The Gallery: Animals

She who would like to be obeyed

Life on a farm is rather ruled by animals. There isn't much we can do without thinking of their needs. I can't just go out for the day without making sure the ponies are fed and watered, that the dogs will be okay, the hens are settled and the sheep are in the correct place*.

One thing I don't have much to do with is cats but when The Boss, aka my mum, is away like today (she's at a family funeral that I can't go to because someone's got to stay to look after the animals) I get to look after the three black farm cats and the one house cat, Calico, pictured.

Calico expects a certain level of care and if the Boss is away Calico is disgruntled. She will vanish on day one of the Boss's absence and then reappear in high dudgeon half an hour before the Boss returns. Once she's given the Boss a dose of haughty ignoring she will then make it quite clear she was not treated in the manner to which she has become accustomed and that my care was severely lacking in the caring department.

It's difficult to look after a cat who just isn't there. I rest my case.

So Calico, who for once is indoors while the Boss is away (I don't think she's realised she's not coming back tonight, yet) is the subject of my The Gallery this week. Pop on over to Sticky Fingers and have a look at the others. 

* As for sheep, on Monday when we were seal-spotting and ice cream eating the flock left the farm en masse and headed down the drive and onto the road. Mum set off in hot pursuit, leaving the gate open should the sheep discover the error of their ways, only to encounter them coming back up from a neighbouring farm's driveway. Mum executed a neat three point turn, managed not to squash any of the sheep in the process and then herded them home in her little Nissan Micra. Who needs a sheep dog or Quad bike? Actually we do, but in the meantime apparently one woman and her Micra is sufficient.

Running smells...

Running smells unpleasant sometimes. One hill I run up is regularly visited by a dog for purposes of defecation. These poos (and the dog must be HUGE because its turds are monstrous) are lined up the road like a hideous canine olfactory alternative to cats eyes. What I really need is a heavy downpour or a road sweeper. We get the former regularly, but the latter only about once a year and I'm pathetically grateful when it does come.

The other thing I notice as I'm bounding along like a gazelle (really?) is the bubble of cigarette smoke when cars pass containing smokers, and the funny stale fridge smell when the air conditioning is on. At the moment the roads smell of hot tarmac and horse dung, which isn't so very bad, and freshly mown grass mingled with diesel, because everyone is furiously making silage.

I have been traumatised this week by rats. We have hundreds again, partly because the resident population of feral cats cleared all the rats and then moved on to solve someone else's problem. Now the rats are back and all our movements in the garden are accompanied by sinister rustlings in the hedges. I see them pitter pattering from the chicken coop to the bird feeders and I was out quietly weeding the other day and looked up to see this lot:

So Granny in the Annexe ordered three new farm cats from the local cat rescue centre. They arrived on Wedneday, three identical black neutered toms. They have to live in large cages for a fortnight and all we see of them at the moment are belligerent yellow staring eyes. They'll get used to us, we are told.

More rat trauma occurred today while I was in the polytunnel pottering. Just outside the door, lying on a pallet is the last bag of Fertile Fibre potting compost. As I was tying in the cucumbers I watched, idly, as the bag moved. Then I realised the bag had a tail.

Being a country girl, I immediately whacked the bag and its wriggling contents with the nearest thing I had to hand, which happened to be a border fork. Then I came over a little squeamish and fetched Brian. He surveyed the situation and fetched The Dog. Now The Dog (aka Mido) is half Labrador, half terrier. Unfortunately he has a Labrador's instinct for killing rats (i.e. Hey! Let's play!) and a terrier's instinct for being a gun dog (Ooh look! Rabbit hole! Dig! Disappear!) He thought the idea of a rat in a bag was a jolly wheeze and then bounded off to bark at the hens.

Brian whacked the compost bag with the handle of a mattock and left it to one side, presumably to allow the rat, should it merely have a headache, rather than something more terminal, to come to and stagger home. (Now can you see why I decided to go back to work?!)

Meanwhile, on a happier note, a whole nest of little wrens fledged. Sweet.