Tablet Time

Finally, after months of battling with Aslan to take his tablets for his wonky shoulders, his old style ones are back in stock.  The vets’ have been waiting for months for the arrival of these tablets.  I too have been waiting months for the tablets to arrive.  I’ve been given the same medication produced by a different pharmaceutical company in place of the Caprieve but getting these into my beautiful boy has been, as Tigger would say, fraught.

The Caprieve are very small and easily hidden in a bit of cheese.  It’s also possible they taste better than the replacement tablets, but I’m not about to test that theory out for myself.  When I first started medicating Aslan I tried various disguises for the tablets.  I tried tinned dog food – Aslan delicately ate around the tablets and left them sitting forlornly in the bottom of his food bowl.  I tried making a raw meatball with the tablets at the centre with the same results.  Then I tried two pieces of cheese with the tablets hidden in the centre and finally found the ideal delivery system to get tablets into Aslan.

From the time Aslan had his first dose of the Caprieve/cheese combination I had no problems with him gulping down the tablet loaded cheese as soon as it was in his mouth.  The replacement ones I was given are considerably larger and Aslan can tell when there are any in his cheese - damn his doggy heightened sense of smell.  He always takes the cheese (usually with a put upon look on his face) and acts as if all is going to be well this time; he adopts an innocent look on his face and awaits his chance to deposit the cheese and tablets on the floor, but I've learned my lesson. I know that it's a ruse and he will spit out the cheese as soon as I turn my back.  Some days his tongue was very dexterous and Aslan managed to spit out the cheese with the tablets embedded in them and eat the other, tablet free, piece of cheese.  So, I now pop the cheese laden tablet into his mouth, quickly put my hand under his chin and then we wait it out.  Aslan looks at me and I look at Aslan and we see who gives in first.  I'm at a disadvantage because I'm usually bent over holding Aslan's chin while he reclines gracefully on the floor.  Drool is involved of course.  Graeme told me to put my hand over his nose to make him swallow before trying to take a breath - a trick a vet showed us many years ago for another dog who resisted tablet taking.  This has worked for other dogs I’ve owned in the past but these dogs were Kelpies or Labradors or the like.  I pointed out to Graeme that with Aslan’s acres of jowls he can suck air in from the sides of his mouth for as long as he likes and it would take a larger number of hands than I have to cover the entire mouth area of a Saint Bernard.  

While holding his chin to stop him spitting the tablets and cheese on the floor I try rubbing his throat, talking encouragingly to him, pointing out he's never won a cheese and tablet battle yet and that he'll feel a lot better once the tablets are down.  Aslan just looks at me with his long suffering expression firmly in place and refuses to believe that he will never win this battle - maybe, he seems to be thinking, today could be that day.  Eventually Aslan will roll his eyes, heave a sigh of resignation and swallow the dratted tablets.  He pokes his massive tongue out as proof the tablets have gone down and I can now get back to my life. I try to be a good sport and not crow over yet another win in the Aslan/tablet battle, tell him he’s a good boy and give him a pat and a tablet free piece of cheese so he has a reward for doing the right thing.  He knows there's no tablets in this one so takes the cheese quickly and gulps it down.

All this isn't taking part in a calm and casual way.  You have to remember that I also have Cleo up close and personal and Cleo loves both cheese and attention and in her opinion, despite the fact that she's already eaten the cheese I gave her when I came out to start this whole tablet giving process, Aslan is getting far too much of both.  She buzzes around the perimeter of the battle of wills area, nudging my hand to remind me there is more cheese there and she's perfectly willing to take it off my hands or pushes her face into mine in case I haven’t noticed she’s there.  Aslan usually gets a gentle butt in the head to encourage him to get it all over with so Cleo can get her cheese and pats, and of course, more drool is involved.  Now that the smaller, Aslan acceptable, tablets are here Aslan should just go back to swallowing the cheese as soon as he's given it. 

I say “should”, but knowing my puppies I'm not that confident.

I couldn't get a decent photo of Aslan at tablet time with only one hand free so here's one of Aslan and Cleo on a recent day out. 

A Story From My Childhood

This story took place many, many years ago. I don't actually remember these events myself, but the story was told and retold by those who were there when the family wanted to give an example of my love of animals and championing their cause, or as an example of “don’t mess with Rosemary”.

When I was very young my paternal grandfather lived with us.  He'd lost his right leg to gangrene just after World War II.  He'd been a prisoner of war in a Japanese prison camp and his infected toe went untreated.  When he came to live with us in the late 1950’s he was quite proficient on his crutches.

As I'm sure no-one will be surprised to read I loved animals back then, my family had already acquired a rabbit, a cat and a dog for my sister and I to play with and love.  This collection of pets wasn't enough for me so in my quest to domesticate as many living things as possible, I'd fill a box with grass and then proceed to fill the box with creatures from the garden.  Our garden was mostly populated with snails so the population in my box consisted mostly of snails.   I took my responsibilities seriously even back then (I imagine I was somewhere around three or four). I tended the snails all day long, making sure they were getting enough to eat and dissuading any escape attempts by gently lifting the snail from the side of the box and placing it on a particularly tasty to snails leaf.  At night, the snails not being allowed past the back door of the house and thus forced to sleep outside, were left there to enjoy their grass and new home.  I could never bring myself to close the box's lid on them in case they couldn’t breathe so one by one the captive snails made a slow but determined gaol break.  I imagine now the heavy sighs emitted by the snails who were regularly caught - a "Here we go again," type of sigh.

I'd come out in the morning, discover that once again the box was snail free and empty out the old grass, line the box with new, fresh grass and go round up the former inhabitants of the box once again.  Keeping snails as pets is something I do remember, so my hobby lasted quite a number of years.  

My grandfather had a different, far less tolerant point of view on snails and used one of his crutches to crushed any poor mollusc he encountered.  He was unwise on these occasions to make sure I wasn’t anywhere nearby.  Apparently there were harsh words traded between my grandfather and me with me trying to convince him that snails were good, kind creatures who didn't deserve to be stomped on by a huge crutch and my grandfather taking the stance that snails were a pest and should be stomped on whenever encountered. Thankfully he left my box of refugees alone while he went on his snail eradication program  For a while we left each other to their opinions and actions but I can't imagine a cease fire was declared (I more than likely voiced my disapproval of my grandfather's actions concerning snails at every opportunity - I was that sort of child).

Then one day I apparently had a brainwave.  I can see myself sitting with my snails, telling them that it wasn't fair that my grandfather might crush them one day if I didn't manage to find them before he did and plotting a snails' revenge on their behalf.  How did I exact this revenge?  Simply; I removed my grandfather’s crutches from his room while he had a mid-day nap and hid them.  

This caused some consternation among the adults when my grandfather woke, ready to get back to his day, and looked to where he’d left his crutches only to find no crutches were be seen.  It didn't take long for the frown up members of my family to find the culprit; my sister would have only been about two years old at this time so carry off a pair of crutches was clearly beyond her capabilities.  There was only one suspect left and all eyes turned towards Rosemary.  I was told to return the crutches and, after pleading the snails' case and finding my pleas falling on deaf ears, I reluctantly gave back the crutches.  I'm sure there was some form of punishment meted out but that part never came into the story when my family was retelling my tale.

With crutches returned my grandfather (who I imagine was more than a little peeved with me) upped his snail crushing endeavours and really managed to annoy me.  I was raised to respect my elders and not argue with them, and while I'm sure I usually did as I was told, there were times when arguments had to be - my initial discussion with my grandfather on the rights of snails, previously mentioned here for example.  Clearly when I took those crutches I'd decided that actions speak louder than words and I wasn't above vigilante actions even at this young age. 

Now that the crutches were returned and my grandfather free to resume snail stomping, I needed to step up my guerrilla warfare if the snails in our yard were to live in peace without fear of crutches coming down on them.  It didn't take me long for my second attack.  This time I feel I must have thought along the lines that if my grandfather was to be convinced that snails were people of peace and meant him no harm he had to get close up and personal with them. 

One night when my grandfather went to bed there was a loud roar and my name was bandied about a bit.  My parents went to investigate the reason for the roar and discovered my grandfather’s bed; sheet and blankets turned back ready for him to get into and enjoy a good night's sleep.  There was a slight hitch to this plan and it had my name written all over it – when my grandfather turned back the covers he’d discovered his bed had been filled with snails. 

Once again whatever retribution was brought down on me by the adults in the house was always glossed over when the story was told, but I imagine it was pretty thorough this time.  My grandfather must have forgiven me at some stage because I remember him speaking to me and that I sat on his knees in his wheel chair when he lost his other leg to gangrene as well.  I was convinced to stop my snail rights activism and my grandfather was allowed to live in peace.  

I don't think he trusted me to have learned my lesson though, because not one of my memories of my grandfather is of him killing a snail.

How I Spent My Morning

How I Spent My Morning

Before I begin I need to let you all know that there won't be any photos in this post.  Recently we had three weeks of over 40 degree Celsius (that's over 107 degrees Fahrenheit) days in a row.  Aslan was feeling the heat more than most members of the menagerie so Graeme and I clipped his fur as short as we could get it.  It was a very unprofessional hair cut, and Aslan looked decidedly moth eaten, but he was a lot cooler and as I told him, that was the main thing.  I also solemnly promised not to take any photos until he was back to his magnificent self with a full coat of hair.  So, a promise being a promise, no photos today.

As I've mentioned previously Aslan has perfect knees but wonky elbows.  I mention the knees because Aslan might feel self-conscious about the amount of attention his wonky elbows attracts otherwise.  Aslan is on twice daily medication and I have been working away at getting the money together for a rather expensive operation to fix his problem.  It's taken a while, but I now have the money ready to spend on my beautiful boy’s elbows.  It's taken me nearly a year to get the money since Aslan's diagnosis and I'm worried that his hips are now failing as well.  There is no way I can come up with the money to have both his elbows and both his knees fixed, so Aslan and I are off to confer with John, our vet, to see what he thinks of Aslan's hips.

Aslan was booked in to see John today but he, John, had a family emergency and had to postpone the appointment until tomorrow.  So, seeing I had the time and it's a nice warm morning here, I decided to wash both the puppies so they'd be a pleasure to have in the car on their trip to the vets' tomorrow.  We are taking both Aslan and Cleo because Graeme got a ramp for the dogs as a Christmas present from the kids and now that it's easy to load and unload two Saint Bernards (Graeme had to lift each heavy weight puppy into the back of the car before he got the ramp) Graeme is happy for Cleo to come out for a drive too.  Cleo loves car rides, regardless of where she ends up on the journey.  Aslan loves the vet and all his fans at the surgery so he too is always happy to get in the car in case that's where we're going.

So, on to washing two large dogs, neither of whom is a fan of baths.  The first job is to gather all items necessary for the ablutions.  One hose with gentle shower nozzle attached, one bottle of dog shampoo, one bottle of dog conditioner (Aslan's fur is usually so long he needs the conditioner, and despite his recent hair cut, his fur is growing back quickly), one bag of beef liver treats - very important or it will be almost impossible to gather in the last essential component of dog washing – Cleo and Aslan.  

Both Aslan and Cleo are very suspicious when I call them over to the clothes line, where the chain is kept.  Nothing good ever comes of being within snapping on to collar distance of the end of the chain.  Indignities ranging from being given a time out to being made to throw up (because Cleo and Aslan happened to get to a mouse bait that was supposed to be well out of their reach), to being bathed.  Not one of these pastimes is to their liking so treats and plenty of them are needed to entice them to the chain.  Thankfully Cleo and Aslan will do almost anything for beef liver treats and so far they have never failed to work.

One hint I can share with anyone attempting to wash two large dogs outside – before you begin the dog washing process take off any make-up you have applied because you thought you were going into town that day.  By the time I had two Saint Bernards in pristine condition, with bright white and beautiful deep red coats, my condition was drastically short of pristine.  I was soaked from head to foot from a combination of a faulty hose nozzle and big, hairy puppies having a shake mid bath -usually while I was bent over close to them washing some part of the dog.  The cuffs and half way up the legs of my pants were flecked with mud splashed up from the hose and my make-up, put on before the vets' surgery rang to reschedule the appointment, was now in a very sorry state.  My mascara was running down around my cheeks and the eye shadow smeared around a bit, giving me the appearance of someone stepping ashore after a particularly harrowing dunk in the ocean.  Yes, the mascara is waterproof but apparently I rub my face a lot when washing the dogs - whether in despair of ever getting clean puppies out of this mess or simply to wipe of excess water I can't say.

Despite my back screaming not to do it, I then cleaned the laundry of all dirty patches where the puppies rub up against the walls and cupboards.  I swept the floor and put their bedding in the washing machine.  It's no use washing dogs if you don't wash their bedding as well.  I kept the cleanest cotton blanket out so Aslan and Cleo could lie on it while they dried out.  I then transferred Aslan and Cleo to the laundry, one at a time, by the simple expedient of holding the treat bag in one hand and grasping his or her collar in the other hand.  As I mentioned earlier Cleo will do anything for the beef flakes treats and Aslan is just a good, obedient boy who would have come with me anyway.  Both puppies were given a share of the treats along with my heartfelt apology for the indignities they'd suffered.  The latter fell on deaf ears (or maybe they couldn't hear me over the crunching of the beef flakes) and the puppies were left in the laundry to dry off.  Drying off in the laundry is a slow process I'm afraid, but with this drought my front and back yards are just dust bowls where there is no garden - not a blade of grass for the wet pooches to lie on.  When Cleo and Aslan are wet and have access to dirt they quickly take advantage of it and roll around in the dust until they are well and truly coated, so the laundry it had to be.  

The state of the nation at the moment is - two well washed and pleasant smelling puppies locked in the laundry drying off, digesting a large helping of beef liver treats and muttering unpleasant thoughts about me (despite my attempts at bribery with said liver treats), one worn out human who needs to lie down to recover and one temporarily clean laundry.  Graeme remained blissfully detached from the whole thing, but will appreciate two clean Saint Bernards on the trip to the vets' tomorrow.  

Update:  We saw John the next day.  Aslan arrived at the vets’ in his new bib, which attracted many compliments from his adoring fans (I’ve included a photo, sans Aslan and Cleo of the new bibs).  Sadly, he agreed with me that Aslan’s hips are now deteriorating too.  John will ring the orthopaedic vet in Canberra to discuss this latest development and ask if it’s worthwhile to operate on Aslan’s elbows. John had two thoughts about this operation – 1.  There most likely was no point now as his hips will get worse to the point that Aslan will be suffering badly or 2. Fixing the elbows may put off the worsening of the hips as his front legs will be able to take more of Aslan’s weight and thus increase Aslan’s life expectancy. 

You can guess which option I’m hoping for.

Aslan's bib is on the left. 

George Is A Mother

I know when you look closely at the photo above you'll want to point out the major differences between George and her baby.  Shhh!  We aren't going to mention it to either George or Aunty Brown, her co-mother.

If you haven't been keeping up with events at Spring Rock or have forgotten who George is, you can read about her early months of life and her camping adventures here.

When Aunty Brown, our aged Chinese Silky became broody yet again I took pity on her and placed some of Isis' duck eggs under her.  Isis isn't showing any signs of being brood, and even when she does, I have plenty of eligible eggs to put under her too.  Aunty Brown has had so many broody times with no fertile eggs under her, that I felt sorry for her and decided she deserved at least one go at motherhood.  She and the other Silkies live in a male free part of the chook yard.  The two Silky roosters, now confined to the aviary because of bad behaviour only managed to upset the Silkies and had them hiding under the nesting boxes  to get away from them.  So with no fertile Silky eggs, and to tell the truth, not wanting any more roosters causing strife in my life (and roosters nearly always do) I decided duck eggs were the way to go.  All three drakes live in harmony with Isis.  There is one dominant drake, Adonis, the lucky fellow developed the neck ring decoration and became top drake, while the other two boys are happy as the beta drakes. I'm hoping any more drakes to come along will also be able to fit in happily.  Time will tell. 

Aunty Brown protected the eggs from all comers for the first few days and was then joined by George (who is only into her second or third broody session).  The two shared the egg incubation duties and day after day sat in companionable silence working away at growing babies.  The fact that I'm sure they thought they were growing little, fluffy chickens may come back to bite us all, but at the moment the little and fluffy boxes have been ticked and the  babies are too little to turn their thoughts to swimming.  

Once the first egg hatched Aunty Brown pulled the age and experience card and became very bossy.  True, she only had broody experience and not mothering experience to wave under George's beak, but she won the day and took control of the duckling.  The next day a little black duckling joined the family and Aunty Brown scooped that one in too, leaving George with the as yet unhatched eggs, with no promise that she wouldn't take possession of any fluffy creatures emerging from those.  George didn't feel compensated and sat quietly weaving her plans.  She came up with her cunning plan yesterday, and frankly I had no faith at all in it working.  She sat as close as she could to Aunty Brown with her wing held out ready to give shelter to one or both of her babies - and it worked!  George scooped in a duckling. When I went down to feed everyone this afternoon, after two days of offering that wing as a fluffy baby shelter she snagged a duckling.  It's very hot outside so I'm surprised her baby enticing strategy worked but the photo above shows her success.  

Aunty Brown is showing that broody experience and age do not necessarily add up to good mothering techniques.  She had her little yellow "chicken" out on the ground while she browsed this morning's sunflower seed offerings.  The duckling stuck close and I was admiring Aunty Brown enjoying motherhood.  Then, as I was about to leave the chook yard I noticed Aunty Brown had returned to the nesting box.  I wondered how the duckling had got back in as it is a fair height off the ground (something I'm going to have to address tomorrow obviously).  I lifted Aunty Brown, no duckling.  I lifted George, just the little black duckling.  I looked around the Silky yard, no yellow ball of fluff.  Then I saw it, outside the Silky pen, introducing itself to D'Artagnon, the big Faverolle rooster.  He was looking down at the yellow ball of fluff and trying to figure out exactly what it was.  I'm sure the duckling thought it had found Dad.  

After a short but spirited chase around the chook yard I managed to get hold of the duckling and return it to Aunty Brown.  Aunty Brown looked at it rather vaguely, remembered she had had a little fluffy companion and surely there was some latent instinct trying to get through that suggested she keep the fluffball close?  So she tucked the duckling under her chest and tried to look like it had always been with her and she hadn't had to be reminded of her motherly duties. 

George just tsked quietly, making comments about old age and forgetfulness under her breath, and knew she'd do better when she took her baby for its first outing.

Tristan At The Vets'

We have become regular visitors at our vets' lately.  What with Aslan's regular visits to touch base with his fans (and undergo a few medical procedures while he's there - but we all know that's not his main reason for visiting the vets') and now Tristan has made his way to the surgery to have a rather large lump under his chin investigated.

Needless to say I was a bundle of worry when I discovered the lump on Saturday a week ago.  I then had to wait until Thursday to take Tristan to the vets' because rain was on the way and Graeme had to get the wheat harvested before the rain spoiled the wheat.  I spent each and every day with Tristan on my lap delicately feeling the lump from time to time and trying to diagnose the problem myself.  With no medical training, but lots of experience with sick and injured animals, I got nowhere fast and my brain kept cycling back to cancer.  I reviewed other possibilities of course but my beloved ginger fellow is 15 years old and cancer kept coming to my thoughts.  Since Tristan has achieved old age he goes outside less and less and hadn't been outside for about a week.  I couldn't see how he could develop an abscess without the help of one of the many feral cats who travel through our farm.

Thursday arrived and Tristan was manhandled into a new, roomy, soft sided cat carrier with a soft towel for him to snuggle into.  Manhandling (or womanhanding is the more correct term - Graeme is never keen on putting cats or ferrets into carriers) was necessary because Tristan is decidedly anti-cat carrier - even new, roomier and softer cat carriers.  Once he was in Tristan didn't take things lying down.  He complained bitterly when first placed in the car and, when loud protests got him nowhere, he decided pathetic little mews would be more effective.  He was right.  His little pleas to be freed from this terrifying place tugged at my heartstrings.  So much so that when we finally arrived at the vets' I opened the top zip and put my hand in to offer comfort.  Tristan saw his chance and shot out of the top of the carrier.  I deftly caught him (years of experience with caged pets has made my reaction time rather speedy) and sat him on my lap rather than undergo the sure to be embarrassing attempts to return him to the carrier. 

Tristan was happy, or at least happier, to sit on my lap and ignore these new, decidedly sinister smelling surroundings.  He actually managed a purr and won the heart of the receptionist by snuggling down on my lap and enjoying pats, back rubs and ear scratches.  Tristan was in a mellow mood by the time the vet came to fetch us.  He politely rubbed his head against Clayton's hand and a firm friendship was building nicely.

Clayton agreed that at 15 cancer was on the cards so it was a relief when Tristan proved to have a temperature.  I've never been so happy to have a pet run a temperature before.  I told Tristan this was good news, but his mellow mood had soured as soon as the thermometer was inserted.  A few scruffs and pats later and Tristan forgave the indignity only to find that a sharp needle had been stuck into his already uncomfortable lump.  When Clayton withdrew pus both Clayton and I celebrated - Tristan not so much.  An abscess was diagnosed and after a goodbye to Tristan and a warning to Clayton that if Tristan presented his gorgeous white tummy for a rub to leave it alone - it's a trap! Tristan left with Clayton bound for surgery. 

My next round of worries centred  on a 15 year old, slightly overweight ginger fellow undergoing general anaesthetic.  I've seen enough vet shows to know how often things don't turn out well for older cats and dogs.  I tried to think positive thoughts but I'm very good at worrying - it's almost my superpower - so my thoughts kept coming back to my darling cat and his surgery.  After what felt like days of waiting (but was actually just a few hours) to hear from Clayton, I finally received the phone call to say all was well and the abscess had been much larger that it appeared (and it appeared to be huge from the outside of Tristan so it must have bee really large).  Tristan was now ready to pick up and take home for further nursing, pampering and wound care.

I picked Tristan up and was run through the very little I needed to do for him.  He had a rubber tube,  threaded through two hold in the abscess area tied in a knot.  All I needed to do was clean the area with a water soaked cotton wool ball when needed, otherwise Tristan was good to go.  Clayton told me I could either remove the rubber drain myself or bring him back to the surgery.  I assured him I was well versed in removing drains, stitches and grass seeds and even lambs from pets and livestock and with a last pat for Tristan Clayton said goodbye.

Tristan has been a model patient.  He was confined to the bathroom on Clayton's advice because of the messiness of his drain, but after a full day as a prisoner amongst the tiles Tristan was stir crazy.  I made a bed for him out of soft rags on his favourite part of the lounge and Tristan settled in and barely moved for three days.  Strangely, on his third day of his recuperation Tristan removed under the Christmas tree.  I wasn't sure what he was up to back there, but with all the presents under the tree and the fact that the branches reach quite low to the floor I couldn't find him.  I found this hard to believe.  As I have said, Tristan is a rather large orange cat, finding him should have been easy amongst red wrapping, cream carpet and green tree branches, but Tristan achieved invisibility and spent the whole day in there.  The novelty wore off though and he returned to his rag bed the next day. 

I took the drain out yesterday morning and Tristan is now keen to get as many scratches on the healing wound as possible.  I know from experience how itchy healing wounds can be so I supply as many scratches and rubs as he wants, it keeps me busy, I can tell you.  He still loves his rag bed and it looks like being a fixture among my decor for a while to come.

This morning Tristan decided that he'd like to venture outside and reacquaint himself with nature.  He indicated this desire by heading me off as I walked towards the lounge room.  Once he had my attention he walked to the front door, sat down and gave me that significant look he gives when he wants to be on the other side of any particular door.  I opened the door and Tristan moved to the threshold, stopped, looked to the right and the left and decided that was enough nature for today.  He then turned around walked to the lounge room and planted himself on his rag bed.  Maybe tomorrow he'll actually put a paw outside.  If not, that's fine.  I'd rather he became a full time inside cat where he's safe from all the dangers of the great outdoors.

Tristan on his rag bed.  I've just noticed he's stolen a Christmas pillow to make his bed more comfortable.

Aslan At The Vets' Part II

We started Thursday here with taking Aslan to the vets' for some blood tests.  With Aslan's wonky elbows our vet visit rate has increased.  Aslan needed blood and urine tests to make sure the medication he's taking isn't adversely effecting his liver or kidneys.  I booked him on for Thursday and I'm sure the excitement level at the vets' increased drastically.  

It took Aslan and me a fair bit of time to actually get to the surgery's door from our car.  As we walked up to the entrance a mother and two young girls stopped in their tracks and started telling each other how gorgeous Aslan was.  The girls were waving their hands and looked eager to get to know Aslan so we walked over and the girls and the mum just fell on Aslan with hugs and pats and lots and lots of telling him how cute he was.  Aslan knows how to work a crowd and lapped it all up while shedding a bit of fur and drool in their general direction.  I warned them about the drool but they didn't seem to care.  At this time of year Aslan shares copious amounts of drool and fur with whoever gets close enough to be on the receiving end.  That little family said goodbye and headed for their car.  That's when I realised there had been a queue.  Another woman and her husband filled the gap left by the family and the love-fest started all over again.  Aslan continued to lap up all the attention, going out of his way to charm all these strangers.

We finally got through the door and the vet nurse looked up and yelled Aslan!  Two other vet nurses came out and greeted Aslan in the same way.  Aslan smiled and offered himself up for pats and about half the room full of people, along with their little dogs, came over to have a pat and ask how much he weighed, how much did he eat and all those sorts of personal questions Aslan would rather avoid.  He accepted all pats and compliments as I managed to sit down and get him to sit down.  Some of those who hadn't come over to meet him still had questions so I was fielding all these and patting Aslan while we waited.  A nurse came out and said she'd take Aslan through for the blood tests and so all the vets and other staff out the back could have their turn with lavishing the big fluffy fellow with love and praise.  Aslan was reluctant to go with the nurse at first, I'm sure he wasn't ready to leave his adoring fan club, but just as I was about to ask if she wanted me to come along too, the nurse told Aslan he a beautiful boy.  Aslan recognised another fan and went with her without a backward glance.  

As soon as the door was closed I nearly burst out laughing because all I could hear through the door was, "Aslan's here!  Aslan you get more gorgeous every time you visit!  I want to pat Aslan!"  This from a group of adults who deal with pets all the time.  Aslan was gone for a while and I have a feeling it was more so he could socialise with everyone than that it took that long to get some blood from him.  While I was waiting a woman and her Bouvier dog came out of one of the examination rooms.  The dog came straight over to me to sniff at my fur covered jeans.  The woman apologised and told her dog some people didn't like that sort of thing.  I told her I was fine and her dog was just finding out about my dog.  She then told me  she used to breed Great Danes and all about the dog with her named Colby, and her previous Bouvier.  I told her my dog was in for blood tests because he's on medication for wonky elbows.  She said, yes that frequently happened to old dogs.  I told her my dog was three.  We chatted some more and then Aslan came back into the waiting room towing the vet nurse behind.  My new acquaintance stepped back and said, "He's gorgeous.  What breed is he?"  I told her Saint Bernard and she gave him a pat, telling him how gorgeous he was.  Aslan thanked her politely while I notices how expertly she avoided his drool, as one should expect from a Great Dane breeder.

We had to say good-bye to her because the nurse needed to get a urine sample from Aslan.  We took Aslan out to all the smelly areas that usually encourage dogs to leave their own calling card but Aslan wouldn't co-operate.  He was interested in the smells but had no urge to leave his own.  The vet nurse was telling me about Aslan's time out in the treatment area and all the old friends who came over to say hello.  She then told me Aslan had walked between her legs at one stage and she'd gone for a little ride while trying not to put her weight on him. Aslan was just too big for her to just step over him, so she was worried about the outcome of her ride for a second or two, but it all worked out OK.  Aslan wagged his tail, obviously remembering happy times with this vet nurse.  In the end I was given a specimen jar and asked to follow Aslan around with a bucket first thing in the morning and bring hs urine sample in next time we were in Wagga.  We headed back to the surgery so I could pay the bill and Aslan was thrilled to see our neighbour Aileen walk up.  He made a beeline for her to say hello and tell her about his morning.  Aileen ended up fur covered, but managed to avoid most of the drool.

We came inside together with Aslan obviously knowing Aileen and making sure he got his full quota of pats from her.  A woman came up and said to Aileen, "That dog must be at least twice as big as you!"  Aileen told her that was about right.  Aslan ignored the slur on his physique and continued to show Aileen how much he loved her.He then set about making more new friends who'd come in while he was checking out the smells in the garden.  

We had one tense moment when a little terrier type wanted to investigate this huge dog.  As I've said before, Aslan is very uncertain about little dogs.  The owner of this small example was keen for him to meet Aslan so she put her hand down near Aslan's face (he was resting on the floor at this time, and called her dog over.  The terrier came over and pressed his nose to Aslan's before Aslan could plan an escape.  The little dog then stood back to see what Aslan did next.  Aslan stood up and moved closer to my leg.  The little dog's owner tried again to encourage a meeting between the two but Aslan had had enough and tried to hide behind my leg.   I explained to the owner that Aslan just can't cope with dogs smaller than Kelpie size.  It was now my turn to pay my bill.  Aslan said a cheery goodbye to his new fan club, including a small dog he was brave enough to touch noses with.  We said goodbye and after catching up with Aileen's husband, Gordon, who had been chatting with Graeme all this time we finally headed home.

Aslan was happy to get in the car, most likely because he wanted to go home and tell Cleo what a wonderful place the vets' is.

Chook Wrangling

I thought you might like to read about my normal afternoon tending to the chooks' and ducks' needs.  I can't have the chooks out all the time because Cleo tends to use them as pillows if she catches one.  She doesn't seem to mean them any harm, but that huge head resting among the soft feathers isn't a good thing for the poor hen.  Cleo has a look of bliss on her face at these times while the poor fluffy pillow looks decidedly frantic.  If there is an escape from the chook pen while the dogs are out and about and Cleo manages to find a chook pillow I have to give that chook a bath.  I returned a hen to the chook yard one time and the rest of the chooks ended up killing her.  The stupid things didn't recognise her as one of the mob, they concentrated on the foreign scent and acted accordingly.  They don't see a shampoo smelling hen as a threat thankfully and the bathed chook is welcomed to the fold once again.  I'm sure she has exciting stories to tell the rest of the gang when she is returned.

So, here's what it takes to give the chooks a chance to browse around the garden.  Around 2.30 in the afternoon I lock the dogs in the laundry so I can let the chooks out.  It sounds simple doesn't it, especially when you realise the dogs are nearly always in the laundry to begin with.  If only it was that easy.  I'm sure that as soon as 2.30 rolls around Cleo begins listening carefully for my footsteps approaching the back door because she usually meets me at the laundry door, or worse still on the porch so that she can lodge her regular complaint that just because she was sleeping in the laundry before I turned up that doesn't mean that she necessarily wants to be in the laundry.  Cleo backs this protest up with passive resistance, and let me tell you when a Saint Bernard passively resists you know you have little hope of winning the tussle.  If I make a grab for Cleo's collar she simply drops to the ground and rolls onto her back.  I then have the choice of either pulling her into the laundry (my back doesn't appreciate this option) or waiting for her to get tired of passively resisting and sit back up to see why I'm not playing the game.  The trick is to grab her by the collar while she's upright, but make sure she's grabbed by the collar under her chin.  For some reason, and I'm happy with whatever reason she has, Cleo won't drop to the ground if my hand is on her collar under her chin, she declares a fair win on my part and comes quietly.  Trouble is I'm slowing down and half the time when I make the grab for the right bit of collar Cleo drops to the ground before my hand makes contact with her, right part or not and I have to wait for her to get up and laugh at me before I can have another try.  Aslan, bless him is still lying down in the laundry trying to ignore Cleo's antics and distance himself from any slurs I may make on overgrown dogs who don't behave.

OK, so eventually I manage to get Cleo into the laundry, close the door and find I've left the chook scraps sitting on the washing machine.  The number of times I do this each week makes me worry about my brain.  You'd think after years of leaving the darned thing on the washing machine I'd learn to leave it outside the laundry door somewhere.  Well, I don't.  I am getting better - I used to leave it on the washing machine every time.  Now one out of three times I remember to put it down before I tussle with Cleo.

After squeezing through the smallest door crack and pushing Cleo back into the laundry as I enter I retrieve the scrap bucket, closing the door quickly before Cleo gets a chance to escape.  I then have to sweep all traces of dry dog food off the porch or I'll have all the French hens and their rooster up on the porch grazing on the little pellets.  I've been met at the back door on a number of occasions by a feathery lady wondering if there are any pellets on my side of the door, and could she just come in and have a quick browse just in case?  With no dog food to encourage them up the stairs (it's all on the pathway at the bottom where I sweep it) the girls are usually happy to have a quick look, make certain there are no other treats on the porch and then go back to scratching around in the garden.

Scrap container in hand I head for the galahs and Silky roosters in the aviary.  The roosters are back in almost solitary confinement because they were making  a great nuisance of themselves with the French hens.  They had already worn out their welcome with the Silky hens and the two smaller breed hens who now won't come out of their safe house yard, even though the two Silky roosters are no longer a threat.  I dish out some of the vegetable scraps to both galahs and roosters along with some grass weeds I cut before my visit to the aviary.  If Hedwig is feeling hormonal I have to keep an eye on her.  She is not at all grateful for my offerings and if she's nest making, or nest destroying she is likely to land on my shoulder and nip whatever fleshy part she can reach.   If she's not hormonal she loves me to pieces and I'm her favourite human.  It''s a Russian Roulette situation every time I go into the aviary.

Galahs and roosters fed I then move on to the chook pen and let the five Faverolle hens, Serena the Sussex hen and D'Artagnan, the Faverolle rooster and the four ducks out for a forage around the garden.  They head for whatever tender plant I'm trying to keep safe at the time with the exception of one little French girl who knows the Silkies and Phoenix are about the get treats.  She follows me around reminding me that she too likes treats, but turns her nose (beak?) up at whatever I offer her.  It seems she has overly optimistic hopes of what I keep in the scrap bucket.  Phoenix usually tries to convince her that he has the best treats ever seen by a chook and if she comes closer he'll share.  Strangely she rarely takes him up on his offer so he turns to the shut ins as I call the Silkies, Aunty Brown, George, Emu and Henrietta - the Hamburg and Bunny - the Easter Egger.  They are usually more than happy to relieve Phoenix of any treats he may care to pass through the chicken wire that separates them.

Right!  Still with me?  I collect the eggs and do an egg hunt for wherever Isis, the mother duck has hidden her egg this time.  I'm a bit worried at the moment  it's been five days since I've found a duck egg.  There aren't that many hiding places in the chook yard and I'm wondering if she's holding the egg in until she's out and about in the afternoon and is laying them somewhere in the garden.  She's keeping schtum and refusing to discuss her egg laying habits with an egg thief.

After all this I can come inside until around 5 o'clock when it's time to round them up.  D'Artagnan and four of his French girls (they don't have names like the others because they are impossible to tell apart) usually stick together wherever they are in the yard.  One French girl, most likely the one that comes back in looking for treats in the chook yard, is never with the group and Serena goes her own way too.  She's easy to spot being a huge white Sussex and resigns herself to going back into the yard.  She usually takes a very circuitous route to the yard, but eventually gets herself there.  The French lot aren't so well behaved.

D'Artagnan and the girls spread out and head in five different directions.  I've taken to keeping a long stick handy to direct them towards the yard.  This takes some time unless Graeme is around to help, in which case the whole getting the chooks in is over and done with in a matter of minutes.  Sadly the farm work gets in the way of him helping me wrangle the chooks.  Eventually five of my six French chooks and Serena are in the yard.  Whew!  Now comes the difficult part.  I have to close the gate or they will simply walk out and scatter while I'm getting the lone French girl and the four ducks into the general area of the chook yard gate. 

I then circumnavigate the entire acre of yard calling either, "Chook, chook, chook," or "Duck, Duck, Duck,"  whichever takes my fancy on the day.  I usually find the French girl easily and escort her individually to the chook yard.  Opening the gate for her to enter is a slick process.  I have to keep her close enough that I don't have to leave the gate area (the others will simply walk out if I get too far from the gate) and her inclination is to see the gate is closed, shake her head  and say she tried, but what could I expect? and then head off on another foraging expedition.  Once she's finally in I then have to find the ducks.  Nature has been very kind to Australian Call ducks.  They are a nice buff grey or in Isis' case buff brown that blends in with most of my garden.  They are also small enough that if they sit down amongst the plants they just disappear. 

It was so much easier when Christmas was alive.  He was a huge black and while drake and couldn't hide if his life depended on it.  I just had to locate Christmas and I had all the ducks located.  I do have one secret weapon though.  The ducks can't keep quiet.  When they hear me calling they invariably answer and my job is done.  They come quietly (except for the quacks and mutterings) and head for the chook yard as soon as they know they've been spotted.  They always answer me, except for yesterday.  I did three circuits of the yard, calling, "Duck, Duck, Duck," with mounting panic.  I checked out dam outside our house yard in case they'd got through the fence somewhere and finally came back to the chook pen to rethink my search.  That was when one of the drakes broke rank and stood up.   About ten metres from the chook yard gate!  They'd sat there the whole time watching me go round and round the yard and managed to resist the temptation of answering me.  I told them a thing or two about their sense of humour and got them into the chook yard. 

I have a feeling that the drake who stood up and revealed their hiding place wasn't that popular with the rest of the ducks last night.