Hot Summer Days

It has been an incredibly hot summer in Hawkes Bay so far. Two days ago it was 40oC in the carport at the back of my cottage which really stressed the animals. I made sure Stig the goat and Briar donkey were tethered under the old oak tree in my garden with fresh water for the day while the baby bunnies snuggled next to a container of ice that I keep in my freezer for such heatwaves.

At three weeks of age Ivory's six remaining babies were still spending a certain amount of time in their nest box although they made forays out into the cage to chase their mother round for milk. You'd see them upended with fluffy feet in the air trying to sneak a milk shake before she was alerted to what was going on and hopped away.

At four weeks they were really getting stuck into pellets which took some strain off their poor mother. This also meant they were growing at a great rate. Already personalities are beginning to shine through with the white kits being slightly more shy than their siblings.

There are a couple of cheeky individuals who like posing for a photo so I'm hoping they grow up into good woolers as well. At this stage though I just enjoy watching their interactions with each other and am amazed at how quickly they've learned that I am "food woman".

A Tale of Two Broodies

New Year's Eve a visiting friend walked in and said "Do you know that there's a hen and chicks out there?" I immediately thought of Mohawk and her two month old offspring but no, Gabriella, a black hen with a stubborn streak had arrived with a fresh clutch of many small fluffies. We counted nine with her plus two brownish ones further up the drive which Gwendolyn, the descendent of Squidgey my Old English Game Fowl, promptly stole and sat on. We managed to fill a bucket with babies before clearing a cage to keep them safe in. Gabriella was easy to wrangle as she was hungry after three weeks brooding.

The next morning I went outside to find one small brown chick outside the cage and the other small browny bumblebee down the drive. Threw them back in with Gabriella but later that day she became aggressive and chased them out again while Gwendolyn took them into the garden. Which is when I realised that they were actually Gwen's chickens. I had had two broodies walk out the same day which led to all the confusion.

Later that day one of Gabriella's chicks escaped and a visitor, not sure of what went where, threw it in with Gwendolyn who promptly sat down on it. As Gabby had eight still with her I decided to let Gwen keep her adopted baby and she has done a beautiful job raising it.

Meanwhile Mohawk's chicks arrived at their two month birthday without many problems although the one she had stepped on at a week of age was still struggling with walking. However she began hopping about on one leg quite happily and would peck visitor's toes to try and get them to feed her. All was going well until I found her dead in the cage one morning with her mother standing on her. The five remaining chicks are now ranging around the garden on their own and their mother has returned to the hen house.

I have spoken to the remainder of the flock quite sternly about constantly going broody which has succeeded in frightening three eggs out of them. I am hopeful that I may yet get enough for a fresh summer omelet.

The Young Ones

I've had an explosion of broody bantams this year. Most hide away in the garden with only an occasional scream to alert you as to where they are but few have the tenacity to actually go sit through to a hatch. Imagine my surprise when last summer's chick "Mohawk" (named by my friend Rose) turned up on a hot Saturday afternoon in late October with eight chicks in tow. I managed to coral them into a cage in my carport where they were safe from rats and my neighbour's psycho cat. Unfortunately the chicks weren't safe from their mother's big feet as she constantly stood on them. She managed to break the foot of one small gray chick when it was a week old. Not much that could be done but the little creature coped and would get in amongst the others despite its disability. Then Mohawk stood on two others when they were several weeks old but this time caused internal damage so they passed away. Now she's calming down and they babies are big enough to know to get from under their mother's feet!

I've been trying to get some of my angora girls in kit and finally Ivory from Ebony's first litter managed to get pregnant. Unfortunately she had her babies during the night on 5th October and scattered them over the floor of the cage instead of having them in the nest box so they all died before I could rescue them. I left her a few weeks until putting her back with Baldrick, my agouti buck, and kept an eye on her as she ballooned. On the evening of 8th December I was out at an awards ceremony for the Onga Onga Fire Brigade so didn't check her until 12.30am when she was starting to pluck herself and throw the fibre all over the cage floor again. This time I stayed up and went out at 1.30am to find she'd produced eight kits all of which were alive in a pile on the cage floor. I checked them over and put them into the nest box, covering them with fibre. Next morning they were all fed and warm Ivory finally getting the idea that the nest box was where they were meant to be.

The litter consisted of four white, two agouti, one blue and one black kit. However two of the white kits were small and at four days the smallest died during the night. The other died at ten days of age when the others were opening their eyes.

The others meanwhile blossomed and at two weeks were beginning to pop out of their nest box to try and hassle their Mum for milk. The blue was the ring leader for these sorties being very inquisitive.

Ivory has proved a wonderful first time Mum, very caring despite the rocky start. But I am feeling sorry for her now as she sometimes looks overwhelmed when several kits try to burrow under her for a sneaky feed. Especially as they're born with teeth. It's not easy being a Mum.

Lenin's Bedroom Adventure

Funny how a humble chook can bring a smile even during the darkest times. It's a week since my brother Richard died so I've been utterly miserable but even I managed a laugh the other afternoon when I came inside to find Lenin the fluffy gray rooster strutting round my bedroom. I assume he was wondering why my bed was on the floor but I have been rust treating and painting the wrought iron bedstead which is taking forever due to a combination of bee stings (insects are apparently attracted to the solvents in enamel paint) and terrible weather.

Of course Lenin had left a few little deposits which I assume were his commentary on the evils of capitalism. Every time I tried to shoo him out the room he left a few more little comments on the carpet. Finally I just let him do his thing and he strolled quite calmly out the front door.

Exploding Bantams

There's a bantam explosion over the past few months. Firstly Georgia the fluffy white hen walked out with two small chicks (one yellow one gray) before her daughter from last year nicknamed "Mohawk" by my friend Rose due to her feathery head arrangement produced a small black one which she raised conscientiously for a month before abandoning it. Three weeks ago Francesca the black bantam with delicate flecks of gold around her neck arrived with four offspring. A week later Georgia produced another two out of thin air (again a yellow one and a gray) and on the same day Gabriella came out with four black fluff balls although so far she has managed to lose two, one of which she sat on and squished. These are all housed in three separate cages in the carport as protection against wandering cats (mine). The cacophony of cheeping when it's meal time has to be heard to be believed. My hand bears the scars of Francesca's impatience when I don't hurry up.

In the meantime Georgia's first two offspring from this season were moved into "The Big House". Her little white son has morphed into quite a nice little bird who obediently trots inside every evening. Her gray daughter however has turned out to be a strumpet who hangs around with the three outside roosters and makes a complete show of herself. Obviously a fowl teenage delinquent.

In related news it is with a heavy heart I write of the sad demise of "Son Of Bovril" who has not appeared for two days. Well over ten years old this gentle little golden replica of his Dad was a hit with the hens due to his kind ways. Always willing to give up a worm for a good looking hen, never one to chase them down for some quick loving first thing in the morning. We will never see his like again.

The Miraculous Escaping Donkey

Briar has been on a diet since August. And she's not happy. She had been enjoying freedom in the company of some pet lambs in another paddock where she had stuffed her face to her heart's content but when I went to fetch her for a hoof trim I noticed that she was not so keen on walking back with me. It took me half an hour to move her fifty feet as she was so uncomfortable. She had, in a word, foundered. The farrier told me it was important she be fenced in a small area with limited access to food so I hauled out my electric fence unit which hadn't been used since early 1998 and did a crash course on learning how to work it.

Turned out I was an abject failure at mastering electric fence units. However a friend came round, actually read the instructions, and with a little effort it wasn't long until I was getting a few shocks. At first Briar was extremely pissed off. Before long I began feeling sorry for her so would allow her into my garden area for half an hour's grazing which worked well until I forgot to shut the driveway gate and she made a break for freedom. That saw me chasing one very fat gray ass down the road. Every time I seemed to near her she would kick up a gear and tear past me. Fortunately after a kilometre she developed sore feet and had to seek refuge on the side of the road where I trapped her by a gate, managing to get her halter on before she sped off again. As the road slopes slightly we had an even quicker trip home as by this time I was in a bit of a mood.


Then Briar developed magical powers. In the morning her enclosure would be devoid of donkey and I would go down the road to discover her ensconced in my landlord's parent's front paddock. On one occasion I roped in a friend to help me get her back- it took two of us a good half hour of pushing and pulling her across an incredibly bumpy field before we reached home. Another time it took three frail females, two hauling on her halter, me bringing up the rear pushing her enormous rear, to finally return her to what she now regarded as a prison. Finally though I discovered the secret of her escape method- she would just crawl underneath the electric fence tape not caring if she was zapped or not. The frequent sight of me dragging a reluctant fat donkey back along the road caused many a near accident as neighbouring farmers slowed down their utes in order to have a good laugh.

As a more svelte donkey emerged from beneath three saddlebags of fat so did her previous happy go lucky nature. If Briar managed to escape during the night she would always walk back when I went out first thing in the morning, squeezing under the electric fence tape in order to say hello. She also developed a quasi friendly relationship with Stig the goat. Although there would be a few kicks and bucks while he tried to headbutt her as she attempted to steal his food if I wasn't around they would happily sit near each other chewing the fat and cuds in mutual contentment.

The Phone Phobic Pooch

When you re home an older dog you automatically take on all their little foibles as well. Joey's previous owners had admitted that he had a slight phone phobia but that it just involved him running constantly from room to room while they were talking. I noticed this the first time someone called me. The phone ringing would stir him into action and he would trot around constantly with his mouth open until I hung up. Then I noticed that he would follow me to the sitting room and watch anxiously to see if I was going to use the phone. This soon developed into running and pushing into me with his front feet before scooting away while I was talking. Then he began barking at me constantly. I tried to make my being on the phone a pleasant experience for him. I bought rawhide treats and would produce them while I was talking so he could take his frustration out them instead of my legs but every so often he would still make a running jump at me. A friend gave me a plastic bottle of stones to shake at him when he barked at me but this just meant he would bark from a distance. In the end if I wanted peace and quiet I would have to put him on his lead which seemed to keep him calm.

But then Joey became sneaky. If the phone rang he would pull it off its holder and remove the handset, often carrying it out onto the lawn where it would be clawed at, scratched and bitten. I began hiding the phone up on an armchair beneath a cushion and a pile of laundry waiting to be ironed. On re-entering the room I'd discover the washing all over the floor and the handset mauled. Not only the phone was at risk but anything sitting nearby which is how a DVD cover and DVD remote control lost their lives.

I was forced to shut the sitting room door whenever I went outside to prevent Joey's phone abuse. But my memory is not as good as it used to be and I would occasionally forget to take precautions which is how my dear black cordless phone had its antennae bitten off. However it still worked.... for a time. Then I forgot the door again and found the handset's corpse proudly laid in state on the dining room carpet. I hauled out the old white cord phone thinking this would be ignored. Within two days the cord was severed in an act of callous and unwarranted violence. I was forced to use a very old Telecom phone that would only work if I plugged it into a jack near the back door which forced me to make all my calls sitting by the kitty litter trays.

I now have a new $4 phone from Trademe. It sits on top of the mantelpiece and instead of ringing it plays Paganini's Variations on a Theme. I don't know what happened to Joey as a young dog that caused his extremely hatred of phones. I only know that any telephone in this house is in mortal danger and that talking to my friends is no longer a joy but is seen as an act of war by a hairy pooch with a phobia.

Gemma & Joey

In mid June I had a dream. I dreamed that my Dad and I went to the local SPCA and he accidentally let a ginger cat out of its cage. I told him not to worry as it would come home on its own which it did- we managed to sneak it back in before the woman who ran the SPCA came back. Obviously ginger cats had been on my mind since Peaches died three weeks previously but even so the dream felt very real somehow, despite the fact that my Dad died in 2002. I was due for a blood test on the morning of June 13th so my friend Rose and I decided we'd pop into the Waipukurau SPCA afterwards.

On arriving one of the volunteers asked if we'd come to play with the kittens and never being one to let something fluffy go by unpetted we said yes. First she had to make sure that none of them got out so we had to go into a short corridor, shut the door behind us, open another door into the first of the kitten rooms. When I went in a ginger and white kitten marched up to me and put it's little forehead to my forehead while putting its paw on my left cheek. However his name was "Nutbar" which didn't bode well. The volunteer read out the names of all the kitties including "Ivan" who was named after a vet. Rose asked her if Nutbar had been named after a vet as well...

We spent a good ten minutes playing with the kittens who were having a good attempt at eviscerating my hands. We then went through the same rigmarole of getting into a small corridor and having two doors shut before we frolicked with the next room of black and tabby kittens. All kittens are cute but sometimes none "speak" to you. We were just about to leave the SPCA when the volunteer said there was one room left but it was full of older kittens. We entered to see several black young cats careering around so we stayed in there for five minutes before we had to leave for another appointment. Just as we were going out of the room Rose said "Oh look at this one" and reaching up to a high shelf pulled a small black tortoiseshell female cat down. She was an older kitten with a patch of white fur at her neck and white paws with patches of ginger amongst the black. Purring like an engine she rubbed our hands and rolled over which is when I fell for her hook line and sinker.

The volunteer came back into the room and told me the kitten was named "Flossie" and had been with them three months as no one wanted her due to her colour. All this time Rose was saying "You'd be doing a good thing" but I didn't need any encouragement and told the volunteer that I would collect her in a week.


That same day I received an email from someone who had seen my advert in the "Pawprint" (magazine of the Central Shetland Sheepdog Club) asking for an older Sheltie to rehome. She had a six year old male Sheltie called Beaucourt Outta My Dreams aka "Joey" who had just retired from the show ring as a champion. They had four other dogs and he was near the bottom of the pack and she felt that he would benefit from one on one attention from someone who was home most of the time. When I replied to her it turned out that she only lived 45 minutes away from me in Hastings.

Over the week we exchanged emails about Joey as she enquired about my situation, fencing, the other animals I had. I in turn wanted to make sure that he liked cats, was a quiet dog and wouldn't mind a more sedate lifestyle. Then we made arrangements for the owners and Joey to visit that following Saturday (18th July).

It was a cold rainy day when Joey arrived in a blue four wheel drive with his owners. I could see his little fox like face peering out the back window with such a look of Mishka. For the next hour we discussed his likes and dislikes and his routine while Joey wandered around occasionally creeping up to sniff my hand. He seemed a timid dog but it was no wonder when I learned his story.

When he was a six week old puppy his breeder took her 13 dogs including Joey and his siblings to a show in Wellington. On her way home a vehicle forced her van off the road and down a fifty metre bank. In the crash two dogs were killed and the breeder severely injured, ending up in a wheelchair. Many Sheltie owners on hearing this took her dogs into their homes as a temporary measure which is how Joey had many homes in his first two years before arriving to live with his current owners. He showed some behavioural issues including a clingy tendency and a difficulty with the phone, running constantly from room to room when ever someone was speaking on it.


After an hour the owners said they'd leave Joey with me that day. They gave me a small red backpack with his toys, food and little duvet and drove away not knowing that Joey was watching them go. That night he slept on his little duvet next to my bed. For many days he would run repeatedly around the outside of the house although thankfully he never took any interest in the chickens. The cats meanwhile were delighted with the return of a Sheltie back to the house. It took him several days before he began to bark when anyone came to the door which meant that he finally felt at home at last. The only problem I had with Joey was his issues with the telephone but that's another story...

Peaches

Last week (18th May) my oldest angora rabbit, Cadbury, passed away aged nine years of age. He had been operated on for cancer four years ago but had gone from strength to strength since even flirting with the doe in the cage next to him. Recently he developed a weakness in his hind legs which made it difficult to get up and this worsened to the point that he needed to be upended to get about. When he was at the stage of barely being able to get around (although still eating) I made up my mind to do something but the decision was taken out of my hands as he died one afternoon while I was away. Very peacefully by the look of it.

That was expected. But this afternoon when I came home with a friend to discover my lovely Peaches cat dead on the side of the road I went into a state of shock. Peaches who has always been a gently reserved cat with the loudest purr imaginable. The cat who loved playing with mice, who always wanted to sleep as far up the bed as possible so that she was the first face I saw in the morning. Peachy who, if I was upset, would stand up with her paws on my knee and look intently at me before reaching one arm across towards me as if to say "it's ok. I'm here".

If I went to collect the mail Peaches would rush towards me, arching up on her hind legs to butt my hand with her head or else rolling over in the gravel of the driveway to show off her lovely striped belly. She was invariably polite, always asking permission to jump up on my lap. Always ready to pose for the camera. And when minky blanket came to live here, Peachy bum was the first to take possession of it, wherever it happened to be. On top of the chair, on my bed, on the sofa. She'd be busy needling it to within an inch of its life.

Then there was Gypsy the little black cat she'd been raised with. Smaller than Peach but more dominant she would instigate rather vicious wrestling matches which would result in little ginger roaring and hissing before falling off the bed. The next minute they'd be cuddled up asleep in each others arms. Outside it was Peaches who was the boss and Gypsy would watch entranced as she played with a mouse or else they'd be playing chasey across the lawn.

Peach came to live with me in January 2005 at about three months of age. She brought me comfort at a terrible time and she has been doing so ever since. What a treasure of a cat and how she will be missed.

The Mysterious Disappearance Of The Noodle Rooster

Recently Noodle had been digging graves in the veggie garden. I was never sure as to whether he was preparing for his own imminent demise or if he had evil intentions to murder the younger rooster who had taken his place as Head Cock. The rest of his time, as befitting an elderly chook, was spent sunning himself in the garden or else eating the acorns that were scattered on the driveway. Occasionally he would take his favourite old white hen for a discreet wander down the paddock away from prying eyes. However a month ago she expired due to.... well I assume exhaustion. Since then Noodle had been spending much of his time alone, just keeping his hand in by digging the occasional grave.

4th April Noodle and a young five month old rooster I called "Cuddly" due to his penchant for smooching with me, didn't turn up at bedtime. Each night Cuddly would snuggle up with his siblings while Noodle had a perch in the hedge since he'd been kicked out of the hen house when he lost the "Battle For Top Rooster". Next morning there was no sign of them either. I checked the road, around the paddocks but there was no sign of feathers, guts, half eaten acorns, anything. Both birds had completely disappeared. Noodle was over ten years old but Cuddly was just five months so it is a mystery fit for Miss Marple. Although I have many roosters I am currently trying to re home these two were guaranteed a forever home here due to their lovable personalities.

In the meantime a couple of my rabbits have been slightly off their pellets. The feed company have changed the recipe and bunnies are quite fussy when it comes to their food. However I kept feeding these two bucks grass to keep them going and they seemed to be drinking and taking an interest in events going on in the rabbitry. However this Monday we had a large 5.1 earthquake at lunchtime and I never thought to go check on the rabbits as I had a meeting to attend early that afternoon. However when I went out later in the day Bumble, my blue three year old buck was prostrate on the cage floor, dying. Now he has never been the best rabbit since I bought him as a baby. Coat a bit dishevelled, very occasionally he would sneeze and have a snotty nose so I would isolate him from the others in case something serious was brewing but it never came to anything. But there was enough doubt there for me to decide not to breed from him and it looks like I was right as Bumble died yesterday afternoon. Always so sad to bury a pet and I also couldn't help wishing that Noodle had been around to help me dig the grave.

The Hen In The Head Saga

I was hit in the head with a chicken a week ago. Seriously. Kept finding smashed eggs on the concrete floor of the wash house and then a tallish friend discovered Gabriella the Black Hen sitting on one lone egg up on the top of a built out wall. When she tried to reach past her to collect six rotten eggs that had rolled under a shelf said bantam took fright, flew to the window before making a target of my head. Not that I got any sympathy from my friend "Just another day of excitement at the Little House On The Prairie" was her comment.

The unplanned pregnancies of the past year have resulted in a surplus of roosters. This causes terrified hens who are sometimes cornered by young cockerels with gang rape on their mind. So far have put adverts in local free trader magazines and the school newsletter but apparently "Gorgeous colourful bantam roosters" are in plentiful supply as I haven't had any replies.

Meanwhile Stig is mortified at the appearance of firewood in "his" shed so during the daytime I have been tethering him to the fence along the driveway so he can mow the lawn and the trees and make rude faces at the chickens. He still bawls like a stuck pig when he sees his Mummy but otherwise we go minutes at a time without even a maaaah so he is growing up at last. However there is some resentment simmering there as when I am busy undoing his chain from the fence he usually sneaks around behind me and butts me up my backside.

After a few days of 36oC weather in Tikokino the garden looks pretty sad. However there are two new additions. I finally managed to find an upright rosemary bush for just $3, in part due to extreme woodiness. I've planted it between the Margaret Merrill bush rose my friend Jacqueline gave me and the thyme bush plonked on top of Sarah the gray bantam hen. My friend Glenys is forsaking Central Hawkes Bay for Cromwell down Otago way and last Friday her husband and brother delivered a large green container filled with waterlilies which now graces the patio outside the dining room window. Despite its size the cats have managed to completely ignore it until this morning when Peaches decided it made a great drinking bowl. She is nothing if not practically minded.

Another Unplanned Pregnancy, Fire Across Road and Death

January began with a cluck. A filthy hot day (3rd Jan) I was sitting at the computer when I hear loud cheeping coming from the vicinity of the hen house. Except this was a newly hatched cheeping and my other chicks were a couple of months old at the time. Went out in the scorching sun and discovered Kit sitting next to a tiny black chick. Picked it up and wandered 50 feet into the paddock where I had thought I'd heard cheeping a couple of days before coming from the other side of the woodshed. Sure enough I discovered Lara the black hen sitting under a mess of old bikes. When she saw the chick she called while it ran madly towards her. Thinking that was sorted I went back to the computer. Half an hour later I heard more loud cheeping coming from the hen house. Back out and discovered Kit watching a pale gray chick wandering round. I collected it and took it to Mum. Obviously she'd become thirsty and hungry from sitting on her eggs and gone to tank up at The Big House and the chicks had followed her and got left behind. The next morning Lara appeared with the gray and two black chicks so I put them in a cage to keep them safe from predators.

Meanwhile Ella's eight chicks were growing well although unfortunately a large proportion turned out to be roosters. Very funny to watch her try to brood these huge babies when she could only just manage to cover two with her wings. Even she soon tired of this and in mid January went off the cluck and back to the flock. Meanwhile I became close to one speckled baby who enjoyed sitting on my knee, arm or wherever she could perch. Well I hope it's a she although I did catch her trying to crow one morning. At the moment she's transgender.

The 15th January was another scorcher. My garden had given up and turned brown. It was windy. So was I. Mid afternoon I glanced outside and everywhere was bathed in an eerie orange light. When I went near the windows I could smell smoke so panicked and rushed out to rescue my underwear off the line as there is nothing worse in life than smoky knickers. Stig the goat and I went to the front gate and across the road saw a haze of smoke with four helicopters and monsoon buckets trying to put out a grass fire. My landlord's son rode over on his bike to say that the neighbour had been combine harvesting when the tractor hit a stone and the fire started. All in all 120 acres were burnt and it took the fire brigades of Tikokino, Onga Onga, Waipawa, Waipukurau and Hastings (forty minutes away) to put it out. I spent a nervous night wondering if the high winds would reignite it. Next morning heard the fire sirens again but they were only dampening down smoldering areas.

The same day I'd found a Sheltie dog for free on Trademe. Rang the owner who told me she and her husband were re homing him as they wanted to go out camping more. I said I would take him and she said she would talk to her husband about bringing him across from Wanganui. To say I was excited would be an understatement although his name (Buffy) did give me cause for concern in a household of Demelzas, Baldricks and Stigs. Wednesday morning the owner emailed to say that she had decided to give him to someone else as they didn't want to drive over. Didn't even give me the chance to find another way to get him. This was all the more painful as an hour before I'd learned that my mother had died during the night. So the following week was spent with high emotions as we attempted to give Mum the proper send off.

Monday the 24th January was her funeral in Napier. My cousin Elaine and I drove up on a wet and nasty morning and had lunch with my brother, his wife, birth mother, brother and partner and sister. After the funeral at St John's Cathedral and a quick cup of tea Elaine and I came back down to Central. Next day I was back in Napier for a doctor's appointment which has resulted in an emergency referral to the rheumatology clinic at the Regional Hospital as the GP thinks I have an extremely rare auto immune disorder which only affects two people in Hawkes Bay. Guess that explains why I have felt like crappier than usual for so long. So if I have two rare disorders I guess that just makes me more exclusive. And interesting in a wane, windswept sort of way. Although I really feel as if I've been hit in the head with a frying pan with the events of the past month I try to be grateful for all the good things in life while trying to make sense of all the bad.

Dirty Doings and the Psycho Terrorists

Suddenly it's New Year's Eve and all this year's resolutions are about to be renewed and ignored. Especially the one about keeping this blog updated regularly. The past couple of months have sped by in a wave of roses and weeds. The garden has looked very pretty in photographs. Beneath those lovely flowers lurks convolvulus that twines its way up stems and strangles everything. And below that is the couch grass that matts itself amongst the root systems. But I keep plodding away. Eventually I'll get on top of the weeds or die trying. Currently thinking about buying one of those DIY coffin kits and using it as a coffee table just in case the garden wins.


In the meantime we all have to contend with the heat and the gale force winds. Tuesday these reached 130 kms here in Tikokino. Plants are now wind burnt and lying sideways on the ground. I meanwhile lay sideways on the sofa, the fan on high, fixed in position so I was doing a reclining Marilyn Monroe with my skirt billowing. No way to work outside as a dirt storm engulfed us. Some silly buggers had ploughed fields which were then lifted into the air and evenly distributed over every surface within a ten mile radius. At one point I looked north and saw what looked like a tornado rising up behind a friend's farm. Usually I can look across towards the mountains but these were obscured with a haze of filth that sped its way across and dumped itself on me.


The chooks didn't care. It saved them all from expending energy on a conventional dust bath. Widget the outside rooster who refuses to live in the hen house since Franz (the dominant cock) beat the crap out of him loves perching on any available fence post and crowing his superiority to anyone who'll listen. Whenever I go outside I am mobbed by a crowd of ravenous hens, chicks, a yelling goat, roaring donkey and an occasional pissed off cat. A friend who often calls this "A Mad House" informed me yesterday that my animals are "psycho terrorists". Couldn't have said it better myself.

Searching For The Enigma That Is Stig

Mishka has been gone a month now. Hardest part is coming home and not having his pointy little face at the window. Cats have been confused. I've been lonely. Trying to find another Sheltie however is problematic due to cost. I spent nearly $600 in medical fees for Mish so only have $80 birthday money towards a new dog at the moment. Cost of a Sheltie puppy is $900- up $700 from when I bought Mishka in 1997. Inflation has a lot to answer for. I have been looking at other breeds but they're either up there in price or else don't inspire any desire in me to own them. Designer breeds (what we used to call mongrels) are the worst. Weimadoodles, cavoodles, schnoodles- every sort of doodly poodly combo fills Trademe's listings. Have spoken to two Sheltie breeders about finding an older dog needing a loving home so think that may be the best option.



On the 3rd November Ella the hen walked out with eight little chicks. She's a bit of a playgirl so they all seem to have different fathers. I couldn't keep her in the woodshed since Stig is still King in there so put a wire cage in the carport at the back door which has made it easy to take care of them. Ella is a good Mum and once she got over the desire to rip my hand off every time I offered food we started up a pretty good relationship.


Ebony's remaining two babies are big and healthy. I haven't handled them as much as I would like as I was so nervous after the others died that I didn't want to risk passing some nasty bacteria onto them but they now come up and ask to be patted and made a fuss of.


Stig has been my saving grace. Stig the demanding not quite four month old goat who has to be walked three times a day and who has ensured I keep weeding the garden in an effort to feed this demanding maahing spoilt monster. Stig who is learning to shake hands although he can sometimes decide to shake hands with your head when you're bending over. Stig who on occasion runs away so he can dash inside for a quick explore before I catch up with him. Stig who, if he spies a basket of clean washing, grabs a pair of my knickers and runs about shaking them up and down. Stig who wails like a banshee when he's throwing a tanty. I love goats!

Last Journey

I felt sick when I made the appointment for Mishka to be euthanised yesterday. I rang the local vets to check who would come out and do it for me but their mileage prices were so high that I had to face the fact that we would have to go to the clinic. Vet Services who did the original operation on Mish said that a vet would come to the car to save him the stress of going into the building with all its smells and unpleasant memories.

Every thing I did with Mish I mentally reminded myself that it would be for the last time “This is his last walk outside, this is his last meal, this is the last night”. After a broken night I got up early and fed everyone before I came inside to finish chores. As I was making my bed I kept feeling someone watching and would turn to see Mish lying in the dining room looking at me. Finally I knelt beside him and brushed his coat so he’d look his best for his final journey. I picked him up and cuddled him with his head resting on my shoulder. As he looked into the little hallway by the back door his ears went up and down repeatedly as if something was there but of course there was nothing.

As we sat there a song came on the radio- The Beatles “Golden Slumbers”. The lines “Golden Slumbers guide you to your rest” followed by “Hush little baby don’t you cry/And I will sing you a lullaby” started me off and when the song ended with “And in the end/The love you take/Is equal to the love/You make” that about finished me off.

Finally, just after 9am my friend Rose arrived to take us to the clinic. We put the cat basket and sheepskin Mish had commandeered after his operation on the back seat of the car while I sat illegally with him on my knee in the front. A very long fraught journey into Waipukurau later we arrived a few minutes late for my appointment. Rose went inside and came back with a form I had to sign giving my permission for the procedure. She then opened the hatchback and I settled Mishka into the basket while we waited for the vet to come out. Unfortunately he was running late so it was nearly 10am by the time he appeared by which time we were cold and Mishka stressed.

The nurse told me she had helped the original vet with the cancer operation in August and they’d been sure they’d removed all the cells and it wouldn’t reoccur. She couldn’t get over how aggressively the tumours had re grown. I told them Mishka’s left leg was very sore so they shaved his right one instead but couldn’t get a vein. However when they tried the same with his left leg Mish snapped at the vet so they went back to the right. As the injection went in I began to sob, resting my head on top of Mish’s as his eyes began to close and he went to sleep. Unfortunately for him my face was the last thing he saw in this world.

We drove home with him curled up in the little bed and managed to finish digging the grave I had begun yesterday without crying. When Rose took him out of the car and I touched him he was still warm and looked as if he was just sleeping. I laid him in the grave and put a sprig of jasmine on top of him and at that point we both lost it so I ended up helping filling in the grave with my eyes shut.

After Rose left I wandered around outside for an hour as I couldn’t bear to go into the house. When I finally became too cold the sense of loss was huge but the black and white cats came and sat beside me until I lay down and went to sleep.

So bye Mishka. King of the Egg Eaters. Cat Humper. Total Guts. Best Friend.

Time To Say Goodbye

When is the right time to let go? Watching Mishka gradually worsen each week I told myself it would be when he could no longer eat or wag his tail. But here we are weeks on and yet he still has an interest in his food (and everyone else's) and always has a wag ready and waiting. But two weeks ago he suddenly developed a limp in his left front leg after a egg search expedition in the shelter belt accompanied by a stray cow. He had trouble touching his paw to the ground but it seemed like the trouble was coming from the shoulder. Gradually each day he has curtailed his perambulations around the garden to the point now that he only wanders twenty feet from the door for a toilet stop or else to the woodshed to steal Stig's milk.

The mouth tumours have grown back and became ulcerated and infected a couple of weeks ago so he's back on antibiotics. The tumour in the lymph node of his neck has doubled so goodness knows what's going on in the rest of his body. Despite eating well and all his supplements and alternative treatments he is beginning to lose a little weight. He looks sad.

Mishka sleeps a lot now although he takes an interest in visitors. Especially one doggy one, Pippi the blue heeler, who was sitting in a truck last Saturday with Mishka whining up at her. Quick as a flash she jumped out of the window and much bum sniffing ensued before Mish began some intensive "wild thang". Distracting him from her wasn't too easy but she didn't seem to mind until she decided to go to the loo and Mish, never being man to let a chance go by, hopped on sideways. At that Pippi took umbrage and began growling so was locked back in the truck leaving a love lorn Romeo whining up at her.

Yesterday I rang the vets and discussed the options for putting Mish to sleep. As bringing them out here is too expensive and Mish is terrified of the clinic they will come out to the car and with me sitting beside him on the back seat they will set him free. He loves going for car rides so hopefully will be unsuspecting of what is about to happen. The last gift you can ever give your pet is unselfishness on your part- to learn when it is time to say goodbye.

Baby Bunny Bother

What should have been a happy time welcoming new bunnies into the world has turned into a fraught experience. What with the "jelly babies" constantly getting out of their nest box after being fed, to the first death of a seven day old white kit that I didn't discover out of the box since it had wriggled behind it and was hidden from view.

Six beautiful kits made it to two weeks and all opened their eyes. There was some difference in size from large and fat to small and fat but Ebony seemed to be doing a good job looking after her litter.

The only agouti kit (a buck) in particular was huge for its age and doing especially well until Saturday 2nd October when I discovered it sitting in the cage hunched up and looking very miserable. On close examination it had a bad case of green diarrhea which had only appeared that afternoon as it was fine when I checked in the morning. I isolated it from the others and brought it inside and tried to help but within two hours it was dead. This was my first case of kit diarrhea ever.

The following Wednesday I was showing friends the remaining five white kits when we noticed that one was slightly bald on top of its head as well as being (along with another baby) quite a bit smaller than the others. Next morning on the 8th Oct everyone looked fine and I began chores only to have my washing machine which is within ear shot of the rabbitry have a complete breakdown and try to make a break for freedom with all the noise it could muster. Then at 8.30am the lawn mower man arrived unexpectedly and began weed eating nearby. When I went to check on the bunnies an hour later one of the small kits was lying dead with the others sitting on it. I assumed it died of fright. Then the next day little Baldy died. When I examined it there was a huge bluish swelling on its head so that must have been part of the cause of death.

The kits reached three weeks and began hanging out with Mum a lot more although at first they were reluctant to enter the nest box after Baldy's death which made me wonder if he'd had a seizure which scared the hell out of them. They then reached four weeks of age and I began to relax until Sunday 17th Oct when I went out first thing on a warm still Spring morning to find the largest kit dead in the nest box. No signs of injury, the body was still warm and limp. Everyone else seemed fine and happy to see me but I now approach their cage with trepidation. In 24 years of keeping rabbits I have never lost five kits from a litter. Bunny bother. Or bother bunnies.

The Stig

My four goats Xena, Gretel, Heidi and Hoggle have disappeared off the face of the earth or at least into the depths of a Tikokino farm that is filled with goat-friendly gorges and cliffs. It is unlikely they will ever be caught. The pain of losing these four unbridled wild spirits has meant that I have had great difficulty even saying the word goat. That is until a couple of weeks ago.

My friend Rose's goat Brenda had triplets on 6 August 2010, two girls and a boy. She has been living on a farm so she could have access to a billy who not only sired triplets with Brenda but also with another nanny. Rose offered the male goat to me and I of course accepted. On 18 September we headed north towards Hastings in pouring rain, driving wind, the whole climatic gamut. There was no one around when we arrived at the farm so Rose went to find a farm worker who told us where the baby goats were housed.

Brenda was tied in a shed opposite the farm house near stalls full of bottle fed lambs who thought we were there to provide lunch. Rose had brought along a bag full of chopped apples and fed Brenda by hand until her friends Lesley and Rowan arrived home from shopping. Rowan released the triplets who bounded out and began to help themselves to "Moosli" calf food out of a bag. He grabbed the wether and popped him on my knee which nearly caused the poor little boy to have a serious case of conniptions. Rowan then fitted him with a collar and chain as he felt he needed to be tethered until he was tamed.

After a cup of tea in front of the fire Rose and I prepared to leave, me with the little goat standing on my knee looking out the front window of the car. He was quite disturbed on the way home but then decided to climb down by my feet where he sat quietly for the remainder of the journey.

It was still cold and rainy when we arrived home so we left the little goat standing on the passenger seat looking out across the paddocks while we goat proofed the woodshed where he would be living initially. Rose tipped a large cardboard box on its side for him to sleep in and we spread dry sawdust and the last of my hay on the ground. When I opened the car door to get him out he had christened the car seat. We settled the kid into the woodshed where he stood small and alone and slightly scared. After Rose went home I sat with him for half an hour until I was sure he was settled. However when I went inside the cottage he cried. And cried. And cried. Like a human baby wanting its mother. This continued until darkness fell when he quietened.

Rowan had provided me with a partial bag of Moosli and some milk powder along with a bottle and teat. However to get the little goat to suck on this I had to hold him between my knees and force it into his mouth. This led to some differences of opinion until he managed to bite the teat length ways so it was unusable. However I found that he would drink the milk mixture if I poured it into an ice cream container so it all turned out well in the end.

I had a few suggestions for names but suddenly "Stig" popped into my mind and wouldn't pop out again. Perhaps because he resembled Top Gear's The Stig in that he was white and had large googly eyes. As the week wore on he began to recognise me as the bringer of food and would bellow like a spoilt three year old when I left him alone. After a day I took Stig for a walk on his chain and he trotted happily along so in the end I let him go and he ran after me. He also ran after the roosters which caused some noisy consternation amongst the poultry population. He became so attached to me that he followed me inside the house and I discovered him sizing up the bed in the spare room. Stig was informed that that was not an option.

SOME SAY that he only knows two facts about humans: one is that they're really just funny looking goats, the other is that they're cruel with holders of Moosli. We just know him as The Stig. (With apologies to Jeremy Clarkson who does much funnier introductions on Top Gear).

Flowers and Furries

Two more smallish lumps have appeared under Mishka's facial hair this week but the main tumour inside his lip doesn't seem to have grown much at all. At the moment he is on 2,000 mgs of chewable Vitamin C every day plus a clove of garlic cut up and hidden in his meat. I also began him on Homeopathic Thuja 30c three times daily. Should be 6x but this is almost impossible to find here in Hawkes Bay. The vet doesn't believe in homeopathy but said to go for it anyway as it "can't hurt". At this stage Mishka is pain free and has his usual appetite although he supplemented his ordinary diet by finding and eating some soft runny sheep manure yesterday. So much for trying to keep his mouth clean and germ free. But he seemed happy.


Mish and I have been spending some time out in the garden while I battle the weeds. The hellebores or winter roses have been amazing. There are at least four colours and variations in between. I try not to disturb them so they'll increase in numbers.


Because there was no drought this year many of the plants that flowered poorly last season have been making a huge effort this year. The red camellia bush that just had one lonely flower last spring is making up for lost time.


The grape hyacinths have spread into the unlikeliest of places popping up in the lawn around the oak tree. Lawn mower man carefully avoided these areas so I will mark them and dig up the bulbs so they can safely be replanted in the garden.

Yesterday Ebony rabbit kindled seven small individuals. Last week I'd decided she was not pregnant but just overweight but after discovering her busy plucking herself at 7am I moved her to the breeding cage with a nest box and by the afternoon she had everything done and dusted. Daddy Goblin had the easiest job, just handing celebratory carrots round to all the other bucks in the rabbitry.

Sarah's Siesta and Mish's Potty Mouth

Mishka's wound healed beautifully after his operation but two weeks afterwards I noticed his hind foot was pinkish and when I looked in his mouth a new ulcer had appeared to the right of the operation site, inside his mouth and just under his nose. The vet sent antibiotics out with the mailman the next day which cleared up the infection but within two days the lump underneath had increased in size. I spent two stress filled days wringing my hands but then just decided to enjoy having him around while he was happy and energetic. I doubled the amount of Vitamin C tablets I was giving as well as starting him on a clove of raw garlic every day. Needless to say this has to be hidden in his meat. Ringing his breeder she was amazed at how well he was doing at age 13 as she has a dog the same age who is completely blind and deaf. But I could hear in her voice that she thought I only had borrowed time with Mishka. This means he receives some treats he wasn't allowed before like cheese although I still balk at him eating manure- especially as I need to keep his mouth clean. Amazingly his appetite is the same and he is playful and perky so I can't ask for anything more.


Meanwhile we had a funeral for Sarah the hen or "Ugly" as my friend Rose calls her. After raising her two chicks earlier this year she began to develop a lump on her leg which slowly grew larger. Despite this disability she hopped around quite happily, sometimes hitching a ride with me as well as begging me to crack acorns which she fed on from my hand. A friend with an agricultural background was coming out to have a look at her but on Wednesday 25th August she died in a sudden cold snap. I buried her under a thyme bush in the garden with her youngest daughter standing beside me. I tried to think sentimentally that she was saying goodbye to her Mum but the more likely scenario was that she was just waiting for me to dig up worms.