Night Time Escapades

 

The ducks.  Home safe and sound and not going anywhere near the gate.  We've had quite a bit of rain lately so the chook yard is not looking it's best.

Each afternoon I let the chooks and ducks out into the house yard for a few hours of scratching around searching for delicious little morsels.  They can only have this short time out in the yard because I have to lock Cleo and Marlowe in the laundry at the same time so they don’t find delicious little morsels in the shape of chooks or ducks. 

Before I even get to the chook yard the feathery inhabitants are gathered at the gate waiting for the opportunity to go forage.  The braver hens wait right at the gate, the drake and three ducks tend to start out right up against the gate, but as I approach they work their way to the back of the queue while the newer, Silver Laced Wyandotte hens, hang back a little further and wait to see if the braver hens once again survive walking past me as I hold the gate open for them.  Only one brave Wyandotte has the courage to walk past me most days.  Once those that are going have passed me I put a brick against the gate to hold it open and go into the yard to collect the eggs and clean the water trough.  This is when the rest of the Wyandottes and the ducks make a break for it and race past me and out the gateway.  

Various inhabitants of the chook yard.  The ducks, Silver Laced Wyandottes, George, Emma the White Sussex hen, and two unnamed black hens (all the black hens look very much alike)

In winter, after scratching around for a while and enjoying the extra space and grass, all the chook yard inhabitants return to their yard, find their favourite spot to settle down and are ready to go to sleep.  This usually happens around dusk every day.  In summer, they are locked up long before sunset, which is a much more energetic experience for all concerned, because none of the poultry is willing to come quietly while there’s daylight left.  Sometimes in winter, when I'm busy inside, I miss the sun beginning to set and have to go out to the yard with a torch to count heads in the dark.  Everyone is always there so it's not a problem.  Sometimes the ducks are wandering around close to the gate, but waiting for me to appear before they go in at the very last minute. 

George, my elderly Chinese Silky has moved out with the big girls now that her friend Emu died a few months back.  Prior to this neither George nor Emu would have anything to do with the chooks outside their yard.  They objected to any chook, apart from Monster, the rooster Emu hatched and both Silkies mothered), visiting their yard.  Once George was all by herself, she moved out to the main yard for the company and settled in, bullying the bigger girls for their treats and generally ruling the yard.  The only worry I have is that George goes back to her yard to sleep in the box there.  She roots on top of a cleaned out chemical drum rather than the roosting pole I made especially for her, and ignores the straw I've laid down in the box to help her keep warm.  

George

All the other chooks and rooster snuggle in together in various spots around the nesting boxes in the main yard, and generally keep each other warm.  The ducks bed down in one of the nesting boxes, all snuggled together as well.  Poor little George is by herself on these cold nights and looks very lonely.  I've discussed the matter with her a few times, suggesting sleeping with the big girls would be much warmer, but George refuses to sleep anywhere else.  I worry that she's not warm enough in that lonely box, with just her own feathers to keep her warm.

I let the chooks and ducks out into the house yard yesterday as usual.  When it came time to count heads, it was dusk, but night was closing in quickly.  Everyone was present and accounted for as usual.  I was worried about George in her lonely box and had the bright idea to use some curved plastic thinga-ma-jigs I had lying around, to drape over the end of her box where she sleeps.  This gave her more protection from the cold wind.  George just huffed and fluffed out her feathers, but she wasn't worried about my building this makeshift wind guard.

The four ducks on the other hand, who were not even in George's yard but quite a distance away, decided whatever it was I was doing was terrifying.  They took off at a run and ran out the still opened gate.  I hadn't thought I'd do more than count heads so I didn't bother closing the gate while I was in the chook yard.  I had my torch with me and called Graeme for help when I found the ducks had totally disappeared in the gloom as soon as they ran out the gate.  Graeme came to help and we spent more than two hours trying to find them.

We located three of them reasonably quickly but the fourth had disappeared entirely.  In the end, after a long, fruitless search, peering under bushes and shaking branches to try and dislodge any ducks hiding there, Graeme thought to let the three ducks we’d returned to the chook yard out to see if they went to wherever the fourth duck was.  Well, that was a good idea in theory but in reality we ended up losing another duck to the night.  By this time the sun had set, the wind was biting cold and the battery in my torch was giving out.  I returned to the house for another torch and some woollen fingerless gloves.

Graeme had found the two ducks and we tried to round them up, but the drake bravely did the fake broken wing thing to attract our attention while the duck escaped.  I was watching the duck as she ran past towards me, but then she just disappeared.  I have no idea how she did that.  The ducks are all Khaki Campbells so blend in really well with their surroundings.  Graeme returned the drake to the yard and we both scoured the area where the duck was last seen.  I now believe that particular duck has magic powers and simply disappeared, without even the puff of smoke, and materialised somewhere else in the yard.  It is the only explanation.  She certainly wasn’t anywhere near where I saw her disappear.

With a total of one drake taken prisoner and three ducks still on the run, I let Marlowe out of the laundry to help find the other three ducks.  I told Cleo to stay where she was  The night was freezing with light showers making it all that much worse and her old bones didn’t need to be out in that type of weather.  I told Marlowe that this was his moment.  It was freezing cold and the ducks were lost in the wilderness of the garden.  This was what the monks on the Great Saint Bernard Pass bred his ancestors to do!  OK, it wasn’t skiers, or even ducks, lost in the snowy Alps of Switzerland, but there were still enough similarities for Marlowe to channel his ancestors and rescue the misguide ducks and return them to safety. 

Marlowe jumped about with excitement while I explained his mission and rose to the challenge, tail wagging.  He followed me to the last known sighting of any of the ducks.  He managed to find two very quickly – nowhere near where we thought they’d be.  We managed to catch one of them - Marlowe was disappointed that he wasn't allowed a catching role in this escapade, but he put his nose to the ground and tried again.  Sadly, Marlowe didn't have any more luck after that, though not for lack of trying.   I think with the number of times Graeme and I had roamed around the entire yard, looking for wayward ducks and the number of times said wayward ducks had scuttled about avoiding us, there were too many scent trails for one young Saint Bernard to sort out.

Marlowe, revisiting the scene of his night time triumph in locating two ducks.

 After two and a half hours of freezing weather and misting rain, we decided to leave the last two ducks outside for the night.  The dogs were let out for a chaperoned toilet break, but locked in the laundry all night.  I hoped and prayed that local foxes didn't discover the ducks' hiding places. 

Bright and early this morning Graeme went out to see if he could find the two errant ducks.  Some time before Graeme went looking for them they had decided to come along quietly and both miscreants were waiting at the gate for him to let them back in.  Graeme held the gate open for them and they waddled in, to be met by the delighted quacks and quick grooming from the drake and duck who’d spent the night in their normal sleeping quarters.

When I went to feed the chooks and ducks this afternoon, I'd already decided that I wouldn't be letting anyone out today.  The chooks would just have to live with my unilateral decision and enjoy the treats I’d brought instead.  In the end, my decision didn't matter.  The ducks, who are usually waiting at the gate to be let out, where as far from the gate as they could get.  They didn't venture closer even when I cast the chook scraps and sunflower seeds out for everyone.  I don't think any of them enjoyed last night's adventures.  I know I certainly didn’t.

Marlowe checking on the ducks today to make sure they aren't planning another night time escape. 

 

 

Photo Time

 

Aslan’s and Marlowe's breeder, Ann, is in hospital, and has been for a while now, with more weeks in hospital likely.  She is missing her Saint Bernard family dreadfully.  Ann and I send each other text messages from time to time when my puppies or hers do something worth sharing.  I suggested to Ann that she tell the hospital staff that studies have shown that patients heal faster if their pets are allowed to visit like family.  I admitted that I made up the studies bit, but Ann felt it worth a try.  She had no luck.  Hospital staff have firm opinions on a number of Saint Bernards visiting their cardiac wards.

With Ann suffering from Saint Bernard withdrawal symptoms, I thought I'd photograph Cleo and Marlowe looking suitably sympathetic to add to a get-well text message to try to cheer her up.  

Photographing Cleo and Marlowe together is not for the faint hearted, although photographing them singly isn't a piece of cake either.  Cleo, who has settled into geriatric life quite comfortably, just can't be bothered with posing for the camera any more.  She feels that she's done her time as a photo subject, and now that her years have mounted up, should be excused from all requests to sit for a photo.  In short, Cleo now needs a lot of gentle persuasion to join in the fun. 

Marlowe, who is still enjoying a prolonged puppyhood, loves any form of attention and bounds up ready, willing and able to pose for as many photographs as I'd like to take.  The trouble with photographing Marlowe is his taste leans towards the avant garde style of photos and Marlowe prefers extreme close-ups of his nose, over the more mundane shots taken from a short distance away.  

Getting the two puppies together is usually easy.  They are great friends and Marlowe just loves anything that includes Cleo.  Cleo is happy to listen to my plans and then raise whatever objections come to mind in typical irascible old lady fashion.  The problems arise when I want them sitting still, side by side (or as close as I can manage to get them side by side), for a posed photo.  As stated above, Cleo is not enthusiastic and it takes much cajoling to get her to sit where I want her to sit.  These days her old body is not a fan of sitting when asked to do so.  I rarely ask her to sit these days out of respect for her advanced years, but when I do, it takes a few repeated requests to get her bottom on the ground.   

Marlowe is another kettle of fish altogether.  He will smartly sit when asked, with a very smug look on his face, but actually getting the large body into the spot I want it for a photo takes a great deal of effort on both our parts.  I take him by the collar, plant his body reasonably close to Cleo and say, “Sit!”  Marlowe sits, then turns towards Cleo to give her a snuggle on her face, or a lick on the ear, nose boop, or any other affectionate gesture that occurs to him. 

Cleo is now well and truly over sitting, but bravely stays put, doing her best to ignore Marlowe’s actions, no matter how good-natured they are.  According to Marlowe it's not his fault that when he snuggles, licks or leans on Cleo it ends up with him standing up again and in a different spot to where he started.  I then manoeuvrer him back to the desired spot and get everything ready for the photograph. 

By the time I gently persuade Cleo to sit nicely and to stay put, with Marlowe sitting beside her, I have to back away carefully, hand raised in the stop position and repeatedly saying, “Stay, stay, stay!”  Marlowe's tail invariably wags, and I'm all in favour of a dog with a wagging tail, but he loves to instil a false sense of hope in me and stays beautifully until I lower my hand to press the camera button.  Then we are back to nose close-ups. 

Cleo meanwhile is sitting like a perfect angel, clearly asking Marlowe what's so hard about staying.  Only Cleo and I know she stays so beautifully because she can't be bothered getting up and going through the whole routine again.  I then return Marlowe to the spot next to Cleo - wrangling him into position with lots of enthusiasm so Marlowe thinks it's a treat.  I then go through the "Stay!" process again and repeat the above over and over. 

What usually happens once Marlowe finally realises I want him to sit next to Cleo and actually stay there, is that by now Cleo has had enough.  She lets me know that she sat and stayed for quite a while and she is now fed up with sitting and staying.  She tells me a lady of her advanced years needs lots of pats, ear rubs and sleep - sitting and staying is not on the list of geriatric Saint Bernard needs anywhere.  I have to sweet talk her back to sitting next to Marlowe and keeping Marlowe in place while I get Cleo's co-operation and get her to at least try to look happy about it.  Once I finally get a reasonable photo, and by this time, I have taken many, many unreasonable ones, I delete all the nose close-ups, ear scratches, nose boops and puppies looking over their shoulder or whatever.  I then come inside and make myself a cup of tea - because boy! have I earned it.  

Here are the only two reasonable photos I managed to take today.  The first one has Marlowe sitting in a very peculiar, hunched over position (I think he's just about to get up and move in for a close-up).  He’s actually quite a bit larger than Cleo but because he’s hunched over it doesn’t look like it.   I sent the second one to Ann, even though the puppies aren't quite sitting side by side, they are both facing the camera and looking suitably sympathetic.  I just hope Ann appreciates the amount of work that simple little photo represents.

 

Marlowe And His Multiple Visits To The Vets

 

Marlowe has been in disgrace for a few days now.  He says he’s not sorry; he’d do it again under similar circumstances.

For a while now I’d been cleaning Marlowe’s right eye every day.  It’s been a bit mucky and crusty.  Cleaning Marlowe’s eye isn’t the easy job it sounds.  First, one must dampen a clean rag with warm water, and then the fun begins.  As soon as Marlowe sees the rag he takes off, but Marlowe is a good boy, and with lots of coaxing and cajoling he eventually, step by slow step, comes back and accepts his fate.  When I say, “accepts his fate”, don’t for a minute think the battle is over.  Marlowe will stand beside me, but with his head hanging as far down, without actually touching the ground, as he can manage.  Now I have to pick up that huge head and begin the cleaning operation.  Marlowe’s head must weigh a tonne, but the job eventually gets done.

I thought he must have ingrowing eyelashes that were causing the mucky eye, so I rang the vet to have his eye looked at.  We saw the vet on Tuesday, the same day I had my two new ferrets, Atlas and Bram, castrated.  Atlas and Bram were dropped off in the morning for their operations and when I picked them up in the afternoon, Marlowe had his vet appointment.  Our veterinary surgery is undergoing major renovations at the moment.  The entire surgery was pulled down as soon as the new operating section of the new surgery was finished.  Clients then had the choice to sit outside under a large awning or wait in the waiting room of a demountable building until it was their turn to see a vet.  Most of the consultations were actually done in the waiting room or under the awning, because there was only one small consulting room attached to the waiting room.

                              Marlowe before his surgery - note his mucky eye and dapper tuxedo bib.

When I arrived with Marlowe, it was clear I wouldn’t get a choice.  The outside area was populated with a large range of dogs, none of whom looked happy to see my giant puppy come walking down the path.  Discretion begin the better part of valour, I chose to wait in the empty waiting room with Marlowe.  He was wearing his tuxedo bib for the occasion, and was very pleased to be out and about.  The dogs outside were very pleased this overdressed giant wasn’t settling amongst them.

As new clients came in to let the receptionist know they’d arrived Marlowe took the opportunity to make new friends.  That day it seemed that most new patients arriving were small dogs or cats, none of whom wanted anything to do with Marlowe, despite his assuring the cats that he had a good friend at home who was a cat, and telling the little dogs he wasn’t sure what they were but he’d like to be friends anyway.  The owners on the other hand all wanted to pat the big pup and some asked if they could take a photo or even asked to have their photo taken with him.  I’m sure Marlowe began to feel like a rock star.

While we were waiting, Rob, a new vet at the practice who I had not met before, came in to chat with me.  “I’ve been playing with the less bitey of your ferrets”, he began. 

“That would be Atlas”, I replied because there’s no way Bram could ever be described as ‘less bitey’.

Rob then proceeded to ask a lot of questions about ferrets.  From his questions, I’m pretty sure Atlas had won him over and Rob was now thinking about owning ferrets himself.  I did all I could for ferret PR, assuring him that if a ferret was properly raised and socialised they made wonderful pets.  I also mentioned that Bram was still a work in progress, but I was confident that he too would be a lot less bitey in the near future.

While Rob was talking to me, he was patting Marlowe and rubbing Marlowe’s ears (one of Marlowe’s very favourite way of being patted).  Rob, looked down at Marlowe, and then said more to himself than to me, “I wonder who is treating him today?  I’ll just go find out, because I’d love to treat him.”  And with that Rob left the waiting room.

He returned a short time later, following Georgina, Marlowe’s vet for the day.  While Georgina examined Marlowe and discussed the problem of ingrowing eyelashes with me, Rob continued to pat Marlowe and tell him he was a good boy.  He then went back to the new building to retrieve my ferrets for me.  I paid their bill and made an early morning appointment for Marlowe to return the next day to have surgery on his eye.

                             Atlas (sitting up) and Bram (not his best angle) recovering from surgery.  

As I was leaving, a vet nurse rushed out to ask if I’d give my permission for them to publish a photo Rob took of the ferrets post op recovery on their Facebook page.  I gave permission and we headed home.  Graeme was resigned to another two trips there and back to the vets’ the next day and Marlowe settled down next to Cleo, who had joined him for his car ride into town.

Wednesday morning, I was up early ready for the 45 minute trip back into town.  Cleo and Marlowe were loaded into the car and off we set.  On arrival, I once again sat in the waiting room until Georgina, with Rob still in tow, came to collect by gorgeous puppy.  Then it was back home to wait for the phone call to say we could pick him up. 

The call came and we headed back into Wagga yet again.  Rob was there to tell me how well behaved Marlowe had been and a short time later Marlowe himself arrived with Georgina.  I was given instructions for postoperative care, including the need for Marlowe to wear a cone, and an appointment was made for ten days later to remove the stitches.  Marlowe’s blood tests had shown an abnormal liver reading, so Marlowe was to have another blood test then as well.  I paid the hefty surgery bill and we headed home.

This is where Marlowe ended up in our bad books.  Once home I put the plastic cone on Marlowe and endured quite few bashes to my legs or hips as Marlowe refused to take the extra length added to his front end by the cone.  Marlowe spent the rest of the afternoon banging into walls, fences, Cleo, Venus and me.  I was glad when nighttime arrived and he settled down for sleep.  Little did I suspect what would await me in the morning.

Marlowe met me at the back door without his collar and some of the stitches under his eye torn out.  The collar was still intact, he’d just managed to remove it during the night and had a good scratch at the stitches before settling down to sleep.

I took gory, close-up photos of Marlowe’s eye and sent them to Georgina, asking if he’d need the stitches re-done.  Georgina said she’d really have to see him in person to gauge the damage done.  To say Graeme was unhappy about this decision is to understate his feelings enormously.  We headed back to the vets’ for trips number five and six.  Cleo was not invited this time, Graeme’s patience was being worn thin and I didn’t want to exacerbate it.  On the way into Wagga, Graeme said he wasn’t coming back in on Friday and that was all there was to it.  I pointed out if Marlowe needed surgery we wouldn’t have a choice.  This statement was met with stony silence, so Marlowe and I decided to keep a low profile for the rest of the trip - Marlowe settling down out of sight, and me reading my book.

We had another wait in the waiting room, where Marlowe made more friends.  Rob showed up to commiserate with Marlowe, who was keen to let Rob know that he, Marlowe, had had no choice but to remove the horrible cone and have a good scratch.  Hadn’t we heard that it was illegal to torture poor innocent dogs? Georgina arrived, and she too gave Marlowe lots of pats and sympathy.  Poor Graeme was waiting in the car, thinking of all the farm work that needed doing while he whiled away the time waiting for me to return to the car – Graeme was the one who really needed pats and sympathy.

Unsurprisingly, the only solution to the problem Marlowe had created was surgery.  The remaining stitches needed to be taken out and new ones put in – all under general anaesthetic.  Marlowe couldn’t have the surgery that day because they had a full list of operations for the day.  Marlowe was booked in for the next day and he and I returned to the car to give Graeme the bad news.  Graeme took it stoically and without a word, drove off (once we were in the car – not without us, which I’m sure was a tempting thought for the poor beleaguered farmer).

Friday saw us driving in to Wagga yet again.  Cleo was allowed to come along for the ride, and enjoyed it thoroughly.  I think, out of everyone concerned, Cleo was the one who had the best time of it.  She loves car rides and to get one or two each day for four days was heaven for her.  Marlowe was dropped off and once again, I went home and waited for news that Marlowe could be picked up. 

The call came in the afternoon so off we drove again.  Neither Graeme nor I discussed the cost of this second surgery.  When I was given the bill, I nearly fainted.  It was only slightly less than the original hefty cost of the eye surgery.  I decided not to mention it to Graeme unless he actually asked.  Graeme being very wise did not ask. 

Marlowe came out with a cone already in place.  You have to imagine the size of a plastic cone that will fit a Saint Bernard.  They are huge!  We had to remove it for Marlowe to fit in the back of the car, but as soon as we were home, I put it back on as tightly as I could while still allowing Marlowe to breathe.  I then went online and bought a donut type collar for when the stitches had settled down.  This collar went on about a week later when Marlowe had finally managed to destroy his plastic collar.  All that bumping into things finally took its toll on the collar and it just gave up with a sigh.  Once the soft, donut collar was in place Cleo, Venus, the fences and I were no longer barrelled into by a large dog and hard plastic cone.

The day finally arrived when Marlowe was to have his stitches out.  Thankfully, Graeme had managed to be ten productive days the farm so going back in to Wagga again wasn’t an issue this time.  I waited in the waiting room with Marlowe, which was fast becoming to feel like a home away from home.  We were the only ones in the waiting room this time.  Georgina came to collect Marlowe (Rob was nowhere in sight for once) and take him over to the surgical building to remove the stitches and do the blood test. 

While Marlowe was away, a Border Collie and his owner and a little Terrier type dog with his owner came into the waiting room.  When Marlowe returned, he took one look at the Border Collie, who wasn’t even looking at Marlowe, and decided this dog was scary.  The Border Collie and his owner were both waiting in line to pay their bill and were not paying any attention to Marlowe.  Marlowe still felt that that black and white dog was up to no good and it was all aimed at an innocent young Saint Bernard.  Marlowe began to back up slowly, until he was nearly sitting on my lap.  He refused to take his eyes off the Collie, while backing into my legs.  Marlowe then decided I was not enough protection so he changed course and backed into Georgina’s legs where she sat beside me.  Georgina laughed at Marlowe’s antics, but Marlowe couldn’t see the funny side. 

I had to wait for the owner of the Border Collie to pay his bill and leave the waiting room before I could go up to the desk to pay Marlowe’s bill.  This was when Marlowe spotted the little Terrier.  The Terrier, who had been very nervous ever since he and his owner had arrived, had been pulled out from under his owner’s chair and placed on John, the vets’, knee for his consultation.  The Terrier took one look at Marlowe and decided NO! - he was not doing this, and tried desperately to hide inside the vet’s shirt.  Marlowe on the other hand was entranced.  He didn’t like the Border Collie, but he really, really wanted to be best friends with this tiny little creature.  To this end, Marlowe made a number of attempts to lunge at the Terrier, assuring it he came in peace.  I had other ideas about this and held on to the lead with all my strength.  This made getting my purse out to pay the bill rather difficult.  I asked the receptionist if she could hold the lead while I fished out my purse, but though she tried valiantly to keep Marlowe a respectable distance from the poor little, beleaguered Terrier she was only partly successful.  We then had the problem that, although I had my debit card out, the receptionist needed to set up the payment.  I took Marlowe back, still struggling to keep him from drooling all over the vet and the Terrier.  If it wasn’t for one other client, who I will bless for the rest of my days, I imagine things could have ended with Marlowe disgracing himself and really scaring the poor Terrier.  This wonderful woman saw the problem and began talking to Marlowe, telling him what a handsome fellow he was and how much she loved his big.

Flattery will always get Marlowe’s attention and thankfully, this saint of a woman was across the other side if the waiting room.  Marlowe veered in her direction and forgot all about the Terrier, who I’m sure, had aged a few years in the last few minutes – I know I had.  Marlowe sat in front of the woman, showing her his best manners while I paid the bill.  I thanked her profusely before I left.  “What type of dog is he?” she asked.  “A Saint Bernard”, I answered.  Her reply to that made me laugh, “Well he’s lovely, but I wouldn’t want him sleeping on my bed!”  Neither would I as it happens.

 

 

 

 

 

Happy Christmas

 

Wishing everyone a very happy Christmas and a wonderful New Year.

Rosemary and the Menagerie

 

 

   

Tristan

Vale Tristan

Tristan died a few weeks ago.  I miss him dreadfully.

Tristan arrived at Spring Rock in January 2003, as the cutest ginger kitten I’d ever met.  A few months before his arrival I’d mentioned to my friend and neighbour, Aileen, that with all the cats I’d owned in my long history of cat ownership, I’d only ever had one ginger cat and that was when I was a child.  I told her I love ginger cats (well, I love any colour cat, but I was talking about ginger cats at the time) and would love to own another one.  A month or two later Aileen asked if I still wanted a ginger cat.  Graeme was nowhere in sight so I said yes.  Aileen’s daughter’s cat had had an illicit liaison with a feral tomcat and had produced a litter of kittens, one of whom was ginger.

As soon as he was old enough to leave his mum Aileen brought the little ginger scrap over to his new home.  Tristan settled in quickly.  I named him Tristan to fit in with the current Arthurian theme at the time.  Lancelot and Guinevere were my two, now middled aged cats in residence.  Tristan developed a deep affection for Graeme, almost on sight, and wouldn’t take no for an answer when he wanted to sit on Graeme’s knee.  Graeme wasn’t used to feline attention.  Lancelot and Guinevere spent all their spare time on my knee.  After a few false starts, Graeme and Tristan became firm friends and the tiny kitten would curl up on Graeme’s knee while he worked on his computer at night.  As Tristan grew older and larger, and took up more of Graeme’s knee he was told he’d have to find somewhere else to spend his nights as he was now in the way, so Tristan, ever the pragmatist, found a spare spot on my knee and ignored the two older cat’s bad language as he settled in.

Lancelot and Guinevere didn’t ever really accept the new arrival.  Their opinion of this little ginger scrap was decidedly negative.  They felt that the house operated well on a two-cat basis and saw no need to over populate the house with an excess redhead.  Tristan lived on the periphery of their lives and was content to do so.  Very little upset Tristan.  He’d just go with the flow with any situation that arose.  I’m not sure that this laid-back attitude to life didn’t annoy Lancelot and Guinevere more.  No matter what bad language or physical insults they threw at Tristan, he’d just move a little further away, out of striking range, and settle down for his nap, whether on my lap, in front of the heater or in the bathroom on the beds there at night.

After Lancelot and Guinevere were no longer with us, Tristan settled down to enjoy life without cross cats in his life.  He didn’t have long to enjoy the single life before Ambrosia and Nefertiti arrived.  Unlike his two predecessors, Tristan welcomed the two new kittens with open paws and not a claw in sight.  All three cats settled into a warm friendship where there were no fights about lap space, heater privileges or room on the bed.  Strangely, sunny spots on the carpet did cause harsh words from time to time, but I’d just open the curtains further and increase the sunny spot size on the carpet and peace would reign again.

At first Tristan didn’t seem to fit into the Spring Rock menagerie.  He was a totally sane cat.  This was unheard of in the annals of my menagerie.  I mentioned my concerns to Graeme, rather in the manner of expecting trouble to rear its head any time now.  I needn’t have worried; it didn’t take long for the general lunacy among the four-legged Spring Rock population to rub off on him.  After a while, Tristan developed his own little idiosyncrasies.  When he felt unloved or unappreciated, Tristan took to putting his face against the wall and not talking to any of us.  He began channelling Meerkats, sitting upright on his bottom and hind legs for extra height, despite being on the floor so not gaining any advantage with this extra height, and, he began bunny worrying.  

In his younger days, before retirement and a sedentary life inside, Tristan preferred the wide outdoors most of the time.  When hanging around the house yard and house, whichever side of the door Tristan found himself was the wrong side of the door.  The time I spent opening the back door to either let him in or out doesn’t bare thinking about.  

When outside and wanting to come in, Tristan would sit outside the lounge room window and emit little plaintive meows.  It seemed only I could hear these pleas to be let inside.  Graeme remain blissfully impervious to them.  Once inside he’d visit the food bowl and catch up with Ambrosia and Nefertiti for any new gossip (before these two friendly cats’ arrival he ignored Guinevere and Lancelot because all he would have received for his trouble would be a growl or swat), visit the food bowl again and soon begin to think of all the farm he hadn’t yet explored.  His strategy for letting me know his visit has come to an end was to jump on me if I was 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 was no lightweight cat.  When you'd been jumped on by Tristan you were left in no doubt that you'd been jumped on.  His landings were often accompanied by an "Ooof!" from me as his paws hit my stomach (I tend to lay back slightly on the lounge with my feet up you see).  If I was standing up he wound his way around my legs, doing his best to trip me up (so he could jump on me I imagine).  He then headed door-wards while throwing me that significant look once again and returned to wind himself around me again if I still hadn’t figured his message out.

Tristan would disappear for days on end – on two separate occasions he was gone for over two weeks!  When he returned his ears would be covered in rabbit fleas.  We believed the only way he could acquire such a large number of fleas - his ears would be black with them - was to actually go down the rabbit holes in search of bunnies.  Rabbit fleas behave more like ticks than fleas.  They burrowed into Tristan’s ears and stayed put.  We haven’t had a flea on any of our pets since we moved to Spring Rock which is wonderful, and the only fleas we had to deal with stayed in the one spot on Tristan making de-fleaing a very easy process - Graeme and I simply used tweezers to de-flea Tristan on his return home.  If Tristan came home without us noticing the fleas, he would make sure to sit on my lap, give me a significant look and rub his ears on my shirt.  I soon got the message and Tristan was soon flea free again.

As he grew older, Tristan became more and more a homebody, choosing the inside option more and more until eventually he didn’t go outside at all.  When he first settled into old age Tristan would stand at the front door until I opened it so he could go outside and sit on either the front steps or just meander onto the front porch.  That was enough outside for him for a couple of years.  Then when he reached 18 he would ask for the front door to be opened, look out onto the porch and garden, ignoring the door I’d opened for him, then walk back to his comfortable bed, secure in the knowledge that should he ever wish to go on adventures the outside was still there waiting for him.  Eventually even checking the door still led to outside stopped and Tristan reached full retirement.

At 18 Tristan started having infrequent, but terrifying seizures.  His visit to the vets during the pandemic, along with Cleo and Aslan who also needed vet treatment, was not his idea of how an elderly gentleman should be treated.  Dreadful threats and bad language emanated from the cat carrier - even Cleo and Aslan looked concerned at the threats.  Once at the vets’ (we had two vets treating the three pets) Tristan quietened down and bided his time while the larger patients were seen to.  When Tristan’s turn came, I warned Jen, the vet, that he was in a bad mood and now felt that one of the privileges of old age was to be irascible and say it with tooth and claw when really ticked off.  Jen approached the cat carrier with caution, saying that most elderly gentlemen could be problems. 

Tristan decided to hold no grudges against Jen.  It wasn’t her fault he had been treated so abominably in the last hour or so, and he gave her is best purr while rubbing his face along her hand.  Jen was a devoted fan from that moment.  She complimented me on his excellent condition, despite his age.  I told her I hadn’t done much to contribute towards that condition - I’d bought him a heating pad for cold winter weather and called out to Tristan each time I encountered a very elderly cat on the internet, telling him the cat’s age and letting Tristan know this was the new number we were aiming for.  After a number of tests Jen told me, the seizures were not a big problem as long as they remained spaced about a month or more apart.  Should they get closer together we would have to review Tristan’s quality of life and make hard decisions.  Thankfully, they never occurred closer than a month apart, so Tristan and I just dealt with them as they occurred.  He was always able to recover relatively quickly - I think he was over the seizure before I was.

He enjoyed a “mushed” egg each day when eggs were plentiful or a small helping of butter off the end of my knife as I made my lunch when they weren’t.  Tristan began having a mushed egg because he refused to eat the egg white, gobbling up the yolk and ignoring the rest of his egg.  I whisked it to combine the two and Tristan polished off the lot, so that became his treat.  One time I had put the egg in his bowl when the phone rang.  I answered the phone and then wandered away, forgetting about the unmushed egg.  Tristan was appalled!  He sat there waiting for me to return to my duties, and when I failed to show up, half an hour later, he came and got me, letting me know I needed to return to the kitchen.  As I followed him, his tail straight up in the air to express his disappointment in me, Tristan muttered about how hard it was to get good help these days.  He then sat next to his bowl and looked at me, then the egg, then me again.  I got the message, mushed the egg and all was forgiven.

Tristan had me well trained in the delivering of mushed eggs and in many other ways.  When resting on my lap, if Tristan decided I was non-gainfully occupied with my needlework or reading, he would reach out a paw, hook it around my wrist (no claws involved thankfully) and bring my hand over to the spot that needed patting or scratching.  Once I was gainfully employed, he'd close his eyes and enjoy the attention.  Should I stop patting or scratching him and return to my earlier occupation, Tristan would simply repeat the process that led to his comfort and hook my wrist again and pull it towards him.  There was really no point in trying to sew or read when Tristan wanted attention, so attention Tristan got.

In the end, Tristan lived to two months short of his 21^st birthday.  Tristan had lived with me longer than any of my children had, a fact I pointed out to them often.  Although he began to look like a very elderly cat towards the end, with that scruffy coat older cats usually have, he remained spry enough.  I bought a grooming glove to help with the scruffy look, but there was no denying my beautiful boy was a very old cat.  He had his daily arthritis medicine, which couldn’t have tasted too bad because Tristan would remind me if I forgot to administer it.  He’d stand by the kitchen cupboards near where I kept the medicine on the bench, look at me, and wait for me to catch his message. 

He died on his bed.  In the morning, we found him there in a bad way.  His back legs no longer worked and he’d become incontinent during the night.  He died before we could get him to the vets’ for which I was grateful.  A long car ride in the cat carrier when he was in such a bad way would have been so stressful for my gorgeous old gentleman.  I had time to say goodbye to him and thank him for almost 21 wonderful years of his company.  Sadly, I have no photos of Tristan’s last months to share.  I had a bad run in with technology around that time.  My computer was dead for over five weeks so I didn’t save my phone photos to the computer.  Then, before the computer was repaired, the SD card in my phone died, taking all my recent photos with it.  I have photos of Tristan from the day he arrived until a few months ago and I’ll always have my memories of a life shared with a wonderful red headed fellow.