I’M NOT DEAD YET!

Last month I deliberately left you suspended, like Home and Away, as to the health condition of Maxine. I’d already lost one sheep and didn’t want to earn the reputation of being a serial complacent.

You might remember that I discovered her flat on her back with legs pointing skyward, completely motionless. It was at that point that I looked toward her face and lo and behold like the hussy that she is she rolled her eyes towards me as if to say

‘Well, don’t just stand there, close my legs and help me up’.

Suddenly the realisation that she’d taken water up past her Plimsol Line and capsized became the reason she’d rolled. The Crows had obviously been too lazy or too scared, else she had kept them at bay with skyrocketing Sultana’s, but with a little help just short of a Bobcat I got her rotated onto her tummy. She was able then to get herself up, and without even as much as a ‘bye your leave’ all I saw was her waddling butt heading for dinner and leaving a dripping trail of water behind her.

This graphic demonstration of wools absorbent qualities prompted me to think about animal shelters of which I have none. These days even sub-prime sheep want four bedrooms and a spa bath, but Maxine would need to be worth as much as Malcolm Turnbull to warrant me spending more than $50. Maybe a second hand plastic Cubby House from the next Animal Refuge Garage Sale? Would she fit through the door?

She’s rolled again lately. Maybe I have to reconsider the rain excuse and realise that she is just too fat. With the energy she generates in keeping her head in the feed bucket I could use her to pull a Thrasher around the paddock, I have promised myself to check out ‘Curves’.

I’ve mentioned before the qualities of a TAFE course. They provide lots of information about the Physiology of Sheep, the name of the third left tail bone or what the ‘Devil’s Grip’ is, lists of worms with pictures, parasites and flies. But they do not provide anything about the psychology of sheep, quirks, habits and the symptoms to look for.

I knew what ‘flyblown’ meant Mary copped that after having her last set of twins, I believe it has something to do with the midwife not having enough towels or hot water handy.

I thought I had got rid of the maggots that she had collected but for several weeks she kept shedding wool, here wool, there wool, it was everywhere wool. The shearer solved the problem by explaining that she was suffering a bit of post-natal depression and would be OK after learning a few stress reduction techniques. Of course she has taken it too far as usual and instead of bleating she sits cross-legged and hums Mantra’s.

Then comes the next problem. Why should Feral Sheep No.5 - now renamed ‘Roast’ – suddenly leap around like Dame Margot Fontaine performing a ‘pirouette with double entendre’ after eating Oats. Her enlarged udder makes me think that she might have eaten something she shouldn’t – Peanuts?

In the words of Pauline Hansen could someone ‘Please explain’.

'Shit'

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OK, now I’ve also got Tom and Jerry. The back shed is still the only place I can find to work on the computer in peace as a result two little mice have just stuck their heads up from behind my desk and stumbled across the keyboard. The third mouse is probably still at the Railway Hotel getting blind. I’ll get back to you.

GODFREY ZONE

IS THAT YOU MAX?

Even though I had promised myself never to take on anything so big that I couldn’t wrestle it to the ground on my own. The length and quantity of the grass all over the property has made me go back on my own word.

In the last few days I have taken on further agistment duties with one already mention Goat from Griffith and now two horses. One most beautiful but sulky 6 year old Clydesdale mare prone to throwing little tantrums and one affectionate 20 year old stallion. The mare is so big I think the sun has set every time she walks past the kitchen window.

Although it’s a highly dangerous move I like naming animals appropriate to their personality or their use. As a result I felt that naming the three feral sheep Numbers 5,6 and 7 might make one think that they were candidates for a Nazi Gas Chamber so I have chosen to rename them Roast, Casserole and Kebab.

I always have the good intentions of maintaining a stress free environment for all us creatures here in Happy Valley. I want ‘Good Karma‘ every day. I have even banned them from watching commercial TV in case they run across Sam Kekovitch promoting BBQ Lamb for Australia Day.

Recently however, totally unintentionally I caused Maxine to throw up, Mary to dry retch, Butch and Betty to audibly gag, and Billy to begin butting his head against the nearest tree. I had done something really simple too. I just removed my clothes to ‘skinny dip’ in the dam.

The word skinny dip, in my case, bares no relationship to my good self. I’m more the shape of a large Mozzarella cheese that one sees hanging around traditional Deli’s. It is not an exact resemblance however for cheese holds it’s shape whilst my body tends to move about relative to gravity. If you’ve seen an elephant laying on its side you will know exactly what I mean.

Whilst swimming, or should I say wallowing in my dam, the Fish Kamikaze on the shoreline while the Frogs Hari-Kari onto the sharpest reeds. It’s a constant problem replenishing that stock.

Now when I go down to the dam I have to negotiate my way past the ‘Pit Of Death’ which started with Bossy the sheep and is now almost full to the brim with a menagerie of suicidal fauna.

In future before divesting myself of my Y-fronts and plunging into the icy depths of dam sludge (A sort of gun-metal grey, is this the same stuff beauty parlours use?) I will give a long sustained toot on the Rams Horn to warn all and sundry too avert their eyes. At least I know that I’ll be swimming in water completely devoid of any life form sometimes including yours truly.

It wasn’t that long ago when we actually had some heavy rain and lots of wind. On one of those rare days whilst travelling up the driveway to the house that I happened to notice a few sticks protruding from the long grass a few yards away. It’s not an unusual sight after a storm considering the amount of wattle trees on the property. I thought little of it and just went on into the house.

Although I’m an extremely curious person, some say odd, sticks are not particularly high on my list of optional study.

Some time later, as the sun sank down beyond Skipton and the flock drew themselves towards dinner, I did the usual head count. One short, try again, yes one short. Unable to line them up for a roll-call I just mentally ticked off who was getting ready for dinner. I try to avoid using the word ‘dressing’ for fear of upsetting them.

One short! Maxine! How many sticks? – 4.
What colour? – Black. How many legs does Maxine have? – 4. What colour are they? – Black. Putting 2+2 together I came up with the same answer. I heard myself tell the assembled tribe ‘Don’t panic! Don’t panic!’

When I arrived at the sticks, there she was on her back legs straight up in the air as stiff as a stiff, but even worse, in a very unladylike manner she had soiled herself. The tears welled up when I remembered that when one dies everything tends to let go.

She’s moved on? Despite my writing non de plume I thought ‘she’s in heaven’s paddock or lining the Ugh Boots of Jesus?’

GODFREY ZONE