowe acknowledged the chooks’ presence and was content to wander around the yard, introducing himself.  Unfortunately, he discovered a wonderful game and has now been banned from entering the yard.  Marlowe discovered that he could sneak up on an unsuspecting hen, grab her tail in his mouth and then just hold on.  As soon as the hen realised she was caught she’d start clucking madly, flapping her wings and trying to break free.  Marlowe didn’t think there was a better game in the world that this.  The hen had a very different opinion.  I went to the chook’s rescue, told Marlowe  a firm NO! and resumed my feeding and egg collecting.  Marlowe wondered if the same reaction was to be found by grabbing another hen by the tail.  Joy oh joy it was!  As I said earlier, Marlowe is now banned from entering the chook pen.  He still accompanies me to the chook yard, but has resigned himself to remaining outside and just remembering the fun of grabbing a chook’s tail.

Marlowe is now five months old.  All the above took place during the first two months after he arrived home with us.  He is now a beloved member of my menagerie.  Marlowe is a bit of a scamp and is always full of beans and mischief.  Cleo, who is an elderly lady these days, has come to love him, and they spend their days together lying in the sun or snuggled together out of the rain on their beds.  One of the vets who was a big Aslan fan, told Marlowe he had big shoes to fill.  I told her there would never be another Aslan, but also I’m sure there will never be another Marlowe – he is making his own place in the world and is confident that he will be loved by all.  I think he’s right.

 

 

 

Too Many Tractor Hours

This is a rare, no members of the menagerie involved, post.  

Well, my tractor driving yesterday was an adventure and a half.  I ended up sending my kids a text message saying I'm clocking up too many tractor hours.  

Graeme recently bought himself a fertiliser spreader and has been purchasing fertiliser in the truck half a load at a time.  The our farm driveway is in a dreadful mess with all this water lying around.  The truck cannot make it through this slush without being towed by the tractor.  I'm the tractor driver.  All has gone smoothly so far and then this happened ...

To start with it was raining (Yay! because Graeme had spread the fertiliser and it needs rain to wash into the soil; Boo! because the tractor's windscreen wiper rubber has deteriorated and doesn't work), our already soggy roadway is just that much worse in the rain.  To add to my level of difficulty Graeme had left the spreader attached at the back of the tractor.  It's not a tow behind type of arrangement, but rather it sort of latches on close to the tractor and can be raised and lowered.  When raised I can't see a thing out the back, when lowered it's not much trouble at all - guess which position it had to stay in - yep, raised.

I drove out to the front gate and left Graeme to drive the truck out through the firebreaks.  He believes that way is less sloshy, but I don't like it at all.  I got through the Top Gate (after yesterday, now known as The Gate I Hate - the reason for this comes later) and my phone beeped at me.  Graeme had been trying to ring me almost since I'd left to tell me to come back because the truck couldn't make it up the slight incline almost where I'd left him.  It was only once I drove out of a black spot area on the farm that I got the message.  I found a spot to turn around and headed back.  When I saw where Graeme was, I stopped the tractor and rang him to tell him I wasn't towing him out via the firebreaks.  After trying to convince me to do it his way, and me standing firm, refusing to go out via the firebreaks, Graeme finally relented, but he wasn't happy.  Graeme had the tow cable all set up and had to undo it all so he could drive the truck to where I was waiting for him and re-setup the towing cable.  That done and the truck hooked up to the tractor, we swapped phones so I could use Graeme's noise cancelling headphones with his phone for us to communicate.  I keep telling Graeme he's deaf and he won't believe me, but when he spoke to me via the phones, the volume nearly took my head off.  A quick lesson on how to reduce the volume and we were ready to go. 

With the spreader up in the air and the side mirrors set for a 6 feet tall Graeme, I couldn't see the truck at all, apart from the very top of its yellow roof.  I kept reminding Graeme that I couldn't see anything but he seemed to keep forgetting this small fact.  Even my front visibility was hampered by a wet windscreen and no wipers.  We trundled along reasonably easily despite these problems until we reached the Top Gate.  The approach to this gate coming from the house towards the property's front gate is uphill and at a right angle to the roadway.  This has never been a problem for me in the cars and when driving the tractor, but with the double wheels on the back, I slow down to an almost stop and creep my way through - so far no dramas.  As we approached the gate this time, I told Graeme I wasn't great at driving through it so be prepared for me to slow down and creep through.  Guess what!  When towing a truck up a wet and soggy hill you can't drop your speed or the revs dramatically and not stall the tractor.  I chose not to stall the tractor, said a little prayer and drove through the gateway.  Immediately Graeme started yelling, "STOP!  STOP!  STOP!”  I stopped, but the designer of the joystick arrangement for changing gears for the tractor had a warped sense of humour.  You push the joy stick forward to go, flick it to the right to go up a gear, left to go down and pull it back to the middle for neutral - all good so far, but!  you also pull it back just a little bit further for reverse.  You guessed it, I pulled the joystick back too far.  After a moment of confused panic, I put the tractor in neutral and waited for Graeme to tell me what was wrong wrong – apart from my unintentional reversing adventure. 

The angle of my approach may have gotten the tractor through the gate but the truck was somehow aiming right for the gatepost.  Graeme told me to reverse the tractor back through the gate and not hit anything – I really didn’t need that last bit of advice, it’s not like I ever plan on hitting anything.  I once again reminded him that I couldn't see out the back at all and the side mirrors just showed me acres of paddocks and not the gate.  With a lot of indecipherable hand signals, much yelling from Graeme and some mumbled words from me, the tractor was finally where Graeme wanted it.  I then had a second go at driving through the gateway of the now, renamed Gate I Hate.  There were no further dramas in the towing of the truck.

As I was driving along, I heard a beeping in my ear and asked Graeme what that might be.  Graeme said someone was trying to ring him, most likely Brendan, the farmer who was having the fertiliser delivered and to where Graeme was heading with the truck now.  Graeme said that he, Graeme would hang up now and ring Brendon back.  Now it was my turn to yell.  I told Graeme under no circumstances was he to hang up.  I once again reminded him I couldn't see anything and the only way I knew nothing dire had occurred was that Graeme was calm and quiet on the other end of the phone (or calmish and quietish, but I didn’t say that to him).  Graeme decided that an hysterical wife driving a tractor took precedence over a farmer trying to find out where Graeme was and stayed on the phone. 

I towed him past all the slushy, boggy bits of roadway and stopped, waiting for Graeme to unhitch the tractor and rethinking my entire life until now and wondering how I got myself in these situations.  Graeme unhitched the truck, gave me a cheery wave and drove off to meet Brendon.  I drove back to the house, still rethinking my life.  During this whole episode, all I could think of was the monetary value of the truck, tractor and brand new spreader that were all at the mercy of my limited tractor driving skills and lack of ability to see what was going on.

Thankfully, it is still raining so Graeme isn't going to get the truck back today.  When he does, I will have the joy of doing all the above in reverse order – hopefully, with the spreader removed (if I have my way) and with a lack of rain; or at the very least a working windscreen wiper.

 

The Great Escape 2

 

Hedwig has been having adventures in the wild once again.  A few years ago, Hedwig and Hermes were on the run for about a week  https://lifeatspringrock.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-great-escape.html.  When I say on the run, they didn’t run far.  Basically, they barely left the house yard in all that time.  I’d go outside to feed the chooks and look for my wayward galahs, and find them in a nearby tree or on the house or a shed roof.  Hedwig would venture closer to have a chat and tell me of her adventures, but Hermes made sure she didn’t get too close.  He’d shepherd her further up the tree or roof, in case I got ideas about grabbing them.

While Hermes is fit for life in the wild, poor Hedwig isn’t.  She sustained damage to her wing and leg when she had the encounter with a car when very young.  I nursed her back to health after the wildlife rescue service chose not to take her on.  The advice they gave me was exactly where to hit her with a blunt instrument to put her down.  I objected to this, so I was deputised to care for her.  Hermes was rescued from an encounter with a car a year later and he was able to be restored to full health.  I intended for Hermes to be set free but, when the time came, Hermes refused to leave Hedwig.

The escaped pair was eventually wrangled back into their aviary.  The stress Hedwig had endured during the week of freedom was obvious.  She had pulled out a large area of her breast feathers and was a nervous wreck for a while.  After her week of freedom, which she definitely didn't enjoy, Hedwig has decided that the caged life is the happy life for her and stays put. 

On Sunday afternoon last week, Hedwig and Hermes were having a tantrum because some sparrows had made their way into the cage and were eating their seed.  These tantrums are quite common and neither Hedwig nor Hermes deals with the sparrows themselves, despite being three times the sparrows' size.  They prefer to screech and carry on until I arrive and sort out their problem for them.  I must have been late to answer their call, because by the time I arrived to de-sparrow the aviary both galahs were in a snit.

As I entered the aviary, which is usually the signal for all sparrows to make a fast exit, sparrows flew everywhere.  Most managed to escape, but two sparrows panicked and couldn't find their way out of the wire.  I slightly opened the aviary door and escorted the two sparrows towards the opening.  Hedwig, who was still screeching and flapping her wings, ended up flying out the door.  Hedwig had no intention of leaving the aviary I'm sure; I can usually leave the door open and she will show no inclination to leave.  Once out the door she did a U-turn and landed on the aviary roof, clearly wondering how she had got there.  I think she'd got herself into a flap about the sparrows and ended up on the wrong side of the door without realising it.

I couldn't leave the cage door open for her to re-enter though because Hermes is all in favour on the wild bird life.  While he has two strong wings and two strong legs, Hedwig doesn't and wouldn't survive long in the wild if he took her away from the house yard.  As Hedwig alighted on the roof of the aviary, she proceeded to scold me for letting her escape.  I did my best to try to see exactly where she was on the aviary roof, but I’m too short to see the whole roof.  Hedwig had no intentions of coming quietly; she was in a temper and wanted everyone to know it.  As I moved around the aviary trying to locate her, Hedwig continued to scold and grumble.  Hermes moved to the perch closest to the sounds of Hedwig’s grumbling, but he couldn’t see her either and he became a bit flustered himself, offering me all sorts of advice to open the door and let him fly to Hedwig’s rescue.  I called Graeme out for back up and found the Chinese Silkies' bag of sunflower seeds to use as a bribe. 

My first attempt at bribery wasn't a complete success.  Hedwig sidled up to get to the seeds and munched away happily.  Her mood appeared to improve, but on reflection I realise I was lulled into a false sense of security.  When I put the hand not holding the sunflower seeds up for her to step onto, Hedwig remembered her temper tantrum and bit me.  Graeme was ready there and then to abandon Hedwig and let her live with the consequences.  I'm made of sterner stuff, but Graeme's stern voice and anti-Hedwig sentiments made Hedwig rethink her spot on the aviary roof where she was easily reached by a six foot, cross Graeme.  She flew to the house roof.  Landed awkwardly and couldn't get her footing on the roof’s slope.  She slowly slid down the corrugated iron, scrabbling for purchase she couldn’t find, and landed in the guttering.  From this rather unusual vantage point, she looked down on me with a superior air and tried to look like she’d intended to roof ski all along.

"And that's why you aren't fit for the wild world!"  I told her.  Hedwig agreed she wasn't keen on the wild world either, but she was still cross.  She flew back to the aviary roof and moved down close enough for me to catch her.  Hedwig wasn’t admitting to her mistake though.  She chattered and scolded, demanding more sunflower seed, while “accidentally” stopping within my reach.  As I took hold, Hedwig dug her beak into my hand and screeched all sorts of insults at me.  Graeme offered advice, such as to let her go, and genuinely couldn't understand why I was still holding the nasty galah who had her beak firmly sunk into my finger.  I asked Graeme (through gritted teeth) to go and stand by the cage door and open it when I finally got Hedwig to the door. 

The short trip to the aviary door was fraught.  Hedwig was not going gently into that good night despite the fact I knew she really was sorry she was on the wrong side of the aviary door.  She screeched around beak-fulls of my skin, tried to flap her wings and generally made the short trip both painful and noisy.

Hedwig was finally restored to the aviary, cursing and screeching the whole time.  My two hands were rather mangled and she'd managed to draw blood in two places.  Once she was safely inside, Hermes, who had been watching the proceedings from the aviary perch, came over to check his best friend for injuries.  Hedwig’s bad mood prevailed and poor Hermes received an earful of insults and accusations.  Hermes, who is used to dealing with Hedwig during her hormonal times, knows the better part of valour is discretion.  He beat a strategic retreat and left Hedwig to her bad temper. 

I closed the cage door and told Hedwig I too was cross.  I had two mangled, sore hands and had not enjoyed the experience one bit.  Hedwig just gave me a beady-eyed look and continued to grumble under her breath.  I told her she was in my bad books for the foreseeable future, but I might forgive her by the time my poor hands finally healed.  Hedwig just gave me a look.  I could almost hear her reply of, "Whatever”.

Update On Cleo

 

Cleo with her very grubby squeaky toy.  Now she's no longer emotionally attached to it it has had a wash.

Cleo has had a difficult time adjusting to the loss of Aslan, but she’s finally returning to her normal, happy self.

When we arrived home after having Aslan euthanised Cleo ran to the car to us and her best friend.  When Aslan didn’t emerge from the back of the car, Cleo was confused, but I think, expected him to show up soon.  As the days past and no Aslan appeared, Cleo began to mourn his loss.  She continually checked the back of the car, hoping Aslan would emerge; she searched the house-yard for him and became inseparably attached to her pink squeaky toy.  She cried a great deal.  Her whines only added to my sorrow and we mourned the death of our beautiful Aslan together.

Cleo didn’t want to let us out of her sight.  She spent all day inside, mostly just sleeping with her trusty squeaky toy by her side.  If she came inside without it, she wouldn’t settle until I figured out the problem and retrieved the toy for her.  Why the squeaky toy became such an emotional crutch for Cleo I don’t know; she had spent years trying to get Aslan to play tug of war with her and the toy, but Aslan would chase Cleo around the yard quite happily, but never understood the role the squeaky toy was supposed to play.  Before the loss of Aslan, Graeme or I would often have a tug of war with the toy and Cleo.  She would run and find the toy and rush back to us and the game would begin.  I think she preferred Graeme as an opponent because she was allowed to pull with all her strength – with me she had to pull gently so as not to hurt my back.  These games ceased the day Aslan didn’t return.  Graeme and I tried tugging on the squeaky toy, but Cleo would just let go and give us a pitiful look.  We stopped trying to start a game with her.

As time went on Cleo began to stop looking for Aslan, the whining stopped and eventually the squeaky toy wasn’t her constant companion.  I can’t say she was a happy puppy, but things were improving.  Cleo’s period of mourning lasted months.  I began looking for a Saint Bernard pup in the hope that Cleo would fall in love with it and be happy again.  Saint Bernard pups are rare in Australia at the moment by the looks of things.  I found one breeder with a long waiting list to whom I emailed a request to be added – two months later and I haven’t heard back from them. 

I contacted Aslan’s breeder to see if she knew of any litters for sale or due to be born.  She replied that she had a litter due in April and a waiting list of 35.  She offered to put me at the top of the list if I’d like to buy a puppy from her, as well as sizeable discount on the price of the pup.  The breeder told me that she knew a pup that came to live with me would have a loving forever home and that was important to her.  I said yes immediately, but it meant that there was going to be a twelve week wait.  The chance to get a pup bred by the same woman who bred Aslan was wonderful.  She breeds her dogs for the temperament and personality for which Aslan was famous around here.

Cleo of course, had no idea a pup was in the offing.  She continued to spend her days sleeping inside and behaving in a very subdued manner.  I showered her with love, attention and treats, and so our days passed.  The pups were born in early April and when they were two weeks old, I chose Marlowe.  Their mum had had a litter of six with two boys and four girls.  I chose Marlowe because he has a cute dot on top of his head – the breeder informed me that it’s called a Monk’s Cap.  She has kept me updated on Marlowe’s progress and developing personality.  Cleo and I still have just over two weeks to go until Marlowe arrives home, but I mention his name to her each day and tell her she’s going to love him.

Cleo has always loved puppies.  When Aslan arrived here at eight weeks old, Cleo who was one year old at the time took him to her heart immediately.  She followed him everywhere, and as I said in my last blog entry, we had to provide Aslan with political asylum in the form of a gate over the laundry doorway so he could escape Cleo’s attentions when they got to be too much.  Cleo and Aslan soon became best friends and he was as devoted to Cleo as she was to him.  One of my favourite photos of the pair is this one. 

Cleo and Aslan

My cousin visited a while back and brought her new puppy, Max with her.  Max had just left him mum and was a bit uncertain about things until he met Cleo.  She immediately took him under her wing and mothered him for the duration of his visit.  Poor Aslan, who was an adult by this time, had to take a back seat for Cleo’s attention while Max was around.  I’m sure Cleo remembered giving birth to Max by the time he’d been in her company for a day.  She followed him everywhere, checked he was clean in all the delicate places and slept with him at night.  Max was perfectly happy with this situation – he might be missing his mum, but he’d found another, much larger mum to love him.

The breakthrough with Cleo happened a couple of weeks ago when my son Josh and his four daughters visited for a weekend.  Cleo followed us around as we practised archery, watching from the safety of behind the gate (all four girls and their mum enjoy archer and have been teaching me the proper techniques), inspected the garden or fed the chooks.  It was after we’d fed the chooks that I finally saw a happy Cleo again.  Molly, my twelve year old granddaughter, had just left the chook yard when Cleo came bounding over, performed that little bow dogs make when they want to play, and challenged Molly to a race around the house.  Molly joined the game and I almost cried.  It was the first time Cleo had wanted to play with anyone since losing Aslan.  The game continued for a few laps of the house and both Molly and Cleo returned with smiles on their faces.  I just wish I’d had my phone with me.

Since then Cleo has begun playing with us again.  Her tail is wagging once more.  She only occasionally checks the back of the car to see if Aslan has returned.  When he doesn’t appear, she goes back to whatever she was doing.  I’m sure the day we arrive home with Marlowe Cleo will be ready to make a new best friend and will shower him with love and attention.  Marlowe has no idea what’s in store for him.

Marlowe aged three weeks.