MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL

I do hope that you enjoyed last month’s column. You might find the stories tend to jump from one thing to another like a sheep, but over time you will get a general idea of where this column tends to head.

Like the other ruminants around my place I have tried to introduce Dumb and Dumber (the Alpacas) to the occasional household diet of apples, pears and carrots, but they seem totally disinterested in things sweet. Not even sugar cubes tempt them. They seem to be particularly picky about their dinner and won’t eat anything they can’t recognise. Sensible I suppose.

Whenever I can get fruit or vegetables bulk and cheap it’s added to their diet. In this time of drought it has certainly helped them to keep condition. I have even tried Bananas on the sheep but they didn’t really work out. The sheep ate the skin but the flesh dribbled out of their mouths like an icing gun gone mad.

However something deters some of them from eating the food I present to them. I think its Maxine’s habit of personalising everything by dribbling on it and subsequently ‘bags it’ for herself.

It was about this time that Billy (What an imaginative name for a male goat) arrived from Griffith. Having eaten out the front and backyard of his foster home it was thought he could spend a bit of time eating out the weeds around my place. I have subsequently found out that even though goats have a preference for weeds he will not eat anything like it here. I might lay the blame here on his owner who regularly bribed it with Packet Cereals, Jelly Beans and Chocolate Buttons. After that a weed must taste obnoxious.



I think I will need some more fencing before reforesting the property. As I sit here contemplating the view I get out a ruler to discover that every tree, regardless of its age, has its leaves no lower than 110cm from ground level. Whilst this might enhance the military precision of my forest it indicates nothing under 110cm could possibly survive my little pets.

At a recent Clearance Sale I bought a Metal Mirror for $2. I had at least three reasons for this considerable investment. One to find out if Maxine had any sense of self, i.e. she recognised herself, secondly she might frighten herself and keep her from wandering into the house, and because it’s mounted at floor level an additional bonus of checking the situation with my trousers whenever I enter through that door.

The first time Maxine saw it, she just looked at it. She didn’t move, bleat, or approach it. I know she saw her reflection but her brain didn’t even recognise it was a sheep. She stood there for a while doing her Mae West impressions and then decided the bread in my hand was significantly more important and now she ignores it totally.

Billy also looked into the mirror. Having superior intelligence to any other animal roaming the place including myself, he immediately ripped into the mirror with three or four of the most vicious head butts his little legs and concrete scone could muster up.

So reason number one proved that Maxine is certainly no Einstein. Reason two demonstrated that Billy will stand up for himself against any intruder as ugly as himself.

‘Mirror mirror on the wall who has got the meanest head butts of them all’

For goats at least mirrors are a little different to reality however. I have also noticed that Billy chases Maxine but runs away from Mary, I think it’s a pecking order thing even though they are in different pecking systems. i.e. Goats as opposed to sheep. It’s quite easy to sink into complacency and begin to believe that my pets have some sort of intelligence.

Oh. Yes! Reason three showed that on at least two occasions, after coming back from the pub, my office door was well and truly open.

GODFREY ZONE
(For previous stories and to work out how we got to this point check out http://ahsole.blogspot.com/)

WAFFLE THEN OFFAL

Maybe I should introduce myself first. I’m a retiree looking desperately for a life that decided on a tree-change and moved from the village of Sydney to the village of Linton. That’s right I’m not just a Blow-in but I’m a City-slicker as well. What makes it even worse is that I migrated from New South Wales.

But that part of the story has already been covered in another publication so I don’t know whether I should drag up all that rubbish again. If I have a loyal reader then you will have noticed the move and continue to read the column.

So here’s my story, I hope you like it. If not I have seen this column on the bottom of bird cages before so I shan’t be offended.




Never under-estimate the intelligence of sheep. They startle at the hop of a cricket and follow each other around like Lemmings but they have a rudimentary brain that immediately recognises that if it’s food you run towards it and if its shears you run away from it.

Only slightly larger than a squash ball, and once great for an old-fashioned meal (This might be one for the Pub Menu) the brain of a sheep actually can work things out. I discovered this with Maxine the hard way. Every time I tried to feed the Alpacas she would muscle her way in front of them and tuck into their rations.

I tried chasing her off to leave Dali and Panchun (a.k.a Dumb and Dumber) in peace only to find she would circle the yard with me chasing after her and re-enter the yard through the gate and straight back to their feed. Shut the gate? She wriggles under it. Hang the bucket up a Metre or so? She rears up on her hind legs and bumps the feed out with her nose. Try chasing her with a stick? Useless. A Shepherds crook? Failed. I looked more like a jogging Bishop huffing and puffing in circles? I swear that sheep have a sense of humour.

Even solid constructions like buildings have not seemed to phase her at all. She has worked out how to get her head, but not yet her rump, into the feed shed when I lock myself in there to load up the feed bucket. In fact I even think she has worked out how to open the bag too. I would expect that other ‘Shepherds’ have the same problem. How to get a sheep’s head out of a bucket short of bludgeoning them to death and converting them into Mutton Vindaloo.

I take my life in my hands every day to feed the animal family. I begin to wander whether I shouldn’t invest in one of those foam ‘Sumo Wrestling Suits’ to wear at feeding time. Then I worry that I might look too much like them.

Even Butch and Betty the twin lambs have learnt how to bully the others. Not even Mary their Mother can control them anymore. They have lost all respect for their elders, its ‘me me me’ all the time, they stay up late and wander the paddocks all bloody night, they’ve formed a gang ‘the hole in the fence mob’ with the four lambs next door, and they have begun to graffiti the front lawn with poo.

While Betty is happy with the magazine ‘Cleo’, Butch insists that I take out a subscription for him with ‘Ram Ram Thank You Ma’am’ the soft porn magazine.

I don’t know what’s coming next, maybe binge drinking. At what age does ‘puberty’ finish with lambs? Now when I mention that word sex comes back into the story.

It was only last week that I began to wander if some of my sheep, affectionately referred to as ‘Castrati’, having supposedly become neuter gender and thus disinterested in things romantic, are showing signs of courting towards Maxine.

The bleating when she wanders off, the little rubbings along her side, the little nuzzles under her tail, the foot stomping in front of her. They are not going head down to charge towards her concrete noggin they’re showing a preference to playing piggy-back. I know that nothing is going to come of it so I suppose I should just avert my eyes whenever it happens and let them get on with enjoying themselves.

GODFREY ZONE

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'

Klqsdqks il nd,. L lkdjla/l / the brown fox wasn’t quick enough lslj,j ksbksj,b b.jkxcl;sn vdgq;kld

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

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