Ears Are Highly Overrated Anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Showering With A Friend.

This is my view while having a shower each day.

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

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

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

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

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

How To Tell When Your Ferret Is Getting Old

Miette when she was a little old ferret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learning At The Paws Of The Master

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love Is A Very Soggy Thing

Life is once again a bit fraught here at Spring Rock thanks to bad behaviour from the largest member of the menagerie. Billy has fallen in love with our aged kelpie Juno. While I'm the first to admit that Juno is a beautiful lady, Juno is 13 years old and has been a resident of Spring Rock since her surprise birth back in 1998 - far longer than Billy, but for some reason he's just discovered how beautiful she is. He likes to lie down next to her with his big head on her back. a soppy look on his face and strings of drool hanging down either side of his mouth. Juno is permanently soggy and would just like Billy to go away. It's a platonic love (Juno was spayed when she was a much younger kelpie), but a soggy one.

Juno now has a huge bald spot on her rump. Billy for some reason known only to himself likes to spend his spare time licking her and as his head is usually resting on her rump, that's the spot that always gets licked. He's going to get a hairball! I sprayed Juno with citronella, because dogs hate the smell of it, and at first Billy was highly offended that the object of his love had taken to wearing such a noxious perfume and worshiped her from afar - well a few feet away anyway.  But it's true love and he rose above the smell and returned to worshiping her up close. Billy still rests his big head on her back whenever he can but at least the licking seems to have stopped. We play tag team time out in the laundry now to keep them separated and give Juno a bit of peace. Billy spends some time in there (complaining loudly all the time) and when I think he needs a bit of a walk and drink etc I let him out, grab Juno (if I can - she's very sprightly for an old girl) and put her in the laundry so she can continue to have peace and quiet, St Bernard free.  A bit of cat kibble and Juno's world is perfect - a soft bed, her favourite food and most importantly no overgrown love lorn Billy.

Billy isn't the only one causing problems at Spring Rock.  As I've mentioned before, Ambrosia the Bengal cat also gets time out, but in the bathroom. She has become addicted to rushing out the back door whenever she can, often nearly bowling me over in her attempts to get outside. You see outside is where the mouse plague is. Ambrosia has had quite a bit of success at catching mice on the back porch lately. Sadly she has had barely any success at dispatching the caught mice. Ambrosia tends to just play with them until they can escape and start life anew in another area of the backyard. I've had to get involved and take the mice off her. I can't dispatch them either so I put them in a plastic jug with a few bits of cat kibble to eat while they wait for Graeme to come and deal with them. Graeme and I have had words about the cat kibble. I've told him I feel guilty enough about condemning the poor little creature to death in the first place, at least it can await execution with a last meal. Graeme just shook his head and recognised defeat when he saw it.

But back to Ambrosia.  Her reason for time out is simple.  Ambrosia objects to being on the inside of the shut back door.  The mice are waiting for her to come and play with them outside and she can see them from her almost permanent perch on the family room window.  The mice like to live dangerously and play right outside the window on the boot rack.  This of course winds Ambrosia up into a frenzy of mice catching zeal.  When that back door thwarts her attempts to get out there amongst the mouse plague Ambrosia complains and complains loudly as only a Bengal can.  She follows me around the house voicing her opinions on women who keep cats with a mission locked in the house.  When told to keep quiet she simply yells some more.  Occasionally things get to be just too much for both of us and Ambrosia is put in time out in the bathroom.  I'd like to say that when she comes out she's a chastened cat who goes about her business quietly, but that would be a bald faced lie so I won't.  It's not long before Ambrosia finds herself once again behind a second closed door - the bathroom door.

Thus I fill my winter days.

 Billy has just released from the laundry and looking for Juno.

A Visitor

We are in the throws of a mouse plague in the Riverina.  Let me tell you it is not pleasant.  Being the softy that I am I usually rescue any mouse I find and let it go in the paddocks away from the house so it can live a full and happy life.  With the millions of mice in residence on Spring Rock, causing damage everywhere and eating the seeds as soon as Graeme plants the crops, I can hardly continue with my mouse catch and release practises.  Tristan, our large orange cat, has had his fill of mice and now basically ignores the hordes around the house yard and its environs.  Ambrosia and Neferiti have both caught their first mice recently and are keen to repeat the exciting event, but thankfully few mice have found their way inside the house.  They are in the ceiling and wall cavities though and their constant scuffling are drivng the girls crazy.  They rush around the room looking ceilingward, trying to figure out how to breach the walls and get to those mice!  So added to the mouse plague we can now include crazy cats, bouncing off walls, sometimes literally.  Life here is fraught at the moment.

With the increasing mouse population Spring Rock is now playing host to a large variety of birds of prey.  Hawks, falcons, kites, kestrels and even an eagle are all seen hovering over the paddocks in search of a small, furry meal.

The mice, who have a nose for an easy feed, have also invaded the chook pen, the aviary and the sheds and this has led to the new visitor we have here.  For weeks I just refered to the beautiful bird as a hawk, but I have finally identified the "hawk" who visits the galahs and pigeon and causes such terror in their little feathered breasts, as a Spotted Harrier. I used my Readers' Digest Complete Book of Australian Birds and my neighbour's input (she worked for the Australian Museum recording bird song and identifying the birds). He (or she but with the beautiful plumage I'm inclined to think he) still visits the aviary almost daily.   He lands on the wire on the roof and strikes a pose, attempting to look ferocious and gives the inmates of the aviary the evil eye.  There really is no need for him to go to all that effort.  Just his presence on the roof is enough to cause my birds to hunker down, assume the stuffed frog look and try to disappear into the scenery.  I either tap on the kitchen window to let the harrier know that he has been spotted (no pun intended, but it was a good one wasn't it?) and his presence in not appreciated, or if all else fails, I go out to the aviary to tell him in person.  I don't get very far before he realises I'm on my way and he quickly flies off for the trees close by.  He often returns a few more times in the hope that I'll either change my mind and open the door to his tasty snacks or at least leave him alone.  When he is convinced that neither will happen he disappears for thd day.  This is the signal for my three birds to go balistic.  All the pent up panic is now released to the sounds of screeching, scolding and mad wing flapping.  I usually manage to calm them down with a few gentle words, some tasty treat and the assurance that the harrier will never find a way in to their cage.

Lately the harrier has discovered a much easier meal to get  is mice and that the best mouse catching site is the lambing shed. He is doing his bit to end the horrible mouse plague by himself.  I just wish he'd bring some friends along.

We are still feeding our baby lambs and keeping them in the lambing shed so we don't have to trek the paddocks to find them.  We often meet the harrier when we are feeding the lambs.  I can just hear the harrier saying, "Are these humans everywhere?"  To say he is not happy to see us is an understatement.  At the first sight of us the Harrier panics and, even though we are no-where near him and doing our best to ignore him (it's a huge shed), he ends up flying up to the skylights, banging against the fibreglass and finally hanging upside down on a wire in the roof trying to look dead. The first time he did it he convinced me! Graeme went over to investigate and the bird took off, so now we just nod in his direction and let him get on with his dead bird impersonation.  Sometimes he is happy to stay there, batlike, for the duration, but more often he waits until we are fully occupied with feeding the lambs and quietly disappears.

So the state of the nation at Spring Rock is:
1 husband in charge of dispatching any poor mouse caught by the cats,
1 wife who is emotionally incapable of killing anything and feels guilty when she hands a live mouse over to husband,
3 dogs who ignore mice completly but will chase cats who are chasing mice,
2 inexperienced cats eager to catch mice but not dispatch them,
1 experienced cat who is all moused out,
3 birds who are too traumatised by the harrier's visits to do anything about the mice,
4 ferrets who have killed any mouse invading their cage,
12 chooks and 2 roosters who are all moused out as well,
14 bottle lambs in residence sharing their shed with countless mice,
1 overworked harrier who wastes too much time eyeing off the birds when his time could be better spent in the mouse (I mean lamb) shed and millions and millions of mice to be controlled by the very few Spring Rock residence who can dispatch mice.

It looks to me like we should be breeding ferrets and letting them run free around the house and sheds.  I might broach this subject with Graeme later today. What do you think?

 A Spotted Harrier doing its best to look ferocious.

Update On The Patient.

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

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

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

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

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