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
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
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