Saturday 26 November 2011

Show no fear


As we rocketed across a bumpy paddock on the brand new, bright red automatic quad I was pleased I’d enrolled us in an ACC FarmSafe course. The farmer bought the quad at our local agricultural field days – probably at the same time I was earnestly signing up for the course.
My decision FarmSafe was for us was made while herding steers: one jumped up a bank and my dog, Floss, took off after it to keep driving it forward – with me in tow. 
She was on a long leash because five sets of circumstances cause her to ignore commands and the farmer to yell, “Control that expletive dog!” At that moment three were present – the quad, her sister Sue, and a beast that had got separated from the mob. The fourth situation is a stranger (a stranger with a dog or child also induces amnesia) and the fifth is the delectable smell of decomposing possum.
When the steer charged back towards us, I shot out of the bush and scrambled down the bank while the farmer shouted, “Don’t show any fear!”
Fear? We didn’t discuss it at the time (there was no time), but fear didn’t come into my reasoning. Being trampled by a steer would have compromised my comfort, health and, of course, safety. Roll on FarmSafe course, I thought.
On the morning of the course we noted that we’d moved the cattle with no mishaps.  It would have been depressing to have an accident on the same day as the course which, incidentally, kept us safe and sound thus ensuring we weren’t among the 11 or so people destined to have farm accidents that day. (ACC pays out on about 4000 farm accidents a year.)
During the course we were reminded of the old-fashioned safety principle:  Learn from your mistakes.
A few weeks later we were advised we’d passed with full marks then, the very next day, Rex ruined our impeccable safety record by nicking his leg with his chainsaw. The injury resulted in a small bit of flapping skin he wanted to cut off. I thought it would be interesting to lay it back in place, put a plaster on and see whether it healed or died. But he vetoed my idea.
“Nuh,” he said. “That means pulling off the plaster, that means ripping out hairs and that means pain.”
It’s surprising this type of injury isn’t covered in FarmSafe courses.


Saturday 19 November 2011

Dot is a dog in disguise


Obviously one of our cats is really a dog because she prefers dog food and she follows.
When we set off on foot to move cattle it’s like being in a B-grade version of the movie, The Incredible Journey, where two dogs and a cat trek to wherever it was. It’s B-grade because the farm clothes are too tatty for Hollywood.
Another clue to Dot’s dogness is her name. Dot is one letter off Dog – the same as Rex is one letter off that other popular word. We won’t go there, but you must get my point by now: Dot is a dog in disguise.The masquerade means she lives inside, sleeps on the bed, lies by the fire . . . and dives into the dog food bag when it’s left open.
However one aspect of Dot’s character is purely cat – it’s impossible to get tablets down her throat. When she lost hair on her legs, the vet confirmed she was allergic to fleas and prescribed steroids. When I explained the difficulties we had dosing Dot (she eats around tablets hidden and crushed in food) the vet recommended a pill popper. You bung it in the cat’s mouth and fire out a capsule.
Rex and I steeled ourselves for a fight but Tablet One went down on the first try and all I got was a scratched arm. The next day, when we administered Tablet Two, I wore a long sleeved top and it took three attempts to score. Dot was furious with us! She steeled herself for full-on rebellion and Tablet Three skittered across the floor half a dozen times before we said ‘stuff it’ and a few other things and called it a day. (Fortunately Dot’s since made a full recovery.)
Obviously the reason it takes five years to qualify as a vet is because four years are devoted to learning how to get tablets down cats’ throats. There’s an acting module so vets can prescribe tablets for cats without laughing because they know their clients won’t be up to the task.
In year five there’s lots of frantic note taking: cows – four stomachs; woody tongue – iodide solution; everything else – penicillin; repairing wounds – sewing 101, etc, etc.
More evidence of Dot’s dogness showed up when she came home with a limp baby pheasant in her mouth. She dropped it at my feet and wandered off. If that’s not dog behaviour, I’ll eat Dot’s steroids.The pheasant quickly recovered. To stop Dot following me when I released it, I distracted her with food. It wasn’t dog food because the vet says it’s bad for her and we follow instructions when we can. The pheasant flew away and, hopefully, will remember its lesson and won’t find itself clamped in a dog’s mouth ever again.

Saturday 12 November 2011

If Bo Peep was a person


If Bo Peep was a person she would drive a tatty little sportscar too fast. It would be covered in dings from her reckless driving.
Read my last blog: Bo Peep is a lamb with attitude. If she were human she would be ‘known by the police’. She would run red lights, shop lift and nick anything she fancied. She would be impossible to catch.
She would own the latest model cellphone and be really good at text messaging. “Grpvn & strb lvs xlnt” – Grapevine and strawberry leaves are excellent. “Hl 2m frm gt – tgt sqz” – A hole two metres from the gate – a tight squeeze.
After living quietly in the paddock below the house, she led a break out on the day after the last column was published. Could the publicity have gone to her head? We were about to go out when we found the lambs grazing in the section. The farmer said, “Leave them there, Kate (the dog) will scare them away.” Huh! Kate retired to her bed on the back terrace and when we got home Bo Peep and her mate, Stamp, had claimed the day bed; the two little lambs were also on the front terrace.
Tony, who looked after the farm while we were on holiday, and the farmer attempted fencing reinforcements armed with wire mesh, stakes, hammers, etc. A farmer and a professional fencer, they have stood back after each attempt and said things like: “They will never get out of there”, “That’ll fix them”, etc. A few hours later I have found the paddock empty and the lambs grazing the garden or the grape vine.
Bo Peep is always the ringleader and, as a result, the farmer sees rosemary and garlic in her future. The idea gives me indigestion. I’ve fed her for months and adore Bo Peep’s audacity. Little Stamp has been deknackered, so is a gentle creature who only gets out when he’s led by Bo Peep. And the two little girls can make themselves useful by having lambs year after year after year.
One this is for certain – there will be no pet lambs next year. Meanwhile – drive carefully. Bo Peep’s licence plate number is: BAA2U2.

Friday 4 November 2011

The audacious Bo Peep


Bo Peep was supposedly an orphan lamb, but when I got to know her I realised she simply wanted a better life. She’d been a day or so old and bursting with good health when – bleating her heart out - she followed us along the farm road. We installed her in a large cardboard box in the living room, but soon her bleating drove us crazy.
After a local ’sheep psychologist’ determined she was lonely, we found a companion – a tiny boy lamb who had been deserted by his mother and two siblings. He fiercely stamped his feet in what was, apparently, a move to make us back off.  We were very intimidated and named him Stamp.
Bo Peep, meanwhile, learned to jump out of her box and soon resided in the laundry lined with newspaper and hay. I was so impressed with her assertiveness I considered taking notes so I could incorporate her more effective behaviours into my own life, but went off the idea on the day she escaped. The farmer found her standing on the living room couch cheerfully peeing. She was unperturbed by the hissing television she’d turned on when she stood on the remote.
For a while Bo Peep and Stamp spent their days in the quad trailer crate on our lawn, then I herded them into the house paddock where they camped in the mud by the gate and refused to eat grass.
It rained.  The mud turned to sludge. When they wouldn’t shift onto clean grass, we allowed the cold, sopping, grubby lambs to graze the house section where, to our annoyance, they dined on flowers, strawberry plants and the grapevine.
Next we put them in the paddock in front of the house but, after four failed attempts to block their exits, we surrendered and let them graze the section again.
That was when Bo Peep showed her true colours – she wasn’t so much a self confident lamb as an impudent and audacious one.  She’d leap onto the day bed on the terrace, bounce on the mattress and bound off.  She became addicted to this and got Stamp in on the act.
The pair spent much of their time gazing at the countryside from the comfort of the day bed. As they also did the ‘nature’ thing, I figured it was high time to lamb proof a paddock. Armed with kitchen scissors and flexing my muscles, I dragged out a roll of fencing mesh that had been buried under kikuyu grass for a decade or so.  I used electric fence standards to hold it up.
“Phwoar!!” said the farmer when he saw my handiwork.  “I didn’t realise you were such a big strong girl.”
I smiled coyly and didn’t mention that scissors are great for cutting kikuyu.
Life returned to normal until two more newborn lambs, the weakest triplets from hoggets who were going to struggle with so many offspring, showed up. Toru (named for Tahi, Rua, Toru . . . one, two, three in Maori) liked to sniff flowers when she was given the chance, while Freckles followed me everywhere, even when she had a full tummy. Like all pet lambs, they were really cute and adorable - for a while.