GO HOME PACKIES

When I bought into Happy Valley I had no idea what lived on my block. As far as I knew the Deeds stated 10 Acres with Small Shed, Dam, Electricity and Telephone. (For some reason a 3Sq.m shed with 2 phone lines and ADSL?) I had seen lots of flaura, that was obvious, but there was nothing in it about any fauna.

I confronted the Agent. This might have been just an investment property, to be left alone save for the payment of rates. Linton may have woken up one morning to find they had been over-run by what turned out to be a total of nine unshorn, giant, really feral sheep, turning the median strip into a barren wasteland, decimating every garden club members front yard, maybe even having there own way with the tin sheep outside the pub.

As a general rule I try to vary the story a little bit each month, but I find myself in this issue writing further of my adventures with Alpacas.

For animals whose genes originated in the high Andes in South America they seem to have adapted quite easily to the flatter territory of Australia. It amazes me that both Dali and Penshun seem to prefer sitting on a small pile of dust near the front gate rather than climb Erebus, Etna or Vesuvius the three piles of dozered up rock under which Warren, Bruce and Clive the Rabbits has created elaborate Harems, and more recently Bobby the Brown Snake.

On the subject of rock, the Land Consultant I engaged to sort out where our human sediment should float too was the first to mention the problem I might have. It was not until after I had bought the land that I learnt about ‘Floaters’ .

But my mention of the value of rock and the possibility of selling it he broke out into a polite gale of laughter, you know? Turn their back towards you and pretend they are having a coughing fit.

‘Do you think that anyone within 200Km of this place would want to buy MORE rock?’ he chortled.

Back to the subject of Dali and Penshun, Dumb and Dumber, Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy or whatever names I think of in times of frustration for these flighty, dithering, highly strung, nervous Nellies.

These two definitely have a mind of their own, if a prawn has a mind? It took me two months to even touch them, two months more to get them to feed from a bucket without little panic attacks, and a further two months to get them into the sheep race. Penshun tried to take flight first and succeeded in getting his legs ‘espaliered’ in the mesh sides. Thank heavens they spat at each other in this process and not at me. Now I know exactly how far ‘spitting distance’ is.

Once in the enclosure I was able to run my hands over them, like trying to break a horse, but all I encountered were sticks and stones embedded in their tangled fleece. Gathered I would expect either from the hill of dust in which they delight in rolling or the trees that they regularly fight. Taking note of how many objects per. square metre was entangled in their fluff I noted that normal shearing might be out of the question in favour of a big pair of gardening shears.

Dali, whose superior intellect is only just superior to a Cashew Nut, realised that he could actually move backwards under the rail behind him and reversed out of the race.

I learnt later that a backscratcher held horizontally would appear to them to be something you could not move beyond. So now instead of trying to corral them the same as sheep I just corner them with both arms outstretched holding a few simple bits of tree branch, but running around like that makes me appear to other humans as though I am trying to take off or that my latest experiment in puppetry failed miserably.

Regardless of their mental capacity my two Alpacas are still worthwhile recruits to my security needs, and a progressive comedy festival at the same time. Even if their wonderfully big, deep black eyes stare vacantly, you have to accept them as they are – animals with special needs.

GODFREY ZONE

MARCH FLIES?

YES – MARCH FLIES
or
Is there anything dumber than an Alpaca?




Of course every self-respecting Shepherd has to have an Alpaca or two let loose amongst the flock. It raises the question for me, having acquired a couple, which ‘Is there anything dumber than an Alpaca?’

It has been over nine months and they are yet to work out whether they should be afraid of the sheep or the sheep be afraid of them.

I saw a documentary once about Australian animals being some of the dumbest in the world because they lacked any serious predators and so placed little emphasis on real protection. But I think Alpacas faced the same problem in Llama land and have evolved into what would appear to be the world’s dumbest creatures.

The brown male I have is formerly known as ‘Dali Llama’ or ‘Mayor’ because he thinks he’s in charge, the other, the black male is formerly known as ‘Penshun Llama’ or ‘Administrator’ because he pretends not to be the real boss. They don’t mind each others company, but they bicker, they carry on more like husband and wife. Frankly I think they suffer from ADHD or a Bi-polar Disorder.

My Alpacas primary role is to see off small animals such as foxes they don’t believe should be there especially at lambing time. I don’t doubt that they are valuable as many Shepherds swear by their effectiveness. But I don’t seem to have any foxes. Bossy, the lead whether passed away and it was four days before I placed him in the ‘Pit of Death’ yet he remained untouched even by Crows.

They have proved their worth however by seeing off the next door neighbours’ cat a few times. Boy does that ginger thing pick up speed when an Alpacas about to hoof its head in.

An example of how Alpacas don’t think might be how, after the shearing of the sheep, they then spent 20 minutes chasing them around the property getting more frustrated every time a new one came shooting out of the race. I think they eventually realised that they already knew these animals from somewhere before but by then they were all slowly collapsing in the shade of trees including Dumb and Dumber.

Now, trees, there is an interesting concept. I’m convinced that genetically Alpacas do not relate to trees. Why should they, in the high Andes of South America trees are non-existent. So Alpacas have never learnt how to dip their heads below a tree branch. Mine just continue to walk towards their target, whether it is the waterhole or the next patch of grass. If they meet a tree it’s a case of just barge through.

Many a time I have been startled by what sounds like a meeting of monkeys in a nearby tree only to see a set of legs doing a Fred Astaire on the ground and a head eventually breaking loose of the rest of the tree. Out walks a really upset Alpaca almost seeming to say ‘Who put that bloody thing there?’

‘How to meet Alpacas and influence them’.

That’s a Course I would like to find if it exists. On the Sheep Course I learnt all about Ticks and Mites, Worms and Wombs, Teething Problems, Marking and Husbandry, but learnt nothing about how to organise them into a team.

They are also easily distracted, demonstrated by the fact that the young Alpacas next door get a little kiss occasionally. I’m not sure if they have worked out he’s neuter gender or they might like to participate in the Mardi Gras Parade.

I’ve had time to study the pros’ and cons of my various animals. I have come to the conclusion that Dumb and Dumber are far less intelligent than say - Louis De Fly.

GODFREY ZONE

SHE HAS A PROBLEM

SHE DOESN’T DIET

Welcome again – meet a failed candidate for ‘The Biggest Loser’. Somehow the name Maxine Suffolk got accepted by Channel 10, that she weighed 80Kg was a bit doubtful, they wrote back to query that bit of the application, but I made the silly mistake of entering her age as THREE. Even I will admit that I could lose a bit of weight. I solve the problem temporarily by surrounding myself with lots of fatter friends. But Maxine doesn’t have that luxury. Even freshly shorn she appears to be double the size of anything else in the paddock. Like me she resembles a Sumo Wrestler.



Her favourite is bread, not plain old white bread she literally turns her nose up at that rubbish, but Whole Grain and Rye will have her run 200 Metres, yes run I said, towards the sound of a plastic guitar pick being pried off the package and the sight of anything resembling a Black and Yellow Bread Wrapper. Visitors have been warned, maybe it also needs a sign on the gate, not to wear any combination of black and yellow clothing. Unfortunately my sheep do not have any Number Plates so it’s hard for visitors to work out which of the sheep near the house is the one that will take out (for some unknown reason) your left kneecap.

Now that the grass is much taller Maxine doesn’t have to rely totally on the ‘Commando Crawl’ up to the shed and the feed bags she knows are stored within. Again, they are yellow. I thought sheep were supposed to be colour blind. Even me carrying a Yellow Bucket will get a response. Her eyes brighten, she begins to drool, and she will not leave me any farther away than one or two metres. It is a fact that once she has been able to get her head into the bucket, any bucket, it takes the equivalent of six horsepower to extricate her from it, and that can even be an empty bucket.

Maybe instead of biggest loser competitions I could try to enter her at the Dogs considering the distance she can cover in twenty seconds, but they would need to recover the rabbit in something black and yellow. She’d do well in a weight for age event if there were any really fat greyhounds around. Of course losing would be out of the question. Anyone for a good Mutton Stir-fry?

To add to the problem my Mum believed that for everyone, an apple a day was the best medicine, that and a good dose of Caster Oil whenever I threatened a sickie from school. But my peculiarities are a different story. What led me to write that is because Bread is not the only thing they all get. Add an Apple a day to that recipe, one each, I’m very fair like that, or a Pear if they are cheap, or a Carrot for moonless nights.

But like the sales pitch ‘That’s not all’. Every afternoon when the sun hits a certain angle on the horizon they all gather, including Dumb and Dumber, near their yard (a bit of fenced off arena under the car-port) ready for their cup of highly palatable feed, suitable for growing ruminants, or as a supplement to grazed pasture - ‘Malt Pellets’.

Grazed pasture? They’ve got 10 acres of the stuff, over an acre each, half of it knee high with 52 varieties of grass, weed and stubble. What else could they wish for? No? Stupid here pretends that they live permanently in an all-you-can-eat diner. Little wonder Maxine’s tummy has left a groove between the food trough and her favourite tree.

I mentioned that I’d done a course about small farming at Hawkesbury T.A.F.E, but like everything else with some of the Tutors it was a case of ‘if you can’t do it successfully then teach it instead’. You spend months of your life learning something you can’t really use, like marking lambs with your teeth or why all worms are Latin, and learn little of what sheep are really like, or what they really need. You need to learn everything fresh, hands on and the hard way.

You learn nothing of the important stuff like: Do sheep have a sense of self? Have they a concept of play? Can they really grow longer fleece using classical music?

This drought of course is not making it any easier for you or me. The arid acres, the deficient dams, fodder famine and wilted Wisteria. Shortage, scarcity, want, absence, need, words heard daily on the TV. But our mate Kevin is now the PM, his supporters promised that when the Liberals fell so would the rain. Here I am Kev avariciously waiting, arms outstretched and face skyward, for 1mm a day just for myself.

GODFREY ZONE