Here chook, chook

(For overseas readers: in New Zealand we call hens 'chooks' - thus this is a tale about hens.)

Who cares about calling birds, French hens, turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree? Once I got a conventional chook for Christmas, but not in the way we usually think of Christmas chooks.

Blackie, a strapping Plymouth Barred Rock who’d outlived seven chooks, needed a companion. I’d bought her along with two Silver Laced Wyandottes whose feathers have the lacy pattern associated with Wild West music hall singers and Flamenco dancers. I named the Wyandottes after girlfriends who were flattered until the shortcomings of the system became evident when Rex’s dog Mo attacked one. I washed her wounds, dried her with a hairdryer - and changed her name. As she couldn’t walk, I’d sit her in the sun; a few bursts of fly killer kept flies away. Amazingly she recovered only to come to a sad end months later thanks to Kate the puppy who I suspect sensed her vulnerability and has since learned not to kill chooks.

I rebuilt my flock with brown shavers from an egg farm, but over the next couple of years the other Wyandotte and a young shaver disappeared in the long grass. It was a mystery. Stoats? Another chook got egg bound and died, one got fly blown (her horrible death shook my confidence as a chook farmer) and an old girl quietly passed away.

The remaining wobbly matron used her wings for stability, but had a can-do attitude and good appetite. Eggs were a distant memory. Plenty of pragmatists suggested I “dong her on the head”, but I liked the feisty old girl.

When she died two days after we’d gone on holiday, the considerate housesitters put a rock on her grave so she wouldn’t be exhumed by the dogs. But the phone wouldn’t work - they’d cut the cable and had to dig her up anyway.

Blackie lived alone until a friend offered me her white chook just before Christmas. Persecuted and pecked by brown shavers, she was living in solitary confinement for her own safety. After she moved in, Whitey was nervy and neurotic, emerging from her pen only for food and water. Blackie, who’d roamed the garden and enjoyed luxurious dust baths, remained closeted with her. What about eggs, you might be wondering. Again, they became a distant memory.

If only I’d got a partridge in a pear tree - at least we’d have got pears.

Reflections on the River - taken 22 Dec

Our community's Christmas gift to you

Please accept these fun and games as our community’s Christmas gift for you, your child’s school, your community or your sixtieth (seventieth?) birthday party. While these activities debuted in our community, the concept, which has already been embraced for two school gala days, was the brainchild of some committed individuals.

Each year our town’s Christmas Parade winds up at the local sports complex, Maungaturoto Country Club. Each year the club puts on entertainment for kids and Wesley Cullen organises games. Each year Fonterra donates kid-sized containers of milk which are given to anyone who puts out a hand. Some years there are activities and amusements which cost a fair bit of hard-earned cash. But not this year. This year was different.

This year, Kenny Finlayson and Terri Donaldson dreamed up a bunch more activities and, along with Wesley and others, set up and oversaw a grand total of 10 games. Any child who played six games swapped their stamped card for a reward: Fonterra’s milk.

The games were: Knock ‘em Down Blocks - throw a ball at a pile of blocks; Basket Case - throw a ball into a basket; Hook the Big One - a fishing contest (plastic bottles were fake fish); Horse Shoe Throw; Sporty Skills - hockey (dribble a ball through cones), soccer (bounce a ball on your foot), cricket (bowl stumps out - kiwis are suddenly very good at this).

In Sumo Wrestling two kids, each with their arms and body wrapped in a small mattress secured with a bungee cord, bumped each other until one fell. Pole Jousting involved two kids balanced on a wide piece of pipe, hitting each other with pillows until one toppled.

Surprisingly, plenty of people risked a cold shower in Dunking Machine. The foolish suckers sat under a delicately balanced bucket of water while people threw balls at the bucket. This cost money, and fair enough too. Two bucks bought you three chances, unless the local cop was on the chair when, naturally, it cost more.

Even the organisers were amazed at people’s willingness to play. “Some people got away dry,” reported Kenny, “and most people were keen to do it.”

The upshot was that for almost two hours the Country Club’s rugby fields were packed with people, including parents urging their children on.

“It was great to see the parents getting involved with their kids, and lots of people had a go at different things,” says Terri.

By the time the games were over, 240 milk drinks had been distributed along with three buckets of sweets donated by the Kaipara District Council, night was falling, and both Ruawai and Paparoa primary schools had said they’d like to use the signage and games for their gala days.

You, too, can play these games which, unlike most kids’ activities these days, cost almost nothing to assemble and nothing to play.

Happy Christmas and a happier New Year.

Animal Farm is a busy place

Life on the farm is certainly different from city life – and most the differences stem from animals that aren’t cattle and sheep.

One evening three gunshots rang out and two dogs that should have known better - Kate and Weasel, a visiting Jack Russell – rushed inside where they cowered and trembled. The farmer and a visitor had knocked off the possums that were stealing lemon peel (they had been leaving peeled fruit on the lawn).

The next day when I picked up the deceased possums I found Kate munching a joey. It was ghastly seeing its tiny naked body with curled up hands and wee dangling legs disappearing into Kate’s mouth as she crunched its bones.

Another day Kate and Floss raced into the bush and a rabbit raced out. Kate grabbed it in her mouth, flipped it over and, with a quick nip, left it paralysed. This dog also does sweet little nose kisses with two of our cats.

I lay the rabbit right side up in the hope it was merely paralysed with fear (yes, I know they’re pests), but it didn’t move. Kate took it home and thoughtfully left it in the garden. The farmer put it out of its misery.

Then Floss burrowed into a mound of kikuyu and emerged holding in her mouth what looked like a bird’s nest but was a terrified hedgehog curled in a ball.

Then, when I returned from a few days away, I found two swallows that had been killed by the cats positioned imaginatively on the brick mantelpiece above the fireplace. I bet you’ve never thought of that as an interior design concept.

The farmer had found them in what he now calls ‘the bird room’ since it’s where four swallows (and counting) have met their demise. Their deaths please him because they poo and nest all over the house.

Sadly, bigger animals die as well. The latest was a young white-faced bull that broke its hip and had to be shot. It’s hanging up somewhere (don’t ask) and makes a generous contribution to dog tucker.

Every few days hunks of meat arrive. Their dissection is a job for the farmer who sometimes leaves buckets of meat in the laundry for a day or two (I call it aging). That’s another interior design concept you won’t find in a magazine.

This is a boon for Kate whose reward for sneaking inside has only ever been morsels from cats’ plates. I arrived home one day to find her on the back door mat chomping on a massive chunk of beef.

And finally we’re raising calves. I met the second bunch when they were still on the truck, having stopped to say hi to the farmer. He ignored my white running shoes and said, “Great, you can help with unloading.”

I obliged and, in doing so, created a fashion statement that won’t catch on in the city.

Floss thanks you for the comments on her blog

A letter from Floss

(I dipped into Floss's ditzy puppy head to write this. She's mellowed now.... but not completely.)

 Calling all dogs,

If car chasing’s your game, allow me to recommend Batley. It’s car chasing heaven or so close to it, you won’t know the difference. No more standing for hours by your garden gate only to have cars zoom by and leave you in the dust. Batley’s a dead end so your victims start slowly and you get a head start. Plus lots of them tow boats so they’re really slow off the mark.

I especially enjoy jumping round in front of cars and you can only do this if you pounce early. When she’s silly enough to let me off the lead at home in the hope I won’t run away, I duck down the drive when I hear a vehicle start. If she sees me leave I ignore her shrieks and go for it.

And man, can she shriek. One day the farmer, who I only follow when he’s on the quad, stopped dead and said: “That shrieking sound you make. Is it really necessary?

“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get Floss to listen.”

Listen! Has she not noticed that I curl up on the ground with my paws over my ears? We dogs have highly sensitive hearing.

I even ignore her when we’re walking on the road. Boy, does that send her into panic mode. The instant she hears a car she’ll call me like she’s some kind of sergeant major and, if I get close, she makes a wild lunge for my collar. Then she gives me the sit down command and holds onto me like I’ll explode. Sometimes she even puts that horrible choke chain on me for a while.

The fact is it’s a drag when she’s around. I can tell she’s annoyed when I chase cars because she yells and yells, “Come here, Floss” like a cracked record. But here’s the kicker – when I finally run back to her she’s pleased with me cos I’ve just done what I’m told. Geddit? Man, have I got her sussed.

The post van is great to chase because it comes every day. Last year she put a note in the box for the post man warning him about Houdini lambs with no road sense (in my view they’ve got no sense of any kind) and this year she apologised for me even though I heard the mail guy say he likes dogs and doesn’t mind if I chase his truck. But still she gets her knickers in a knot. And she says I don’t listen!

Two weeks later:

You won’t believe this, but cars have started throwing out electric shocks. At least they’re not as bad as the ones I’ve got off fences. Man, have I had some doozies off fences. I guess all up only about half a dozen cars threw off shocks. They hit me on the neck and, frankly, they’ve made me reconsider the car chasing game.

At first I wondered if it was her, but when I’d run back to her after getting a shock she’d pat my head near this great big collar she puts on me sometimes and say, “Good dog”. Nope. Wasn’t her.

Now every time we’re on the road and I hear a car coming I sit down immediately. I get the feeling she’d prefer it if I didn’t sit in the middle of the road, but I’m still a bit fuzzy on that. So, yeah, I’ve given up chasing cars and, if you don’t mind, I’ll retract my earlier invitation. It’s just not worth the hassle.

Signed: Floss

PS: We get on better now I don’t chase cars even though I still go nutso over cars with dogs in them and she still bangs on at me for licking fresh cowpats. The farmer who I only follow etc also yells at me over that. What’s their problem? It’s processed grass . . . just like milk. One little lick and they’d be addicted.

Everything's at it

Whoever wrote the doggerel “Spring has sprung, the grass has ris, I wonder where the birdies is” went through life with his eyes wide shut.

It is spring. Birdies are everywhere. If they have not multiplied, they are in the throes of doing so.

Of course, rabbits are at it - they’re peak performers in the business of reproduction - while hares, which usually live solitary lives, are also busy making families. We’ve encountered many in pairs and small groups which guilty scatter as if mortified to have been caught together, let alone inflagrante delicto.

Turkeys appear to have done the business a while back, and now hens with clutches of chicks abound.The farmer’s mother says turkeys are useless mothers which is surely good; if their nurturing skills were excellent they would number in their millions rather than thousands.

There’s plenty of evidence of their poor parenting skills. When the farmer and I stepped outside to meet some visitors, a reporter and photographer from Country99 TV, we found them by their vehicle pondering a teeny turkey chick at their feet.

“Ohh, how cute,” said the reporter, “but I wonder how it got here.”

The cameraman, meanwhile, wanted to foster the bird and, we while pondering the chick’s mysterious appearance, we supported his dream, never mind that he lives in Auckland.

I even produced evidence of the logic of raising a turkey in the city having long ago raised half a dozen ducklings. After starring in an advertisement, they enjoyed regular swims in my bath and lived in a cosy box under a warming light, before moving to a friend’s lifestyle block.

Eventually, we concluded the chick had tumbled from our house paddock, off the retaining wall and into our parking area.

As if to back-up our theory, a turkey hen with a chick mooched into view in the house paddock. We returned the lost sibling, having got the okay from the cameraman. He looked relieved.

Two hours later, after waved our guests goodbye, the farmer spotted another turkey chick in our garden. Now we concluded the hen had camped here overnight, before being frightened away by a vehicle. Again we tracked down the hen and returned her youngster.

Then I came upon a turkey sitting atop day-old chicks - on the road. I scared her from this ridiculous spot and into a paddock.

And finally I picked up a nest on the roadside, presuming that it had been blown from a tree by the brutal winds we’re enduring. Its outer shell was composed of pale green moss, while the interior was cosily insulated with sheep’s wool.The bird that built this exquisite nest was far from foolish. Like many homeowners who this year have fallen victim to the vicious whims of Mother Nature, this bird was merely unlucky.