A Silky In The Tractor

Before we came to “Spring Rock” Graeme had a little, ancient tractor that was sufficient to work our 25 acres, but of course we needed a much larger one for sowing crops. After spending a few weeks carefully choosing just the right tractor Graeme brought his prize possession home. It was huge!! I just know he felt quite chuffed riding around in his monster - very much the real farmer type. Shadow, the little Silky Terrier type, soon saw to that!

I worked full time back then, but arrived on the farm during the Christmas holidays so I was home for six weeks before going off to work. I was company for Shadow who loves to know where everyone is. Graeme too was around the house area a lot. Harvest was over and sowing had yet to begin.

Once I returned to work and Justin started high school, sowing started and the house yard became deserted during the day, Shadow began to feel lonely. If you met Shadow the last thing you’d think is that she’s a sociable little person. Generally she resents visitors and grumps for ages after one has the temerity to say hello to her, but she’s devoted to her family and likes to have them all around her, preferably rubbing her tummy while they’re there. She looked about for any available family member (we’d left Rebecca and Joshua living in Picton so she was permanently down two family members anyway) and came up empty handed. Shadow put her little doggy mind to the problem and came up with the perfect solution. She soon discovered that if she followed the sound of the tractor she'd find Graeme. Now while Graeme was the least satisfactory family member to find, a dog has to take whatever she can get when the entire family disappear on a daily basis.

Shadow was a slip of a girl back then and could both see and hear without difficulty, not to mention all her joints worked perfectly and she could run!! She'd make a beeline for the tractor and run around the paddock beside it, ears flapping in the breeze, tongue hanging out and sheer joy on the fluffy little face. The problem was that Shadow measures about 30cm at her highest point while the stubble measures about 60cm or more. To add to the confusion, Shadow and the stubble were roughly the same colour. Graeme, way up there in the tractor had problems.

Identifying a small Silky type in the long stubble, not running over her and continuing to sow in straight lines didn’t seem to be mutually possible. At first he’d stop the tractor, get out and tell Shadow to go home. Shadow would look embarrassed to be caught out, lower her head and head home. Graeme, feeling that was easy, climbed back into the tractor and resumed sowing only to notice the stubble moving in an odd way beside the tractor once more. After a few more attempts to be stern and send her home, he realised that the only way to prevent Shadow becoming natural fertiliser, and really getting into my bad books, was to pick her up, put her in the tractor and keep working. Shadow was in seventh heaven. Her life’s ambition was to be a farm dog. Graeme doesn’t own a ute and isn’t the sort of farmer who would take a Kelpie in the back anyway – Silky types were totally out of the question – so her farm dog activities were limited to sitting on the front seat of my Saab when I went up to the village for farm supplies.

The first time I did this, the postman looked out the post office door, saw Shadow sitting up on the seat trying to look like a Kelpie on official farm business and asked what the hell that was? I told him it was our farm dog. Bad move. I then had to stand there and listen to a lengthy lecture on why a little Silky type couldn’t possibly be used as a farm dog. Thankfully the car window was closed so Shadow didn’t hear all the insulting things said about her size and general fluffiness. No amount of telling him I was joking worked. We were new to the area and considered most likely city slickers come to play at farming, and needed educating in the kindest possible way. Shadow and I returned home and I assured her that she could be a farm dog if she wanted. After all she was a dog and this was a farm wasn’t it?

I didn't realise that Shadow had taken the farm dog thing into her own hands, or rather, paws every day of the week; taking weekends off to keep me company, until I came home one afternoon and Shadow was missing. After searching everywhere and fearing the worst for a little fluffy dog, I tracked Graeme down to find out if he knew anything about her disappearance only to see her sitting up on the floor of the tractor, looking out the huge windscreen as it circumnavigated the paddock. She had a look of pure bliss on her face. Unlike Graeme who, whenever he glanced down at her, had a totally different expression on his.

Ever the supportive wife, after picking myself up and trying to control my laughter, I told Graeme that he was lucky that no local farmer had visited yet. I informed him that if one of the locals came along and found Graeme working in the tractor with a fluffy little Silky Terrier Type at his feet he'd lose all credibility as a farmer before he had a chance to gain any. Shadow nodded her head wisely and continued to help sow the crops. Once harvest started she had an even better view in the header! Talk about city slickers playing farmers!!!

I think Graeme was secretly a bit relieved when I was medically retired and Shadow voluntarily retired from her tractor and header duties. Graeme’s little secret was never found out by the locals and I've kept mum about it until now. So you didn't hear it from me - right?

St Bernard Meets Ferrets

It took Billy three days to meet Theodore, Miette and Albus. Don’t get me wrong, Billy was extremely busy during those first few days, but with my house yard it was a case of too much to be chewed, too little time to chew it all - as far as an overly zealous St. Bernard was concerned. So, in those early days, Billy was otherwise occupied. The ferrets saw Billy as soon as he jumped out of the back of the car on the day he came home. They stopped what they were doing, stood up on their little back legs to get a better view, looked at each other in disbelief, formed a huddle and came up with a united plan to keep this huge brown intruder in his place. And believe me you haven’t been put in your place until three tiny little ferrets make you feel that, despite your size, you just aren’t important in their scheme of things.

It seems to me that our pets have ranged themselves in two camps – Apollo and the ferrets believe in keeping Billy at the bottom of the pecking order, and rubbing his face in it by never missing a chance to let him know just how insignificant he is, despite his size. Shadow, the cats and all breeds of birds, on the other hand, just wish he’d go away and inflict himself on someone else - preferably in some other country. As I mentioned before, Billy had spent those first days being quite busy making friends and chewing anything that stood still long enough. He managed to explore nearly every nook and cranny of our very large house yard. His day was made when he found a couple of holes in the fence and he rushed up to give Graeme the good news. Graeme was working in the shed, thinking of nothing but getting the tractor ready to sow the crops when Billy sidled up from behind and offered to help. Graeme, after climbing down from the shed ceiling, brought Billy back to the house yard, lecturing him on social etiquette and the bad manners of sneaking up on unsuspecting farmers and then barking loudly from behind, especially with the improved acoustics in the shed. I’m pretty sure he mentioned Emily Post’s undoubted disapproval of such behaviour. Graeme then returned to the tractor and ... yep, Billy almost beat him back to the shed. Graeme put tractor maintenance on hold and found where Billy was getting out. Billy helped Graeme locate his doggy exit points by getting out via one of these holes as soon as he was returned to the yard yet again. Graeme fixed the hole and returned to the tractor without further incident or St. Bernard offers of help.

Billy spent most of his days loitering around our back door either looking in with a longing expression on his face with large strings of doggy drool hanging from either side of his jowls (even in my St. Bernard loving heart I know it’s not a good look), or trying to manoeuvre me out of the way in an effort to barge through the door ahead of me to reach what he imagined to be St Bernard paradise - the kitchen. The score so far is me 2 - Billy all the rest. I get the 2 because on two occasions I managed to sneak inside while Billy was occupied with Shadow’s head in his mouth. I know, I know – I don’t deny that I sacrificed the little Silky type’s dignity to save my own, but someone’s dignity had to be sacrificed and I’m bigger than Shadow!

After Billy had settled in and felt comfortable with the rest of the now decidedly soggy menagerie, he decided to explore further a-field. He needed to find another past time now that the ducks and rooster were ensconced behind wire and poking their tongues out every time Billy went up there to invite them out to play.

The answer to Billy’s prayers occurred while I was feeding the menagerie. Billy had managed to scoff his entire dinner before Apollo could throw Billy's dish off the porch, so he had some spare time on his paws. He followed me on the rest of my feeding rounds. “Hmmm,” he thought. “Ducks and rooster - definitely not coming out to play.” There was no fun in feeding chooks, they lived behind wire as well, and when Billy was around they were behind the tree in their yard for good measure! Now that’s a sight worth seeing – 6 fat, black chooks and 1 large, red rooster all jostling for the best hiding position behind one pine tree. While it definitely caught Billy’s attention and amused me for a while, it still wasn’t getting Billy a playmate.

Then he saw them! What they were he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Billy had never come across something this small! Or that fast! Still, they certainly looked like they were going to be fun. Remembering Graeme’s etiquette lessons, Billy began by politely introducing himself. He crouched, the front half of his body down low with his front legs straight out in front, so he was ready to spring should the need arise. His head was lower than the bottom of the ferret cage giving him a good look at their soft underbellies. The ferret cage is a large wire rectangular box on four long, wooden legs raising it off the ground by about 1 metre. It also has a raised box off the side at the front end providing them with a private bedroom. With his head down low as described, and his bottom end furiously wagging tail up in the air, Billy gave a very loud "hello" bark and waited for the reaction. Only problem was, there wasn’t a reaction. He stared at the ferrets in disbelief. This was the modus operandi that so satisfyingly sent the cats in all directions with their tails the size of bottle brushes. This was the technique that Shadow was well used to by now, and sent her grumbling off to dark corners.

Billy realised that a more direct approach was called for with these fearless creatures so he stuck his face up close to their wire door so they could better appreciate his size, and sniffed the occupants from the opposite side of the wire. Albus gave a huge yawn right in Billy’s face to register his boredom with the whole business, but other than that The Gang of Three were much more interested in getting their dinner and regular meal time cuddle with me. All three ferrets came out of their cage, studiously ignoring this huge, furry object trying to bounce up to their height on my shoulder. They had their regular afternoon cuddle and chat, mooched around the top of the cage for a while as usual, and then let me know they were ready to go back in and have their dinner.

Now Billy might be a dog of peace, but he’s not a dog to be ignored by three tiny little squirts who should have at least given a gasp of surprise when he bounced up to their eye level. He bounded around the outside of the cage, trying to get a better look at these little fur balls. Theodore, Miette and Albus continued scooping up their daily meat rations without even looking up to see what Billy was up to. Despite Billy's best efforts the ferrets continued to eat their dinner and chat quietly amongst them selves. You could almost hear Theodore asking for someone to pass the salt please. Billy couldn’t believe it. They were so unconcerned that once they finished dinner, they slowly climbed the ramp and retired to their bed room for a well earned nap.

You can imagine how frustrating this was for Billy. Here he was, face to face with the three tiniest creatures he’d ever encountered and, by the look of them they could supply hours of fun and frolic, but they wouldn’t come out to play! Here finally, was something new, interesting and potentially the most fun his new home had to offer and they didn’t even appear to notice that he was there. This situation needed rethinking.
So Billy retired to the back porch, placed himself equidistant between the ferret cage and the kitchen door and tried to keep an eye on me in the kitchen and the ferrets in their cage. He looked like he was watching a ping pong match – his head going quickly back and forth to keep everyone in his site. Meanwhile the ferrets went about their normal business of sleeping, playing and eating, as well as their new and favourite pastime – ignoring Billy.

Billy tried regular noisy, forays to the ferret cage throughout the day with no better success. The next afternoon, Billy had a plan: gobble down dinner before Apollo did his dish removing trick, plant himself right near the ferret cage door, before I could get down there to give the ferrets Dutch courage, and bark until he was blue in the face. The ferrets were totally unimpressed. They countered this move by first giving him the old triple ferret stare and then single file, but very slowly to demonstrate their total lack of fear, walking up their ramp and into their bedroom.

After all the members of the menagerie were fed I went back into the house and for once Billy didn’t follow to try and push his way before me. He stayed right where he was, nose pressed against the ferret cage, offering all sorts of encouragement at the top of his voice for the ferrets to come out and play. Surely they weren’t going to stay in that little room all night? As it turned out they were.

After a day or so of this treatment, when Billy’s decibel rating was too much for all in the house yard to deal with, Theodore Miette and Albus finally took some action. They came out of their bedroom, stood along the front of the cage, shoulder to shoulder (with tiny little Miette in the middle), their little mouths wide open displaying rows of very sharp teeth and dared Billy to come inside the cage and say that. Now you can see their sneaky little plan here can’t you? There was no way Billy would ever be able to fit one foot, let alone his whole body in through the door, so Billy wasn’t able to accept their challenge. After what seemed like years he ceased barking at them and wandered away to find more entertaining pursuits. All three ferrets sneered at him, making comments along the lines of “all talk and no action” and calling out to Russell Crow to supply a white feather for the coward, turned their backs on him and got on with their ferrety business. I could almost swear that Theodore lifted a paw in the air and chalked up one for the ferrets and a zero for Billy.

And, I can’t prove it, but I’m sure I heard Shadow and Apollo cheering in the background.

From now on I will only post a story once or twice a week so that I don't overwhelm you all with the goings on here at Spring Rock.

Billy Settles In

This was written in 2003 shortly after Billy arrived.

As I said in a previous post, Billy was the ideal travelling companion when we picked him up from his previous owner (ideal if you can ignore he drool and I can when I'm in the front seat and he's way over in the luggage area). Arriving home and settling in was another matter for Billy. He was more than happy to be adopted by us and was determined to be part of the family from the beginning.

Apollo and Shadow on the other hand, were sure no-one had put in an order for a grossly over sized pup. Apollo told Billy a few facts of life, none of them complimentary to St. Bernards in general and Billy in particular. Billy, being a dog of peace, stepped back and left Apollo to his bad humoured thoughts, turning his attention on the other canine inhabitant on the porch. Shadow, our Silky Terrier type, who spends most of her spare time bullying all the larger dogs on the property, took one look at this massive newcomer and realised that she’d met her match. She quietly snuck into the laundry and turned her face to the wall, refusing to acknowledge Billy’s presence. Maybe, just maybe, if she ignored that great hulking dog, he’d take the hint and go away.

Billy, in the meantime, was anxious to explore his new surroundings. He set off on his first survey of his new home and liked what he saw. He returned to the back door happy with his new home but carefully avoiding Apollo’s eyes and curled lip, and Shadow’s disapproving back. He then settled in to waylaying any member of his new family who came out the back door, requesting pats or tummy rubs or any other demonstration of affection they might like to bestow upon his person. If you’ve never seen a St. Bernard rolling around on his back, four legs in the air, head rolling from side to side with his huge tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, and displaying a large amount of stomach ready to be patted, you have missed out on one of nature’s funnier shows.

Mum-Puss, Lancelot and Guinevere our cats, who appeared to Billy as grey and black blurs when they shot through the back door on his arrival, opted to spend the night inside rather than answer calls of nature and head off on their night time rambles with this brown giant as a companion. They stoically settled in for the night, crossed their legs and tried not to think about running water or garden beds just ripe for fertilising.

Unfortunately, Billy’s first reaction to everything he met, both animate and inanimate, was to ask himself the question, “Is it edible?” At 6 o’clock on the first morning after Billy’s arrival we awoke to loud quackings and the fluttering of wings. Graeme (who was getting up anyway so he can’t tell me the damn dog was the cause of his waking early), went outside to find Billy standing there with a very disgruntled TOD (stands for That Other Duck) in his mouth. Billy stood there trying hard to smile at Graeme bits of duck hanging out either side of his huge mouth, while TOD voiced his opinions on people who let duck eating dogs roam at large during the night. Graeme, who long ago earned my undying respect for the way he can think quickly in the mornings, persuaded Billy to drop his feathery bundle and leave the scene of the crime. TOD was basically unhurt, with the exception of his dignity, and limped pathetically whenever we went to check on him for the rest of the day. By this time I had got out of bed too, and Graeme and I sectioned off a small yard for TD (That Duck), TOD and Russell Crow, our spare rooster who had the run of the back yard up until now. All was peaceful in our little domain until...

We returned to the house via the back porch. A scene of devastation and destruction lay before our bleary, sleep deprived eyes! It appeared that Billy had been busy exploring his new home while we slept and had spent his time testing any object he encountered for taste and texture. The first morning’s casualty list included a diverse range of objects. The body count included: Justin’s old thongs (well Goths don’t wear thongs so no real loss there); various plastic feed dishes which had taken on the appearance of colanders; the back door mat now shedding coir like a Persian cat who knows summer is just around the corner; and a bucket which was now no more than a large number of chewed bits of blue plastic with a handle. I gave the bucket the last rites with Billy watching on with interest and offering to help by further reducing its size. I hid the bucket from Graeme’s sight and tried to convince Billy that all these things were useful, so we therefore wanted them to remain in one, un-chewed if possible, piece. Billy pointed out that they weren’t very tasty or soft on the gums and therefore, in his opinion, they weren’t useful at all and consequently no great loss. I’m still working on this minor problem of Billy’s inability to recognise any other criteria for an item’s usefulness apart from its edibleness rather than useful-to-the-familyness.

The rest of the day passed with very little excitement. I breathed a sigh of relief when Apollo declared an armed truce and agreed to share the back porch with the interloper. Apollo soon took to employing guerrilla tactics and managed to put Billy in his place by the simple expedient of picking up Billy’s feed dish from under his nose, preferably while he was actually eating out of it, and dropping it on the grass off the back porch. Billy good naturedly sat and waited for one of his humans to retrieve it and then stand guard while he finished his dinner. He discovered that there’s no use in going down to get it himself because Apollo would just remove it again. I’m pretty sure that Apollo was working on the premise that if he restricted Billy’s calorie intake Billy just might shrink to a more reasonable size, or better still, leave home in search of a feed bowl that stayed put.

The next morning (Day 2 of Life With Billy and his new found freedom) we were woken by the sounds of a rooster in distress. Billy was obviously an early riser. It appeared that Russell Crow (not knowing what was good for himself) found a way out of the makeshift poultry safety house we’d built after TOD’s little adventure, and came across Billy in his hunt for breakfast. That’s Russell’s hunt for breakfast not Billy’s – then again … There was Russell, thinking of nothing other than finding a tasty worm or two, and maybe having some harmless fun scratching a plant out of its garden bed in the process, when the next thing he knew he was getting the worm’s perspective and found himself looking at the inside of a huge mouth. This view not being one of Russell’s preferred vistas; he immediately let out his distress call.

Graeme again rose from the bed quietly muttering unintelligible sounds (and I wasn’t about to ask for an English translation!), found Billy with Russell in his mouth and persuaded the exultant dog to drop the indignant rooster. Russell, like TOD before him, was unhurt. Billy had not chomped down on his feathery mouthful. We came to the conclusion that Billy just likes to carry soft things around in his mouth. Russell now limits his wandering to the poultry safety house and the area outside the house yard next to his new home.

Billy became addicted to plenty of attention in a very short space of time. He still works hard to keep me from going back inside whenever I come out to check that everyone still has the standard number of ears and paws. His technique for preventing me going inside is very effective. He stands in front of me at right angles to my body and then uses his back end to push and steer me into a corner. He then places his body across the corner and voila! one trapped Rosemary who should now have nothing better to do than pat Billy and tell him how gorgeous he is. No amount of pushing on my part can move him, so I’ve resorted to various sneaky tactics to get past. It has to be admitted that Billy’s no dummy, despite his goofy appearance, and any technique I develop lasts a very short time before he finds a way to get around it. Things have ended up so bad that I really need to take a packed lunch with me when I go outside now.
Shadow remained anti-Billy for a long time. Her negative attitude wasn’t helped by the fact that Billy looked on her more as an animated, fluffy toy than a dog to be taken seriously. This attitude deeply offended Shadow who spent most of every day sulking in the laundry. When she wasn’t hidden away sulking, Shadow reluctantly participated in her least favourite activity – sitting with her head in Billy’s mouth. Billy had taken the line that if he couldn’t have fluffy roosters and ducks to chew on he could always enjoy just sitting there with a fluffy little doggy head between his jaws. He didn’t bite down or give in to his baser instincts and chew, so he saw no reason for Shadow to complain about her part in his game. It must be admitted that he didn’t appreciate the sound effects coming from that furry little head, but he was prepared to be philosophical about this and take the good with the bad though. Looking at it from Shadow’s point of view, it was really aggravating to go from being top dog of the house yard to St. Bernard teething ring in the matter of one day. I’m also working on this minor problem.

Theodore, Miette and Albus on the other hand are not at all frightened of Billy, but that’s another story.

So the state of the nation is as follows: Billy’s very happy in his new home and working hard to redecorate the back porch and house-yard in his favourite decor - Modern Chewed. The cats have sought and been granted political asylum in the house, venturing out the front door at night and scuttling back inside as soon as possible. Apollo is brushing up his stealth tactics and keeping Billy in his place. Shadow spends her time either sulking in the laundry protecting her mat from all comers, or providing Billy with an ever ready small fluffy object for his mouth. The ferrets have barely changed their routine except for the occasional guard duty when challenged by Billy.
Graeme has actually come to like Billy and spends a few minutes each day bonding with him. Not as you might think, because Billy has cornered him too, but because Billy follows Graeme to the gate on his way to the tractor. During this short walk he listens carefully to all that Graeme has to say to him, quietly agreeing with all that’s said on the subject of large, roguish dogs and the chaos they create. At the end of Graeme’s lecture Billy always promises to mend his boisterous ways. The fact that he instantly forgets his good intentions once Graeme is out of sight, and the ferret cage is before him, hasn’t as yet caused a breach in the burgeoning friendship.
I am, of course, thrilled to have my very own St. Bernard and spend my days retrieving Shadow from her soggy fate, reassuring Apollo that he’s still truly loved, trying to keep my dignity in tact while being held prisoner by a benign giant, providing the cats with a safe escort to the house, feeding the menagerie and retrieving Billy’s food dish.

Keeps me busy I can tell you!

Bob Finds True Love

Once again a photo from Wikipedia. Actually they are called Frizzle hens, but she'll always be Frilly to me.

A while before moving to the Riverina Rebecca and I attended a local auction in search of plants. Typically for us we not only came home with a carload of plants, but three bantam frilly chickens. Now, when I say bantam, I mean bantam. These little hens never attained 15cm in height - the bantam Chinese Silkies towered over them! I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Frilly breed of chooks; they come in both standard and bantam sizes and are the shape and colours of a normal leghorn or Rhode Island Red chook. The only difference is that the Frilly’s feathers appear to have been stuck on the wrong way. Frilly feathers face forward instead of backwards giving the chooks the appearance of having been standing with their backs to an on-coming wind. Anyway, the Frillies were duly installed in the chook pen and managed to shake down happily with the other inhabitants. Life went on as normal (well, as normal as life had ever been on our farm).

After the move to the Riverina, all hens and Harley, our red rooster, were installed in the new spacious accommodation of the chook pen Graeme and the kids had built and once again all seemed to be going along smoothly. By this time my original standard sized hens had either died of old age, or gone through menopause, because egg production had ceased, with the exception of the occasional tiny Frilly or Silky egg. I bought eight new attractive, brown hens, guaranteed to lift my egg production and the aesthetic qualities of the chook pen (the old girls were well past their best looks). I also bought a new rooster because Harley had seen better days as well. I reasoned that Harley could move out into the house yard with Bob, our duck, and the two bachelors could live happily together. By this time the last surviving old Frilly was going broody with alarming regularity, so I decided to let her raise this clutch of eggs and achieve completion through motherhood. Bob was thrilled with the new brown additions to his harem,even if he couldn’t get to them. (You might remember Bob from a previous post - he had an identity crisis and thought he was a rooster.) He welcomed Harley to his side of the wire with a friendly nod and a quack. The two of them quickly became good friends.

Unfortunately, the new girls proved to be bullies. As soon as they moved in they set about revising the chook pen’s pecking order with them on top and the old ladies coming way down the list. Frilly caused social problems in many ways, not the least in her broody state, refusing to move at the new girls’ insistence. I came out to the chook pen one morning to find the poor little Frilly sadly lacking in feathers. The brown bullies had spent the night pecking out her feathers in an attempt to get her off her nest. The only thing that could be done about her in the new regime’s opinion was to eradicate her, one feather at a time. You see it all the time after successful political coupes. The incoming insurrectionist does away with the troublesome old order in an effort to gain supreme command over the population. What the chook pen had that these tumultuous nations don’t, is me. I wouldn’t tolerate the new girls’ stand-over tactics, nor their continuous attacks on the poor little Frilly. I duly gave her and her eggs political asylum near the back of the house in a specially made shade cloth, chook wire and star stakes safe house, complete with extra weather protection made necessary by her semi-nude state. Frilly settled in quite happily and returned to the serious business of incubating those eggs.

Then it happened. Bob was strolling around the yard one day, having a chat with Harley, when he stopped short in mid quack. He couldn’t believe his little ducky eyes. There, with only a little bit of shade cloth between them, was the prettiest hen he’d ever seen attractively nestled in her little corner with a vague, far away look in her eyes (Frilly’s normal broody look). Her unattractive, semi-nude state didn’t daunt Bob. He had fallen in love at first sight and remained unaware of her physical short comings. Bob quickly waddled over to her and dusted off all his old lines – “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”, “What’s a nice hen like you doing in a place like this?”, and his last and most effective, “Let me take you away from all of this.”

While Frilly had no intentions of being taken anywhere her eggs weren’t, she didn’t run away from Bob’s romantic overtures either, so Bob was convinced that he’d found true love at last. He bid a hasty farewell to Harley – how could his bachelor friendship matter when this little beauty was sitting there waiting for him? - and settled down to taking care of the little woman. Bob’s attentions were basically ignored by Frilly; she had a job to do and no amount of interruption from this overgrown and sadly deformed rooster was going to sway her from her mission in life.

Bob, realising that her babies would always come first, decided the way to win her heart was to show some interest in her confinement and to find little ways of making her wait more comfortable. He sat just outside her little shade cloth and chook wire covered maternity ward and plucked the down out of his chest which he then presented to Frilly as a love token with a gentle little quack of admiration. Frilly looked coldly at each feather and shuffled around on her nest, leaving Bob’s love tribute lying there on the ground. Bob obviously believed he just hadn’t found the right feather to temp her yet, because he spent most of his days scrabbling around amongst the feathers on his chest and surfacing every now and then with the best bit of down he could find, all to no avail. Frilly refused to consider any and all of these hard bought offerings.

Eventually Bob’s patience was rewarded, the eggs hatched and Frilly remained in her private accommodation until the chicks were big enough to go out into the world with her. I let them out of their safe house with a great deal of trepidation. Bob’s previous reputation with hens a lot larger than Frilly caused me to expect the worst. I really had no option, the little family couldn’t live permanently in that cramped accommodation and they couldn’t go back to the new regime in the chook pen. Thankfully, Bob proved that he was a reformed character. He followed Frilly and her brood at a respectful distance and didn’t try to force his attentions onto her even once. This happy state of affairs continued until the chicks were big enough to introduce to the chook pen. My garden is incapable of supporting a love struck duck, a rooster, a frilly hen and her eight scratching chickens, all looking for tasty morsels among the plants. Repatriation to the chook pen seemed to be the only move possible. By now the new brown hens had fought all their battles and ensconced themselves at the top of the hen hierarchy, so I was hopeful they’d ignore Frilly and her babies (all of whom where beginning to tower over their mother and take after their dad, Harley). The family were moved into the chook pen and, heaven be praised! settled in without even one skirmish.

The only casualty of the move was Bob. He no longer had Frilly to follow around, whispering his undying affection for her as he went. He had to content himself once more to spending his days sitting on the wrong side of the chook wire and trying, usually unsuccessfully, to entice Frilly over to his neck of the woods for a little tête-à-tête.

Miette Is Going To Live!

Just when I though everything was settling down around here after what has become known as the “Ferret Incident In The Sewing Room”, Miette decided to liven things up. For the past few days she's been coughing delicately (a la Violetta Valéry, in the famous opera La Traviata) and looking interestingly pale – a difficult thing for a chocolate coloured ferret to do. I’ve kept an eye on her, suspecting hypochondria, but being prepared to give aid and sustenance should the need arrive. Yesterday I attempted to combine quilting and ferrets again ("What!" I hear you say, "have you gone totally mad?"). Ahh! but I took precautions this time. I plugged up the gaps between the wall and the back of the cupboard, so yesterday, my quilting/ferret adventure was rather uneventful. Until ... Miette went on the missing list.

If you remember, Miette is a tiny female ferret (Miette means "small, sweet thing” ...sweet? hmmm?), and has much in common with that other height challenged individual, Napoleon Bonaparte, in that she has a quarrelsome outlook on life and is determined to be the boss of everyone. While she was at the Ferret Welfare Society’s Safety House, she managed to become the Alpha ferret simply by grabbing every ferret in sight by the back of the neck, regardless of their sex, size or attitude to her world domination aspirations, and squealing her lungs out. While Napoleon used more subtle tactics in his quest for supremeness like shooting the enemy, Miette’s technique has proved to be a very effective means of gaining dominance over ferrets. So much so that I intend to use exactly the same technique at the earliest opportunity to bring the ferrets into line. I might even try it on Graeme to see if it works on other species - I'll let you know. Hey, it’s got to be preferable to Napoleon’s methods of getting his own way.

Albus too had a very effective strategy to avoid unpleasant ferret incidents (and one I'm definitely going to use regularly!). I can see him now - Miette (known during her time with the N.S.W.F.W.S. as Twinkle - yuck!!) wanders over to Albus (at that time going under the name of Umina), trying to look innocent and not at all interested in dominating him. Suddenly Miette/Twinkle makes her move! She goes for Albus/Umina's neck! And that's when Albus shows his true colours – he rolls on his back (bad luck if Miette is still attached) and goes to sleep. If she was now under him, and she usually was, Miette had to squeeze out as best she could while trying to preserve her dignity and status among the other ferrets. Apparently Miette respects other ferrets who won't take any guff from her and she and Albus became good friends. I'm told all the other ferrets kept a respectful distance.

Her best friend though is Theodore. When she tried her Alpha ferret strategies on him at their first meeting, Theodore was extremely confused. His deceased mate, Isabella had never demonstrated these strange behaviours and until now, Isabella was the only other ferret Theodore had ever known. So poor Theodore spent the first 24 hours either being rescued by me from Miette's clutches or hiding where she couldn't find him (a much less effective strategy). Albus was just pleased that Miette had turned her bullying attention to another poor unsuspecting ferret and kept a low profile - literally. When ever they were inside and she was gunning for Theodore, Albus dropped to the floor and crept around on his belly until the trouble had blown over and he could finally come out and play.

During the second day of the Miette/Theodore siege, Theodore had had enough. He was the oldest ferret by a long way and this member of the new, impudent generation was going to find out what the older generation was made of! Miette approached, full of confidence with fangs specially sharpened and with Theodore's name on every one of them. Theodore stood his ground. Miette went in for the kill and that's when she met her Waterloo and Theodore became her hero. With Miette firmly attached to his throat, Theodore quickly did a sort of double flip somersault with a half pike thingy thrown in for good measure, twisting and turning until Miette was detached. He then sunk his little teeth into her neck, lifted her off the ground, gave her a shake for good measure, dropped her and walked away.

I’d been watching all this, and didn't know what to do for the best. My sympathies lay totally with Theodore, but Miette is such a little thing I was worried for her too. After the Final Battle, as I now like to call it, Miette limped over to me with a very hurt look on her face. Another ferret had actually fought back! That just didn't happen in Miette's world. She sat on my lap for a long while thinking things over and seeing a less appealing, new world dawning. Finally, with a true female sense of fairness, she admitted that she probably had that coming to her and went off to find Theodore. I held my breath (no, not because of the ferret smell - I'm used to that by now) and watched carefully in case someone needed saving. Miette held out the olive branch in the form of a ferret kiss, Theodore said, "No hard feelings," and they have been the best of friends ever since, often sharing a ferret sleeping bag in their cage.

Now I know I’ve rather wandered off the subject of Miette's delicate state of health, but I thought you might enjoy those little snippets of The Gang of Three’s early days. Anyway, back to the subject under discussion. As I was saying, I’ve been keeping an eye on Miette’s health for a while now and when I finally found her yesterday afternoon she was sitting quietly in the lounge room, obviously contemplating her future and not thinking there would be very much of it. She had developed a sneeze that had to be seen and heard to be believed! With each sneeze her entire little body become airborne. Her little head ricocheted right and left, she'd take a sustaining breath, and sneeze all over again. I ran around after her, with the tissues (don't worry I won't go into those gory details) and generally behaved like an over protective mother with one very frail child.

Miette soon realised that her 15 minutes of fame had arrived and she was going to milk it for all it was worth. She lay down on the floor and began planning her funeral, requesting that donations be sent to the N.S.W.F.W.S. in lieu of flowers and mourners should line the street for her funeral cortège. I too was starting to think her end was nigh (I was planning a much less grandiose funeral - a shoe box buried in the back yard if the truth be told) and waffled between putting her out in her cage with the boys and hoping that nature would take its course and she'd get better - to keeping her in a little ferret papoose-type bag (I don't actually have one - but I can sew remember) near my heart. I too can be a drama queen when the situation calls for it.

I finally compromised by bringing the indoor ferret cage into the kitchen and installing Miette and the boys for the night. Now I may have mentioned this before, but there was something sadly lacking in Graeme’s upbringing because he doesn’t like ferrets. I’ve come to accept this defect in his character and love him anyway. We compromise by the ferrets only being inside when Graeme is outside. Bringing them in last night constituted a break down of the original agreement and a re-negotiation of the Ferret Treaty was called for. I'm pleased to announce that we quickly (if not quietly) achieved a peace settlement. The amended clause now reads: “The ferrets may be inside at the same time as Graeme as long as said ferrets are securely contained in the indoor cage. At no time can said ferrets be released from said cage. If Graeme has just ducked outside for something and has given prior notice that he will be returning quickly, the ferrets must remain in their indoor cage regardless of the time it takes Graeme to return to the house.” Imagine what I could achieve for peace on the world stage!

So, the state of the nation was: one very sick little ferret; two very healthy ferrets trying to convince her that the world hadn’t come to an end and it was time to play; one totally disinterested husband and me all of a twitter and expecting every breath to be Miette’s last. I finally climbed into bed sometime after midnight after hovering around the cage trying to get a peek at Miette to make sure that life still flickered in that little body. Miette frustrated my attempts to reassure myself that life still persisted by climbing in between the towels on the bottom of the cage and sleeping out of sight, leaving me to try and determine whether the bump under the towel was still rising and falling with each breath. I went to bed fearing what I’d find in the morning. I woke up the next morning to sounds of Graeme walking around the kitchen. I couldn't hear any happy dances or muffled cheering so I assumed that Miette had survived the night. When I got up I found that not only had she survived the night, she had made a miraculous recovery! There she was running around the cage with the boys, giving as good as she got in the ferret games and stopping occasionally to ask Graeme if he wanted his toes nipped when ever he passed close to her cage (Graeme's toes are the only ones my ferrets nip - I think they know a non-ferret lover when they see one).

To cut a long story short (I know it's too late for that now - but work with me here), I took Miette to the vet's where she assumed a look of total good health and bewilderment as to why she was even there. After my running the gamut of interested pet owners wanting to know all about ferrets and Miette doing her best for Ferret Public Relations, I told the vet the sad tale of the previous day. Although Miette was doing her utmost to make me look a liar, the vet found that she did have a slight temperature (nothing like last night's raging temperature and burning nose!) and pronounced Miette the victim of a secondary bacterial infection brought about by her eating too quickly and having a piece of food go down her windpipe. Miette wants it stated for the record that the vet is confusing her with some other ferret. She, Miette, eats in a very ladylike way at all times and she must object to these slanderous stories being spread about her.

I now have to administer the tiniest amount of antibiotic you have ever seen (0.2 ml) twice a day. This will almost surely involve Graeme because I can't see how I can hold her, open her mouth and squirt half the contents of the smallest syringe you’ve ever seen (maximum capacity 1 ml) down her throat. Don't worry, I have a plan. I’ll hold the ferret, putting myself in jeopardy of connecting with her teeth, and Graeme can have the wussy job of squirting the medicine in the general direction of Miette's mouth. I have complete faith that this plan will work. Well, I'm confident that this should work … All right, then, I'm pretty sure it will work ... O.K., O.K. I hope it will work because I don't have another plan.

Wish me luck!

The Mulitple Deaths Of Harley

Joshua brought Harley and Davidson home after school with the sad tale that their owners had had enough of their crowing to greet the dawn. It was the same sad old story; their owners had bought them as cute little chickens with visions of free eggs, and hadn’t bargained on them turning into vociferous roosters. They were doomed to become dinner if we didn’t provide them refugee status. So of course the two roosters were welcomed with open arms and immediately ensconced in the chook yard. Harley was a beautiful Rhode Island Red rooster with iridescent green/black feathers in his tail and wings, while Davidson was a pure white Leghorn rooster. Together they provided the girls in the chook yard with plenty of romance. Strangely enough these two roosters remained firm friends even after they moved in with the girls.

We soon adjusted to the sounds of Harley and Davidson welcoming each new day and resignedly pulled our pillows over our ears at the first crow. The boys, as they became known, settled in happily to days of chatting up the girls, eating everything in sight and as stated above, heralding each new day at the top of their lungs, just in case we hadn’t noticed the dawn. Poor old Davidson died a few years later and Harley was left with just the hens for company. I can’t say that he was particularly sad about this change in his social life, even though he and Davidson had been best friends.

During our move from Camden to the Riverina all my pets were loaded into cars or on trailers according to species. Harley and the girls were accommodated in cages purpose built for transportation of poultry. Harley was given his own cage to ensure that he didn’t get any inconvenient romantic notions in transit. The poultry contingent was placed at the front of the trailer with a large piece of poly-tarp covering the front wire for protection from the wind. Behind them were our six angora goats, Penny, the goats’ Maremma guard dog and a couple of Suffolk sheep. In other words the trailer was as full as it could hold.

Before we began our four and a half hour I did a short reconnaissance of all livestock, both those loaded into trailers and ensconced in the backs of cars. All was well with the exception of Harley. There he lay on the bottom of his cage, looking flat and lifeless. I couldn’t believe it. We hadn’t even started the cars and we already had one casualty. I walked closer, wondering what we could do with the body seeing the trailer was chock-a-block full. Harley’s cage was inaccessible however you looked at it. Even if I could get him out, I didn’t think the new owners would be thrilled to find a discarded rooster’s body to greet their arrival at their new home. As I stood there pondering the best method of disposal, looking mournfully down at the sad little corpse, the corpse blinked.

Well, I don’t presume to imply that I know a great deal about roosters but one thing I do know is that they can’ t blink if they are dead. I moved closer to make sure that I had actually seen the blink and there it was again. Harley was definitely still with us. True, he looked like it wouldn’t be for much longer, but with us he was. I gave Harley some words of encouragement and reassurance, lying through my teeth that it would all soon be over and told him to buck up and concentrate on getting to his new home. I also gave him a drink of water, the primary school teacher’s general panacea for all ills. After a few minutes of listening to my pep talk, Harley must have decided that the only way to get rid of me was to stand up, look healthy and have a drink. With a satisfied nod that I’d completed a job well done, I turned my attention to the rest of the trailer’s inhabitants, ensured that all were comfortably settled and went back to loading our last few possessions in the car.

Then it was time to hit the road. We set off in convoy, Riverina bound, travelling in two cars towing trailers and a truck, driven by Graeme, holding all our larger worldly goods. We broke our trip at Yass to have a late afternoon tea and check on everyone’s comfort level both human and non-human.

Just as I headed off to make the tea Graeme called out, “I think this rooster’s dead.” Graeme has always had trouble remembering the pets’ names so his standard method of reporting on any of the livestock is to simply identify it by species and colour.

“He did that before we left,” I called back unconcerned and still walking in the direction of the thermos.

“He died before we left?” Graeme asked.

“No. He pretended to be dead before we left,” I answered.

“I think you’d better come and look then,” was Graeme’s reply.

I walked over to inspect Harley once more and there he was, lying in almost the same position as I’d found him before we set off, only this time he didn’t blink or even respond to a gentle poke with my finger. If anything he looked sadder and flatter than before.

“I think you’re right,” I said sadly, “There’s not much we can do about it now. We’ll have to wait until we’re at the farm to bury him.”

I continued over to the tea making supplies where the rest of the family had gathered, sadly making rooster funeral plans in my head as I walked. Once the tea was poured I took Graeme’s cup over to him where he was inspecting the rest of the livestock. “That rooster decided not to die after all,” he told me, and sure enough, there was Harley standing up, looking around with a “Where am I?” expression on his face.

There was no way I could keep an eye on Harley while we were driving along because the poly-tarp blocked my view. Also I was pretty busy keeping the livestock inside the car from breaking out of their various cages or Shadow, the Silky Terrier type climbing over to sit on my lap from the back seat. On arriving at the farm, yep you’ve guessed it -… Harley was once again on the bottom of the cage. This time he was lying on his back, all his feathers ruffled and pointing in all directions and his feet pointing skywards. No amount of gentle encouragement, poking his ribs or yelling at him got him to move. This time he was well and truly dead. We were totally exhausted after the long drive and moving all our chattels into the house so we decided to leave his mortal remains in the cage on the ground near the trailer until the morning, when I’d give him a decent burial.

Our plans had to change significantly at sunrise the next morning. There we all were, sleeping peacefully with full intentions to be sleeping peacefully for some time to come, when we were woken by what seemed to be a cacophony of fire alarms. Harley was crowing his welcome to the sun! I can’t say I was actually thrilled to hear Harley give voice at that time of the morning but later, when I woke up properly I was happy that he’d survived three deaths in one day.

I’ve given a lot of thought to Harley’s abortive attempts to meet his maker and I‘m convinced that Harley’s death impersonations were the result of fainting fits caused in much the same way as travel sickness or just through sheer hysteria brought about by travelling in the trailer. Happily, Harley never again impersonated a dead rooster.

About four years after our event-filled move to Riverina, when Harley was a very old rooster, he really did die. We left him where we found him for 24 hours – just to be sure that this time it was the real thing.

Ferrets and quilting do not mix

Bec with the Gang of Three. Miette is trying to give her a kiss and Theodore is trying to ignore everyone.

Albus. Ferrets live by the law that whatever is on the other side of a door is better than what's on this side.

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Today I learned a very important lesson. Ferrets and quilting do not; I repeat ... DO NOT mix.
I decided today was the day I’d finish the patchwork wall hanging I’ve been making for a couple of weeks now. It's not a very large wall hanging and I’ve made slow progress with it for one reason or anther. So, as I said, today was the day. Unfortunately, I also decided that today was the day for the ferrets to have a run inside the house. They live in a luxurious ferret cage out the back of the house under an old apricot tree where they lie around all day soaking up the sun or taking advantage of my latest invention, ferret air-conditioning - a wet towel placed in a bucket of water on top of the cage for the breeze to go through and another wet towel laid out in the cage for them to lie on and cool their tummies. This cooling system is definitely a requirement in our extremely hot summers. The ferrets don't get much exercise in the cage, but when they come inside that all changes. They take a minute or two to inspect the house and acclimatise themselves to their new surrounding. They try to open locked doors to get into and out of out of bounds rooms, harass any cat silly enough to stay on the floor, check for burglars behind the wall unit, and then once all these necessary jobs have been completed, they sort of explode with ferret joy. Ferret joy involves ferrets jumping in the air with their mouths wide open while swinging their heads from side to side, landing on all fours, challenging all comers to a ferret duel (I've been involved in a few of these - the ferret nearly always wins) and generally covering as much territory as possible with as much noise as possible.

So today I decided to get the two things accomplished at once. I began by closing all the doors that led off the hall except for the sewing room. I then brought the ferrets inside. Theodore, the ancient male ferret, Miette our small bossy, female and Albus, our large albino male who appears to be manic depressive, were beyond thrilled to be allowed into the sewing room. They began by investigating every nook and cranny they could find - actually they found some crannies I didn't even know the sewing room had!

When three ferrets investigate a room, they split up by mutual consent, investigate their assigned section of the room and then, at some invisible signal, swap over and investigate one of the other ferrets' spots. Trying to keep out of the way, lest they lose their place and have to start over from the beginning, I sat down carefully and began designing the wall hanging's borders. Every now and then Theodore sidled up to me and placed a little paw on my leg. This was his signal for me to pick him up and give him a cuddle – now that he's old he likes to take the time to stop and smell the roses, or in Theodore's case to smell anything within reach (on this occasion - me). Everything was going well: do a bit of sewing, stop. Pull a ferret out of somewhere no ferret should be. Return to sewing, stop, give Theodore a cuddle, do a bit more sewing, stop, pull a ferret out ... well I'm sure you get the picture.

I was coping beautifully and patting myself on the back, when it was time to cut out some more border fabric. This occurred about the same time that the ferret room investigations finished and it was time for them to "do the ferret thing" as we in the ferret world call ferret joy). Let me tell you it’s very hard to cut fabric with three ferrets full of joie-de-vive helping you. I no sooner laid it out on the table, with the excess fabric hanging over the edge when Miette jumped up and pulled it all down on top of herself. Was she sacrificing herself in an effort to save me from choosing the wrong colour? Albus then rushed to check that Miette was still in one piece while Theodore heaved a big sigh, rolled his eyes at the antics of the younger generation, and ask to be picked up and be cuddled again.
This went on for a while with very little getting done quiltwise. I kept trying as hard as I could to get some patchwork done and refused to give in, when, during one of our regular Hug Theodore sessions, I noticed that his coat wasn't as shiny as it should be, and it wasn't just because he was covered in feral threads picked up from the sewing room floor.

Time to worm the ferrets, I thought. I picked Theodore up and snuck out of the room. You have to sneak away if you are leaving ferrets anywhere on the other side of a door. They seem to have a sixth sense about such things and immediately run around your feet as you head for a door. Ferrets live by the philosophy that anywhere else is going to be so much better than where they are at the moment. I got the Ivomec (sheep and ferret drench), loaded a tiny syringe with the liquid and returned to the sewing room where the two unsuspecting ferrets were still trying to rearrange the room. I duly dosed Theodore and Miette then called Albus for his share of the Ivomec. …No answer.

My ferrets can't ignore me calling their name no matter how hard they try. Being the naturally curious animals that they are, they just have to come and see what I want. Just as they believe that anywhere else is much better than where they are, they also believe that when I call them something’s going to happen that's much better than what's happening now. I called a few more times with Theodore and Miette helping me look for Albus. Their help was as useful as their help with cutting out the fabric. I continually ended up with a ferret in my face, licking my forehead or arm, making the search for Albus just that much more difficult. I could almost hear them saying, "There, there. Don't worry, you still have me."

After ten minutes fruitless searching I was really worried. The last ferret I lost in the house was Isabella (Theodore's deceased mate). That resulted in me finding her squashed under the lounge and on her last gasp. I needed to give her CPR to save her. And while I’m always prepared to go to extreme measures to save a pet’s life, giving mouth to mouth to a ferret is not my ideal way to spend an afternoon I assure you. Isabella survived that experience and went on to bigger and better stash building, but she did avoid standing still near any furniture wherever possible.

Anyway, back to today. As stated earlier, I wasn't anxious to re-visit mouth to mouth with a ferret so I began moving all the things in my sewing room (including Justin’s set of drums - don't ask - they're not my idea of necessary sewing room furniture either!). With my back injury I’m not supposed to move heavy things, but I was getting really worried. I think Theodore and Miette were worried too because they became rather quiet, began following me around and not getting in the way, or maybe they were just enjoying the chaos I was creating. It was a lot better than the worst they could do, I promise you. Or maybe they thought it was safer to stick close to avoid an avalanche of Vlisofix, rolls of fabric and boxes of fat quarters (small amounts of pre-cut quilting fabric for the uninitiated)? With this thought of other possible ferret devastation running round in my head, I returned the two present and accounted for ferrets to their cage and went back to my search – alone and unhindered. Finally I heard a very faint scratching sound coming from the direction of the fabric cupboard. I forgot to mention that while I was closing all doors off the hall, I also closed and locked my fabric cupboard, realising the fun The Gang of Three could have amongst metres and metres of folded fabric.

Knowing ferrets as I do, I didn't put it past Albus to find a way into the locked cupboard so I opened it up and began tossing all my folded and colour sorted fabrics over my shoulder. I cleaned out the bottom shelf but no Albus. There was a distinct scratching sound coming from underneath the cupboard though. Underneath is a very small space indeed, so it was possible he was stuck. I tried various sneaky manoeuvres to get Albus to come out, like calling Theodore and Miette while tapping a can of cat food and knocking on the floor of the cupboard in an effort to drive him out or give him a headache. None of my sly ruses worked.

Now I was in full scale panic, and some pain from moving all the heavy stuff. I hobbled as fast as my legs could carry me out to the front paddock to tear Graeme away from helping our contractor clean the wheat seed (no he's not anal retentive! You clean wheat and lupin seed prior to sowing to get rid of weed seeds and the undersized seeds that won't produce strong plants.) As you may have gathered from previous stories, Graeme’s not an animal lover, he's barely an animal tolerater, but with a frantic wife, hopping from one leg to the other and wincing in pain at regular intervals when she landed on a stone, he could hardly stay and watch the seed being cleaned while ignoring the drama unfolding in the sewing room.

Graeme followed me back to the house, making ani-ferret noises all the way, looked behind the cupboard and told me Albus was perfectly capable of getting himself out. I noticed Graeme also look around the sewing room, consider commenting on the wreck of what was once a tidy and organised room, decide it was safer to remain quiet on the subject, and return his disapproving gaze in the direction of where Albus was most probably lying gasping his last few breaths. After a short and pointed dispute on whether or not Albus should be left to his fate, Graeme lifted the stash cupboard while I tried to retrieve the ferret (farmers are very strong people by the way!). Albus, now able to scuttle to freedom, recognised a game when he saw one, and this was so obviously a game. He moved further under the cupboard, causing me to yell, “Don’t put the cupboard down now! You’ll squash Albus!”

It was only after I’d said it that I realised I had most probably offered Graeme a very tempting course of action. More anti-ferret noises issued from Graeme’s general direction while he and I worked co-operatively, me watching Albus' nose to see where he was in relation to the cupboard floor and Graeme lowering the cupboard. After that Graeme decided that the seed cleaning needed his personal attention. As he departed he suggested that I find some food that Albus couldn't refuse to persuade him to leave his cubby hole. Now why didn't I think of that?! I was obviously too traumatised to think clearly. With that Graeme bolted for the paddock and the preferable company of the seed cleaning contractor.

By the time I had returned from the kitchen with the food to tempt him out of his hiding place, Albus was out and running around the sewing room thinking, "Now this is more like it - I've got all these boxes and piles of fabric and such to explore, roll in and chew should the mood take me!" With one painful movement, I scooped him up and headed for the door to return him to his cage. As I passed my sewing table I caught sight of the syringe with Ivomec in it (remember how all this started?). I’m glad to say I got my revenge. From his facial expressions Ivomec tastes dreadful. Albus was duly drenched for worms and mites and returned to his cage. The only problem is that, with Graeme hiding out in the paddock, I can't put everything back where it belongs in the sewing room by myself, and I can't get back to finishing my wall hanging because the mess spreads wall to wall and all over the top of my sewing table.

Oh well, maybe tomorrow?