Kangaroos and wallabies

It’s 10 minutes to 6 in the evening. Light is starting to fade. The air is sweet.

I am surrounded by that fantastic smell coming from up from the ground. It is called ‘petrichor’ - bacteria and plant oils mixing to create the amazingly heady aroma. I love it.

It’s autumn time in southern Australia and that means it’ll be dark in about half an hour.

The dogs and I have come out for a stroll before we lock down for the night. We are wandering along the fenceline checking the electric fence and making sure that the gates are shut. I haven’t been up the back for a while and sometimes a shooter (hunter) sneaks onto the property and forgets to shut the back gate.

We start heading back towards home. Down the hill I can see one of the night time visitors sitting upright watching us - a small grey kangaroo. I steer the dogs away hoping that they haven’t smelt her. I don’t need to intrude on her mealtime.

We veer away from the fence and head for the bush. A small detour to add interest to the walk home. Into the bracken fern.

Immediately the dogs become excited. Whipping around, noses to the ground. We have discovered some animal trials.

Betsy and Fred on an animal trail.

I wander along a tiny trail, zig zagging through the waist high foliage. The dogs vanish from sight. Just the rustle of plants around me now.

Then I nearly step in it …in front of me on the trail there is a pile of pooh (see photo).

I am confident that it is from a Macropod. ('Macropod’ is a term used to describe the marsupial family Macropodidae - big footed animals including kangaroos and wallabies).

I suspect it’s a wallaby. They like to live in a more closed-in sort of environment. They move close to the ground, ducking in and out of cover. I have seen a few over here dashing for the ferns when they see us. Sweet gentle creatures.

The wallabies seem to go under fences and through gaps. Head down and charge along.

They are loners, these wallabies. Prefer their own company and a peaceful life.

Exhibit A - Wallaby pooh

Out in the open paddocks is where I see the kangaroos. They prefer to be out in the open.

The big ones can easily jump the boundary fence more than a metre high.

They come onto the property when the feed is poor in the bush. Sometimes there will be 50, 60, 80 kangaroos all coming gradually out of the bush at dusk and across the country side.

I don’t mind. I’m happy to share the property with them. After all, they were here before me. I am the intruder.

The kangaroos are nearly always in groups, big family groups I presume.

Occasionally you see one big male kangaroo alone. Kicked out of the mob by another dominant male.

‘Roy’ is one of these fellas. He sometimes lives on my property. Drops in and and stays for a few weeks.

He seems to recognize us, me and the canine crew. He just watches. We keep our distance but if we get too close he moves on a bit. Not far, just far enough away.

I am pleased that he has chosen to stay here. “It is safe here and you are welcome...” I say.

Photo (taken by someone else) of kangaroos enjoying themselves in the sun

Dog stories

The evolution of wolves to present day dogus domesticus (I made this term up….not really Latin) is truly incredible.

The path leading to the adaptation of the wild dog to co-existence within human society has been well documented and I am not about to get into that here. I will say this however I am extremely grateful that the earliest of wolves decided that the spot by the human campfire was better than lying in the cold snow.

I cannot imagine life without dogs. I suspect that I am not alone in this… Dogs are fabulous.

My dogs are Border Collies, rated as amongst the smartest of dog breeds on the planet.

Definitely in the top ten, maybe even top five.

On a recent trip to Paris, I amused myself thinking about how French dogs understand more French than I do...

I’m joking of course (or am I?). I’m fully aware that words are simply sounds that have an associated meaning and it doesn’t matter what language is spoken because creatures with higher cognitive abilities, including canines, will learn language and respond.

A French Border Collie helping out with the unpacking of boxes at a French pet shop (in Paris)

Dogs, such as super-smarty pants like mine, are able to comprehend a large range of words and respond (mostly) obligingly. For example, with only a few words, I can send my dogs down to the dam (“Go and have a swim” - out of respect and given that my dogs are in the top-two-smartest-dog-breed-on-the-planet I like to use full sentences). I identify a dog by their name and ask it to go for a swim and it will almost always willingly oblige.

Amazing!

They are also able to learn the meaning of many hand signals. With a movement of my arm in a certain direction and a wave of my hand, the dogs will turn and run in that direction. Tony Armstrong discussed this in a recent television documentary about dogs ‘A Dog’s World’, ABC. A strong recommend!

Betsy, not looking happy but in the dam.

Dogs will also seek assistance from their humans.

Tony Armstrong points out that this interaction between dogs and humans is UNIQUE amongst animals. Test it yourself.

I’ve done this experiment numerous times and it always works:

Step 1 - dogs and human stop at a fence at the spot where the human will normally lift the wire so that the dogs can scramble underneath.

Step 2 - the human does not lift the fence as is their usual practice.

Step 3 - the human should watch the dogs to observe that they will they will stare at the fence for a few seconds and then look up at the human. This may be repeated several times.

Step 4 - the human will lift the fence and the dogs will scramble under.

The dogs asked the human for help and the human obeyed. I love it but I am not sure who is actually in charge!

I think many people would agree that life without dogus domesticus would be a much lonelier and sadder place.

Terrific company, ever present, and never fail to be incredibly excited when one comes home. They never fat-shame nor grumble about how much chocolate one is eating. And they are happy to share everything - food, cuddles and friendship.

Mitzy (cat stories)

In the mornings one of my cats, Mitzy (born ‘Mitzy-Anne’) insists upon joining the morning walk and the canine-crew.

Before I am dressed and ready to exit my bedroom she is there, stomping around. Little feet with a solid step to them.

She sits at the door that leads to the deck. Stares at the door handle. Willing it to turn so that she can go outside. Obligingly it is turned. Her feline-mind trick works every time.

We wander down the hill following the track that I have mowed into the tall grass: four dogs, Mitzy and me.

She frequently meows. I answer back sometimes.

Maybe it is simply a reminder of her tiny presence within the group (although she will never be left far behind!).

Maybe it is joy at being out and about. Sunshine and grass and fresh air.

Maybe it is a morning chat between friends as we stroll along? They say that cats only meow as a way of engaging with their humans.

Occasionally I pick her up, especially when the horses are too close or when her little legs get tired or when the grass is too wet. She prefers to walk herself though and wriggles and squirms to be free.

Last week on one such morning the dogs started running around barking. Barking like crazy.

I looked up and noticed a hawk circling above and slightly behind me. It was low down and interested in something.

I realised then that sweet Mitzy was the target of the hawk’s interest.

I ran over and picked her up. Safe now.

The hawk continued to circle.

Dogs also circling…at ground level. Dogs going crazy. Trying to get at the bird flying above them.

At this point a magpie arrived on the scene. Joined in the fray. The hawk had come too close to the magpie’s nesting trees.

Swooping and fluttering and the hawk is driven away by the little magpie.

Problem solved.

On we go. Same as every other morning. Chooks and horses still need to be fed.

I throw out the grain for the stampeding chooks.

Dogs sniff around for rabbits. Mitzy inspects the garden.

Then they all sit quietly near the horse yards. Mitzy is with the dogs - all waiting whilst the work is done. At a distance from me as I feed the horses.

And then we wind our way back up the hill: four dogs, Mitzy and me.

Mitzy and Jasper (rear)

Fred (dog stories)

Beautiful Fred.

When Fred was a wee pup, freshly arrived at my farm, he would do his best to walk the rounds with the other dogs. His fat little legs going as fast as they could to keep up. Occasionally stopping to sniff a rabbit hole or a cow pat and he would be left behind. But not for long.

When he got tired I would pick him up and pop him under my jacket with his head poking out. Let him have a rest and then down he would go again. Scrabbling around with the canine-crew.

Adorable fluff ball.

Border Collie pups are delightful looking and delightful in nature. Willing, interested and dreadfully smart. Better mastery of human vocabulary than some humans I know.

Fred with his brothers Montague (left) and Wilbur. On the back of the ute.

Now he is an ‘old man’. Acts like the grandfather of the pack even though he is not the eldest.

Irascible at times, he will snap at one of his comrades. Remind them of his seniority.

He has no problem with shoulder charging anything in his way. Push the young ones away to get to mum.

And he adores food. Especially contraband cat food.

There are two things about Fred that are iconic. They also confirm his status as a narcissist.

The first is his ever-present big foot. Stand still long enough and you will experience it. It lands on your knee or thigh and if no attention is received it will continue to hit that spot until it gets the required recognition.

The second is his roll-onto-his-back-whilst-we-are-walking manoeuvre. Always directly in front of you. Keep your wits about you lest you trip over the black and white blob.

It is another attention seeking move. Highly effective.

Flips onto his back. Looks super cute. Adorable. Receives stomach pat.

Walk 10 metres. Repeat.

He is an 86-pats-a-day dog. Terribly annoying actually.

The only times I have seen him animated are when he smells a fox. Goes crazy. Turns green. Turns into the Hulk. No stopping him.

He once murdered a chicken-killer fox. And he is proud of it. He would do it again.

The dogs found it lurking down near the chicken coop. A swirl of dog flesh became a triangulation, a strategic move to entrap the fiend. A dog at every exit point.

It had no chance really once they had determined to exterminate.

Fred emerged from the fray shaking the last life out of the fox. Victorious.

He dropped it on command and wandered off.

And then he was Fred again. Ready for another tummy rub.

Fred, the narcissist.

Snakes

I wish that I had braked for the snake. Instead I stepped on it.

I was about 12 years old and walking along a forest trail with my dad, grandfather, brother and sister. Beautiful day. Eyes upwards looking at trees and birds.

I hear my dad from behind me telling me that I have just stepped on a snake. He tells me that it raised itself up as if to strike but apparently decided not to do so.

I saw nothing, had heard nothing and just kept walking.

He (my dad, not the snake) was surprisingly relaxed about it, now that I think about it…..

I always felt sorry for that snake. Out sunning itself on the track. Minding its own business. Rudely assaulted by an adolescent human foot.

I am one of those people who do not fear snakes.

No I am not in Slytherin House. Just think that they are extremely interesting.

And amazing to touch. If you have ever been so lucky as to touch or hold a snake you are, in my opinion, not brave but blessed.

Feel like warm silk. Wonderful.

One of my brothers had a pet snake. I always felt a bit conflicted about the little fella being kept in captivity. But in a Gerald Durrell sort of way I was fascinated.

The brother would fetch the little snake from its enclosure and the snake (whose name began with ‘W’ but I can’t for the life of me think of it…Walter, Winston, Wilbur…..Willis maybe…….???), Willis, would be placed upon one’s hand and allowed to settle.

“Just relax. And don’t be afraid”.

I was told that Willis would sense whether you felt fear and respond accordingly. Apparently he would bite anyone who was frightened of him. Probably did little to promote the ‘snakes are fascinating’ line.

With me he would wrap his tail around one of my fingers and then extend his body out, exploring the air. He was lovely. And silky.

I thought this was a juvenile Brown Snake but I now believe it to be a Whip Snake (Parasuta Flagellum). Found under a bit of tin on my property. Allowed to go on its way.

Sometimes I have seen a snake when out riding my horse in the bush. It has never been a problem. No rearing horses like in the movies.

Once I looked down and a snake was between the feet of my horse. Horse didnt even see it!

Out here snakes are everywhere but rarely seen.

I would love to see a snake…..and not step on it.

Blue Gum by gum!

The featured photo is of a Sydney Blue Gum. Eucalyptus saligna to be exact.

He was planted about ten years ago and is now a very grand adolescent tree with a great future. I expect him to grow to about 50 metres which is a good height for a paddock tree.

I planted him down by my big dam as part of one of my mini-greening-the-paddocks push, along with some other species of Eucalyt.

Standing under this tree I see that it is full of life: insects buzzing around, ants climbing up and down, birds up high. It is a wonderful part of the farm ecosystem.

Down on the dam and in the reflection of this tree there live a range of water birds.

This year I was lucky enough to have the grebe family use my dam as their nesting area and nursery. The parents made their floating nest from bits of weed they had snipped off with their beaks under the water. Pieced them all together to achieve this amazing aqua nest upon which they laid their five eggs.

The dogs and I kept our distance not wanting to interfere nor worry the parents whilst they were sitting on the eggs.

I checked in on them from time to time with my binoculars.

After some weeks I was delighted to see that there were four babies duck-diving in the dam along with their parents.

The canine crew and I wandered down to have a closer look. Baby grebes scrambled onto their parent’s backs and they all floated around on the opposite side of the dam to us. (I had no idea that some water bird babies use their parent’s backs as floatation devices.)

Walking around the water’s edge I wanted to check out this floating nest structure and saw that there was still one egg left. The next day the egg was gone and baby grebe no. 5 had arrived!

Now some months later there is only one grebe left. Apparently they move on, usually at night, flying low to the ground, heading off to who knows where.

The ducks remain and so does the occasional egret.

And in the Blue Gum sit the Galahs and Rosellas. The insects buzz and the ants climb.

Rooster-boy (chooks and rooster stories)

Rooster-boy is the proud father of nine. So far.

The mothers are adoptive parents. Prepared to sit for three weeks on another hen’s eggs and raise the offspring as her own.

Selfless. In a very possessive selfish sort of way. They are very definitely her offspring.

I have had tiny hens fly at me if I venture too close to their chicks. Quite terrifying actually. Tiny creatures seemingly explode into giant ferocious beasts.

Edwina, Rooster-boy and a brown chook (Isa Brown)

Back to Rooster-boy, father of the brood.

He is a fortunate chap in that he currently is the only rooster in the hen house. Previously there was a crowd of chaps, all vying for the attention of the ladies. Fights broke out. Blood was shed.

Rooster-boy was on the bottom of the male coop hierarchy.

When I was around he would follow me (and the dogs) in a bid to show the rest of the crew who was who in the coop. He was in with the Big Dog (me). Tight.

Fortunately for him, but not for the rest of the boys, a fox hit the club house one night and polished off a few roosters.

Incredibly the clever fox (and they are clever!) had worked and worked and worked at a little spot on the roof of the compound until there was a gap big enough for them to gain access. And then to get out again post-feast. Extraordinary really with an expanded belly.

Rooster-boy was in the adjoining chook pen. He and a couple of his mates and all the girls lived through the night of terror.

The fox-access-point was fixed post-haste. And with this the ‘mates’ were moved into the death camp.

I wont tolerate bullying and Rooster-boy was the one to gain.

He now shares the coop very happily with 13 hens and all his offspring.

But he doesnt follow me round anymore which is a bit sad.

Some of the harem

Molly (is a Clydesdale horse)

Molly was a gentle soul and she touched my life. I was blessed.

Molly was a beautiful gentle grey giant. A Clydesdale who had lived god-knows what life. She had some age about her and I have no idea what she had done or not done prior to landing at my door.

She was lovely. Sweet and kind.

She was initially bought by a friend of mine as a riding horse for “beginners”. She had been on a property in north Victoria in the dust and heat. Completely out of place.

The friend rode her once and declared that she was too dangerous to ride.

It turned out that if she was kicked in the sides to move on she would give a little ‘pig root’ or jump into the air. I worked out after one ride that if I tapped her on the side with a stick or a crop she was much happier and would just move off into a trot. No pig root. No danger. Problem solved.

The friend was not convinced and said that she would sell her. She had only been with the friend for a couple of weeks. Virtually no time at all. Barely even settled in. Given no chance. Just pack her off to who-knows where?

To me this attitude was really atrocious. Selfish and unkind. Unbelievable.

I couldn’t let that happen and so I bought her.

Molly in her warm winter jacket.

She stayed with me for many years, living her best life and dying on my property as an ‘old girl’.

She was loved. And she responded with what I interpreted as great love. And maybe gratitude as well.

If I was sad or upset I would curl my face into her side and cry and she would just stand there for as long as I needed, never moving. I loved her horsey smell and the softness of her neck. It was pure comfort to me.

She was like a grandmother to the young horses when they arrived on the property. They would hang with her until they got their confidence up. She was never mean to them.

And, regardless of what the earlier mentioned friend had assessed, she was a wonderful horse for the junior riders. Molly would just plod along, never faster than a slow trot. Just up the road and back. Let them feel what it is like to sit on a big sweet giant.

For me I learnt that a little understanding and patience…and kindness…can lead to a beautiful relationship.

I am very grateful for Molly and I miss her.

a Magpie called ‘Terminator’

I live on 40 acres and lease another 75 acres next door. It makes for a reasonable plot of land to inhabit. About half this land is forested.

There are many others living with me.

Here reside my domestic animals, my horses and my cattle. But these are just a tiny portion of the population. Countless kangaroos and wallabies move onto and across this land. There is at least one echidna, although I once found three, all together in one of the sheds. Numerous foxes cross this space, usually at the same time each day or evening. Sometimes they stop along their daily trek, sniff the air, look towards the house and then continue. There are countless birds: parrots nesting in hollows of trees and fence posts, grebes, ducks and terns on the dams, nectar-eaters and tiny birds in the native bushes, raptors overhead - eagles and hawks, and so many more.

And then there are the magpies.

Magpies live in gangs of up to about 20 birds. These groupings are called a range of things but my favourite is a ‘mischief’ or a ‘tribe’. They inhabit very distinct territories all of their lives and they remain close to these spaces, guarding them fiercely.

On the land here there are about four groupings of magpies (‘maggies’) that I interact with, walk by, see, and sometimes talk to each day. One gang lives in the trees just at the rear of my house on the hill. They will often come right to the windows and check me out through the glass whilst they dig around for worms or other insects. In the breeding season, as at other times, this tribe never bothers with me as I wander around the place.

In the trees above my horse tack shed there lives another gang. They seem to govern the land around the shed and the horse yards. I have frequently seen them attacking the chooks to keep them away from their turf.

The boss-bird is a maggie that I dubbed ‘Termie’ aka ‘Terminator’ (pictured). He and his partner (apparently they mate for life), rather inconveniently, have a nest right above the shed.

In the breeding season he would fly down to a very very low branch and sit and watch me as I fed the horses. He seemed to be fairly content and never bothered me so long as I stayed within a certain area. I would take off my sunglasses and speak to him every day and sometimes throw out some seed in order to establish a relationship.

One day I overstepped the bounds of the trust relationship. I was actually trying to locate his nest so that I could see if there were hatchlings in it. I had walked around the other side of the shed and was gazing to the tree. I didnt realise it at the time but the nest was only about 30 metres away and I was in the danger zone. At this distance no amount of facial recognition and sweet talk would calm Termie. He was on a mission to move me on.

The sound of the flapping of wings growing in volume was the first indication of trouble heading my way. I looked up and saw him in full swoop coming straight at me, beak heading for my head. I believe that I may have said something like “oh…come on…..” or words to that effect. I ducked and ran for cover as he stopped mid-swoop just above my head. He round out to gather height again ready for the next swoop. I didnt need to be told twice.

One of the other main groups include ‘T2‘ (‘Terminator 2’) and his tribe and they live in the trees about 200 metres away on a neighbouring property.

Every morning during breeding season I would see him flying towards me as I walked down the hill. He up high and dropping low to the ground, heading my way with great speed. As he neared I would take off my sunglasses and look straight at him and yell out a greeting. He would stop mid-swoop, flutter a bit and then turn around and head off. He would do this at least twice and then return to his trees, apparently satisfied that I was a friend.

It pays to make friends with the wildlife.

inside the dead animals

Last year I visited Paris (France not Texas). Whilst there I went to one of my favourite shops ‘Deyrolle’.

This shop is a taxidermy shop. And it is a strong recommend.

The rather sad sight of animals and birds now taxidermied

For me, as an animal lover, it is a fascinating place. A museum as well as a shop, filled with all sorts of creatures great, small and very very small. Antique dead and fossil dead. There are hundreds of specimens in all sorts of states of being - stuffed animals of all descriptions, heads on walls, bugs and butterflies behind glass, birds with nests and skeletal remains.

Now before you become outraged I need to advise that most of these are not freshly dead nor freshly stuffed creatures. Many are from collections.

Britannica tells me that “Taxidermy may be traced to the ancient custom of preserving trophies of the hunt, but the principal motive for its development into an art was the growth of interest…in natural history and the consequent appearance of both private collections and exhibits in public museums of birds, beasts, and curiosities.”

I myself have some taxidermy specimens of turtles. One was a beloved pet that the owner had preserved after it died. Another is a specimen from a collection.

Do I feel conflicted about having them in my home? Yes, a bit.

Should I bury them? Give them a send off? Maybe one day.

The skull (pictured) is one I found in the paddock of a neighbour. It is part of the remains of a young calf who must have succumbed to a disease. Lay down by the fence and died. Like Burke and Hare from the1800s I have robbed him from his last resting place. Unlike Burke and Hare I didn’t murder him first and then sell his anatomical bits.

Apart from the beauty and intricacy of these animals, birds and insects the thing that really amazed me was the price of the items at Deyrolle. This stuff is really really expensive. Thousands of dollars expensive.

People are prepared to pay a lot of money to buy such creatures from the taxidermy shop.

People are also content to pay plenty to have their own creatures taxidermied. A quick internet search tells me that it costs about $400 to have a head (presumably of a game animal) stuffed and anywhere from $1000-$10,000 and up to have a full animal taxidermied. The process can take many months in preparation. And then voila….here’s Fluffy as a lamp…

I think that I will be content with photos of my loved ones.

fire…and fear

What is your greatest fear?” they asked.

Spiders, snakes, public speaking, remembering you forgot to wear underwear? None of these.

For me it is fire - bushfire. A wildfire heading for me and mine.

This fear is a partly the result of exposure to extremely catastrophic wildfires that had terrorised the densely forested and mountainous area outside Melbourne not far from where I had lived in the Dandenong Ranges, Victoria.

It is also a result of my own stupidity. Stupidity with near devastating consequences for me and for the side of the mountain on which I was then living.

One warm Saturday I decided to do a ‘burn-off’ in the front yard of my home in the Dandenong Ranges. The idea was that this would reduce the combustible ground cover and make the yard safer in the hot summer bushfire season.

I raked leaves and bark from the eucalypt trees into a huge pile and set them alight.

I had good intentions.

I was barelegged in short shorts. I had a thin t-shirt and a pair of rubber thongs on my feet.

No hose. No bucket of water in case of emergency. Just a box of matches and alot of flammable material.

One of my German Shepherd dogs was relaxing by the fire.

No idea.

The burn pile quickly became fully alight. Eucalypts are highly combustable material. The flames rose higher and the fire grew very hot.

But then I realised that the fire had jumped to the adjoining tree. Stupidly I watched as the base of the tree caught fire. The bark was burning and flames were heading up the tree.

As I looked skyward I realised with horror that the canopy of this tree merged with thousands of similarly flammable trees covering this side of the mountain.

Embryonic wildfire. My fault.

Panic. Fast moving legs. Screaming.

Saved by a neighbour and his high pressure water hose. We drained his water tanks putting that tree out.

I felt such shame after this. And fear. Fear of fire.

Did not know fear like that til it hit me.

But this is not my greatest fear.

My greatest fear is loss of my loved ones.

It is greater than sadness or grief - these are what come later, after shock subsides. These are what remain.

I can do nothing to prevent what is, at some point, inevitable.

Each day we wake and think it is just another day. But some days are not ‘just another day’.

Some days are like facing a wildfire. And I fear that wildfire.

‘Pooh’ is not a dirty word (dog stories)

Did you know that some animals pooh in piles?

Alpacas are well known pooh-pilers. Giant mounds of pooh.

Horses, male, and especially stallions, pooh in the same spot day after day in their habitat. Very orderly really and quite convenient if one needs a little (or alot) of something to put on the veggie patch.

And I have just discovered that wild rabbits pooh in piles. One night I shall have to venture out and see if I can catch the bunnies lining up to do their business. It does seem quite polite really.

Betsy, the beautiful intelligent adorable champagne-coloured Border Collie (pictured) is a pooh-aholic. Her fetish is of the bovine (cow) variety. Found not in piles but slopped randomly around the place.

She is not ashamed of her addiction. In fact she is happy to share her love of pooh with anyone who will walk with her.

She learnt from an early age that chasing a flying cow pat was terrific fun. They shoot up into the air and then roll along the paddock.

Every dog walk now involves her pacing back and forth at me, cow pat in her mouth. Drops it at my feet. Carefully…so that no other dog swipes it.

Obediently I (selflessly) pick it up and fling it off into the distance.

She has learnt now that the very dry ones are best (thank goodness). She uses both feet to dig them loose from the grass and then marches along proudly with it in her pretty little mouth.

Wet Betsy and her pooh.

She is also rather fond of the summer-time pooh-fling into the dam. She launches herself into the water, sometimes with such vigor that she is fully submerged for a second (I hold my breath), and retrieves the floating cow pat. On the game goes until pooh is fully disintegrated.

About a year ago Edwina, the black and white Border Collie (pictured), joined the family. She has learnt to love the pooh also.

Oftentimes we will be strolling along, my little caravan of hounds, with two of four carrying a mouthful of cow pat each. Adorable.

It is my fault. Of course. I taught Betsy. She passed the learning onto Edwina.

But I don’t fear the pooh...

Ouch…that hurt! (part 2 of stories about injuries I received from interactions with animals)

I thought that I might list some of my other animal related injuries. It could be interesting.

I was nearly trampled by a cow once when I got too close to her newborn calf. Was trying to move them away from a dam. Worried the calf might drown. My intentions were good.

The cow shook her head at me in warning. I ignored the warning and she rushed at me. I ran backwards and tripped, falling to the ground with my hands over my head. Dunno why but she ran past me rather than over me. I sprang to my feet and ran for a fence. Threw myself over it head first - head hit ground. Bad concussion and bruising but could have been worse. Lay there in the grass for some time.

Kneed in the head by a very big Clydesdale horse. Dont know if he meant it. Concussion.

Broke both my wrists after falling off a horse. This was my fault. Showing off. Jumping over a log that was way too high for my skill level. Landed arms outstretched and hands first. Note to self - roll into a ball when you fall.

Numerous broken toes over the years after horses have stomped on them.

Mild concussion after I slid off a horse. Embarrassingly the horse was standing still and I hit my head on the ground. Thankfully had a helmet on (which still has the patch of green from the impact with the grass).

Giant bruise to my entire right buttock after falling from a horse. Showing off. Jumping. Falling.

Fractured finger. Sustained after yelling at a poorly behaved dog. Went to whack it (not my finest hour), missed dog and connected with brick wall. Karma.

Large bite to my upper arm after a Clydesdale horse ran at me and bit me. Not my horse. No idea what he was thinking!!!!!

Nearly lost my two front teeth after dog did vertical jump into my face. No malice intent from dog.

Arms ripped to shreds after trying to drag a stray cat out of its hiding place. He had escaped the cat box and had been on the loose for a week. Wanted to re-home him to relative luxury. Sacrificed arms. Re-captured cat was sent to a friend’s home where he lived out his ungrateful little life.

Arms ripped to shreds after dragging a dog out of blackberry bushes. He was a friend’s and I was babysitting. Bolted on me and was on the lamb for about 90 minutes (chasing him around the countryside) before he snagged himself in the bushes. Nothing on earth would have caused me to let go of his leg. Thorns ripped my arms. Emerged with a dog but arms covered in blood.

Horse slipped on steep hill. Fell sideways onto my leg. Pinned leg to ground. Hurt but was ok.

and on it goes…

Shooter (horse stories)

I bought Shooter from a friend one night. After a few beers I was feeling generous. Bought him for one of my city-friends (who would never meet him).

Shooter is a coloured Clydesdale cross. He is a character. A lovely funny fellow. Sweet but sometimes a bit nervous when we are out and about. He likes to be with a mate, to always see one of his own nearby.

He is a cuddler. A senstive horse who seems to know when I am feeling down. I put my arm around his neck and he pushes his head into my back. There he stays. He doesnt move until I move. It is lovely.

We know each other well. He knows his name and calls back to me when I call him. I know his little eccentricities. The way he jumps into the air when I ask him to move from trot to a canter. The way he swipes sideways when he sees something terrifying along the trail like a log or a rock.

Shooter as a foal.

He has been with me since he was six months old. He buddied up with my old girl Molly (another Clydesdale). She looked after him, showed him the ropes.

When he got to about three years old a friend and I ‘started him’. It used to be called ‘breaking in’ but this is not what one does anymore. It used to be a rather mean process and focussed on dominance but now it is about trust. And, as far as I am concerned, building a relationship.

Used to just sit on his back without a saddle. Do nothing more than pat him and talk to him. He would stretch his neck around and nibble my boot. And we would just stand there.

Ouch…that hurt! (part 1 of stories about injuries I received from interactions with animals)

One of my friends at work used to ask me every time she saw me “what injuries do you have this week from your animals?” There was usually something.

I cant recall the first injury that I sustained from an animal. But I recall the first one since living and working on the farm. I was helping out a neighbour with the annual vaccination, drenching and tagging of his calves.

The cattle had been rounded up from their paddock using motorbikes. They were moved into the yards where the sorting and other work was to take place. The cows were separated from their offspring - achieved by moving them along a narrow ‘run’. At the end the mother was ‘pushed’ one way (encouraged to move using sticks and voice) and the calves moved in another direction. They were reunited after the procedures were finished.

The calves were tagged in the ear with a numbered plastic tag. This procedure is sort of like having one’s ears pierced and I suspect hurts as much. The number is recorded. They received an injection into the rump or the neck muscle with vaccine and were also ‘drenched’. Drenching is a procedure using chemicals to kill internal parasitic worms - chemicals are poured down the back of the cattle or horse.

My role in all this was as a ‘farm hand’. I had to get up close, into the yards if required and keep the cattle moving along. Make noise, poke animals with sticks, encourage them to head the right way. Open and shut gates. Get very dirty and sweaty.

What I did not realise at this time was that cattle have an incredible way of being able to kick in any direction including sideways. They call it a ‘cow kick’.

It was in this context that a young calf demonstrated the ‘cow kick’ with perfect execution. It connected my leg immediately above my kneecap and onto the bottom of my leg muscle. Any lower and I may have suffered a fractured kneecap. The pain was immediate and severe. I went down. The bruise that resulted was huge and lasted for ages.

Never forget that and never will it be repeated.

I never was kicked again by a cow. I was, however, kicked by a horse.

I was backing one of my ponies out of the horse float one day when she confused me for one of her annoying paddock mates. Horses kick straight back. And it can be with great force. Thankfully I was standing close to her and the kick was not maximum power. Painful nonetheless and another huge bruise.

Pony up (beginnings as a horse enthusiast)

Dad used to take my sister and brother and I horse riding when we were kids. I expect it was because I loved horses from an early age. Had all the big picture books. Posters on the wall. Always wanted a pony.

I would hassle him into it.

In those days folk would have a bunch of horses on a big block of land and he would pay some money, be ‘matched’ with a horse (the only test was: “how well do you ride?”) and then on horseback we would just follow each other around the paddock.

No clue how to ride. No lessons. No helmets. No rules.

The tack was cheap rubbish. Sometimes the gear wasn’t on properly. Saddles not on tight enough. We didn’t care. Didn’t care about falling off either. Had no fear.

Just wanted to be with the horses.

He promised me a horse once. A conditional promise of course…if there was somewhere to keep it. There never was.

I bought my first horse when I was in my 40s. A lovely chestnut mare. Her name was ‘Sis’. I called her ‘Sisteen’. She was well schooled and generally well behaved. She was lucky enough to have been loved and looked after before she came to live with me. Her owner had been injured and couldn’t ride anymore.

After Sisteen came ‘Kim’ a little black Shetland. She had been living on a property with about 20 others all packed onto a dirt paddock. Shameful. Disgraceful treatment.

Kim looking pretty sad and terrible. And with a shocking haircut!

She arrived skinny, covered in lice and full of worms. Fixed that up pretty quickly although it took three wormings to clean her system of the horrid creatures.

Then came Molly a gentle grey giant. A Clydesdale who had lived god-knows what life.

She was on a property up north surrounded by dust and heat and crazy cowboys. Completely out of place. They said they had her for the kids. Maybe they did. They also said she was about 13 but the Vet later said she was in her 20s. Apart from the deception I didnt care. She was lovely. Sweet and kind.

Sisteen ruled the gang. Pushed them around at feed time. Ears back.

Kim and Molly buddied up. Always together. Looked after each other.

Soon realised they were not going anywhere.

Sisteen and Kim

Eaglets (stories about baby eagles)

I was sitting on the hill on the property. I watched the eagles gliding over head. Usually three of them, today only two. Spinning round and round. Some time later and after some consideration I asked a friend of mine who is a First Nations woman to speak to the local elders in Ballarat. I was asking permission to name my property ‘Bunjil’.

Bunjil, in First Nations mythology, is an ancestral Wedge-tailed Eagle who created the land.

I had their approval.

I was pleased. A small homage to the birds and to the people who had lived here before me.

I live on traditional Wadawarrung land. Land stolen from the First Nations people back in the 1800’s. The colonists came to this district and moved these people off their land. Pastoralists needed land for their stock. It was the gold rush era and white expansion was well underway.

The eagles nest was located a few years later. About a kilometre away in a huge eucalypt on a neighbour’s property. I was with a friend riding our horses along a quiet track when he spotted it. So much excitement. Two giant birds - one in the nest the other sitting above it.

An extraordinary construction. Actually two nests, one situated higher up the tree above the other. Apparently they alternate use of nests each year.

Last year in late July or early August my walking mate, Bill, and I decided to check the nest. Maybe we would get lucky.

We set out with four dogs and a couple of smart phones.

Two baby eagles. Unbelievable! White and fluffy with giant black eyes. Already big birds at this early stage of life.

We kept our distance. The dogs sensed the need for quiet and sat watching and waiting. The mosquitos attacked and so we didnt stay long.

We would return every week or so - now armed with a decent camera and insecticide - until the eaglets left the nest some months later.

We watched them grow into gangly scruffy youngsters. And they watched us. Powerful eyes. Maybe they would recognise us week after week?

In the early days Bill was worried that the bigger one would kill and eat the younger. When there is not enough food. He had read this somewhere.

I told him I didnt think there was anything to worry about. Rabbits everywhere. Swarms of rabbits.

We would scan the skies looking for the parents. Spot them circling high above the paddocks. Reassured that they were hunting for food.

Felt conflicted when they fledged…but joyous for them to finally have their freedom.

Wormie (rescue cat)

At this point in time I have three cats - Maude, Mitzy and Homer.

I had four until recently. The fourth was a cat who was renamed ‘Wormie’ by me.

Wormie was a cat who had been a beloved pet and who had then become an un-beloved pet.

She was a rescue cat like none I had ever experienced. Handed from one insensitive human to another. She had lived a exclusively indoor life for her first seven years or so. But then she had suddenly been discarded - handed over to strangers and forced to live outside at an unfamiliar home with humans who had no interest in her. She had no bed, no comforts and no safe place. She was terrorised by dogs. The fools who took her in joked that they fed her dog biscuits. They did not care when she vanished.

Several months later when Wormie reappeared she was so malnourished that it hurt her to be touched. She was starving, full of worms and terrified. The fools seemed oblivious and laughed telling me how she would follow them around the house from window to window meowing.

I didnt laugh. I saw a creature begging for help.

That day I took Wormie home.

I will never ever forget the screams that cat emitted when she first arrived. It made me cry.

I set her up in a downstairs bedroom and there she stayed. She did not leave that room for months.

Gradually, in her safe space, she gained confidence. She would hunker down into the cushions making a cat nest. She put on weight and she was transformed.

As time passed she ventured out and would start exploring the house a little. Later still she would sneak upstairs and curl up on the couch beside me at night.

She never went outside. Not ever.

I introduced my dogs to Wormie one day, allowing them to meet her in her bedroom (my step daughter had selflessly given up this bedroom - it was now Wormie’s room). Four dogs wandered in to see who had moved in. I stood close by in case of any problems.

All the dogs were gentle and interested but it became apparent that Monty and Wormie had known each other in a previous life. They had an instant connection. Wormie jumped from the bed to the floor. Monty licked her head and Wormie rubbed herself on this dog that she had never met before. It was beyond comprehension and it was beautiful.

We loved you Wormie. And you deserved better.

Wormie died a year later after an embolism paralysed her from the waist down.

Wormie and a pink texta.

Baby blockie (beginnings as a farmer)

When I bought this little plot of farming land in western Victoria I was still living and working in Melbourne.

Melbourne is the state capital of Victoria and is a large sprawling city with a huge population.

I would drive every second weekend for about two and a half hours to reach the “farm”. Then, after a couple of days, I would head back home again.

Soon this frequency was not enough.

The migrations moved to weekly. And then I added an extra day - a three day weekend was what was required, every week. I would take a bag of clothes and a bag of food and my loved ones and we would vacate the big city.

I soon learnt that I needed to travel at night to avoid traffic and reduce the travel time. The journey literally took me from one side of Melbourne to the other and then out to the Westerns regions via the city of Ballarat (third largest city in Victoria).

Speed of journey was not just for my convenience but also for the carload of creatures travelling with me. At this time I had two dogs, three cats and about five chooks. Each Thursday night they were bundled up and into the car. Chooks in cat boxes. Cats in cat boxes (different boxes to the chooks) and dogs on the ute tray. Packed in. All of us together. No one gets left behind.

[There is a funny story about me going through a police breath-testing stop on the way to the farm. Imagine it? Be like the Clampetts without the Beverly Hills. Young police officer, eyes darting about, not really sure what he is seeing here…]

Maude (one of my rescue cats) was the only one to complain. She found it to be a weekly trauma and would go to great lengths to hide.

She became very skilled finding better and less obvious hideouts. She would dash into the cat run and lie in a section where she knew I couldn’t reach her. Or disappear upstairs and behind anything she could find, moving around as she heard me calling her. She had extraordinary stealth which, if you ever met her, you would find not just unlikely but impossible.

Her most ingenious spot was under a bed and through a rip in the bottom of the mattress. If not for her tubby little body I would never have found her. The big bulge sagging to the floor gave the game away but it was still a chore to get her out…

The weekly migrations had also become a necessity after I had bought my first and then second horse. And whilst I was fortunate to have a kind neighbour who would check on the horses when I was away (at least drive past to make sure no one was stuck in a fence) I knew that I wanted to be where the horses were - for both my sake and for the horses. And for Maude.

Montague is the prize (dog stories)

Montague, aka Monty, aka Monty-boy, aka Minty, aka Mint, Labrador/something (possibly Border Collie but most likely Kelpie), started life on a farm in mid-New South Wales, Australia. He is the grand-dog of famous people Phillip Adams and Patrice Newell. He came to me as a prize, a gift really. I won him after Phillip offered the pups over his “little radio show” to anyone who could convince him that their home was the best place for one of theirs. Of course I would win. This life with me is dog heaven. Everyone wants to '“come back” as my dog.

He is asleep on the floor of the kitchen now having attended to his morning walk, herding duties and breakfast. We walk down the hill every morning from the top house to the chook house half a kilometre away, feed and release them from their fox-proof night time enclosure. Then the horses. During the hot months and the cold months they wander in the early morning from the back paddocks past the top house and down to the their yards looking for chaff and horse kibble. Monty keeps watch after pushing a few chooks around with his nose and then snaps at a horse heel or two. Just reminds them all that we are in charge.

He is one of several furry PAs who slack off whilst I am working on the home computer. Stands in line at the fridge for his lick of milk each morning then his wonderful smelly self finds a position to sleep until I move from my desk.

He has his grandfather’s intelligence. Smart as a whip this dog. Sweet gentle soul. Sometimes timid but really it is more that he doesnt want to be in my way. Never been sick a day in his life. Loves a run - always out the front and happy to share that spot with any of his 3 doggy mates. Always welcomes any visiting hound.

Monty’s enthusiasm for adventure nearly cost me a front tooth once. Vertical jump into the back of the ute via my face. No remorse. Very careful to keep the face well away from the back of utes since.

When it comes to humans Monty is picky. He warms very slowly to people, regards them from a distance and waits for trust to develop. It is not a bad practice. I should have adopted it - might have saved me from some painful past relationships and friendships. You cant trust everyone. He knows it. His brother from another dog-mother Fred knows it too. Snapped at the heel of more than one no-good human in his life. Amazing intuition.

Monty is the holder of the only dog trick on the property. I point my finger at him and say “speak up” and he lets out a bark. Amuses me no end as I point and point and point and he just keeps going. No idea how we achieved this. Smart dog to have trained me so well.

from the left: Edwina, Monty, Betsy and Fred (in repose)