Saks 5th Avenue

When I was around 10 years old (I think) my Dad went on a trip to the UK and to the USA. He bought back for me amongst other things a ring (since stolen by the fellow who broke into the house at Ulverstone) and a scarf from Saks 5th Avenue - I had carted it from rented house to rented house, from New South Wales to Tasmania but until this summer have never worn it. It is one of those square cotton scarves, large like a bandana - but not long like the ones we tend to drape now days. But this summer it is getting out and about at least twice a week, though possibly not as the woman who behind the counter at Saks or my Dad may have imagined.
I always had a bit of hay fever in the spring when I lived in Sydney - but nothing really - but the spring and summer in Tassie is different. Anti-histamines for much of the time don't have a hope - and a full hay fever kit has eye drops, antihistamines - and many tissues - though blowing your nose is pointless after a point where all it means is a nose bleed.
But hooray for saks fifth avenue - now when I am mowing the lawn and using the whipper snipper or slashing the paddocks - I wear my Saks 5th avenue bandana - wrapped around my face bushranger robbing a stage coach style. Riding my ride on mower - wearings saks 5th avenue - got to love it!

Swan and Goose

When I was younger - quite a bit younger, and living at home Mum and Dad had chooks. Mum, my brother and I went and picked them after school in a box from a man whose chicken farm is now covered in MacMansions, and right next door to a set of traffic lights.
Six - (from memory) little black australorps. Nice chickens as far as chickens go - but here was a new discovery - I was terrified of things with feathers. And not only the feathered part but those yellow eyes - and the way they would flap and carry on.
Lets just say if everyone else was away and the feeding of the chooks was my job then their food and scraps were chucked through the wire and I walked a very tentative 12 feet to get the eggs - and only if it was my job more then two days running - otherwise the eggs could wait.
You can imagine my delight then the day that a Kurrawong got itself tangled up in the wire mesh and baling twin on top of the chook pen - trapped and in danger of losing his foot. Now there's a beady eye to be wary of.
But the thing about a trapped animal is that terrified of it or otherwise you just have to deal with it... you can't leave it and you can't ignore it and you can't hope that someone else is going to fix it.
So Kurrawong rescue was my first dealing with my feathered fear - after that the chickens were a piece of cake. Still not a fan of them flapping around - but ok.
My next feathered encounter happened when I lived at Cradle Mt- I rescued a owl which had been hit by a car and was sitting in the middle of the road - duly wrapped in my walking coat on the floor in the front of the car and delivered to the wildlife park. He was a peaceful little fellow - but he was a tad smelly.
Then there was a Kookaburra - so it should have come as no surprise to me yesterday to be met with my biggest bird yet.
The black swans have been nesting and rearing their grey babies now for some weeks - and driving the same way each day you see the families day in and day out.
Yesterday as I drove to feed Peri - I came around a corner in the road to see a grey cygnet - well assuming it is still called a cygnet - in that it is fully grown - but it's feathers are a combination of grey and black - sitting beside the road - next to a five strand barbed wire fence.
G-REAT! Now here's the thing - I could have driven by but no - you have to stop don't you.
You get out of the ute - now stranded in the middle of the road with it's hazard light on and you deal with it.
But let me tell you these are bloody big birds - seriously big - and he/she got itself to it's feet but was limping and though pretty obviously not in immediate danger from it's current injuries it was still on the road and a car would take care of things pretty quickly.
Bugger - "look" says I to the swan - you need to go through that fence and onto the dam"
I think I may have even pointed to make myself clear.
To which the swan did nothing bar hiss at me pretty terrifyingly to back off and I most certainly did. Now this happened a couple more times - and I thought "what the hell do I do now"
I know I will get a horse rug out of the car - throw that over it and then lift it over the fence.
And of course I didn't have a nice dark blue quiet horse rug in the car - nope just a nice white, bright yellow and black check - super.
So I walk toward bird- not confidently I must say folding and unfolding said rug - which in hindsight must have looked a bit like a blood great bird to the swan - and here my courage fails me - it snakes that bloody head with it's big red beak at me - hissing the entire time - I have visions of it getting it's head out of the rug as I am trying to lower it over the fence - which I realise now is too high - and I would then no doubt drop already injured bird and so obviously this was a good plan but clearly here my courage fails me.
I am not sure how many time I have said - "look" out loud - to the swan "look you just have to go through the fence" - it is now lieing in the ditch by the side of the road - thinking climb through it yourself.
Right thinks I - I will drive down the road to the neighbour - and they can come and give me a hand - a couple more seconds spent folding and unfolding the horse rug in the road - flagging down any incoming birds - hazard light on car blinking merrily - nope thinks I time to call in back up. Put the horse rug back in the ute, get in - put on my seat belt - turn off the hazard lights and bugger me if the swan doesn't make one enormous effort and squeeze through the fence and limp half way up the dam wall and lie merrily down.
And I although happy that the swan is out of danger - do feel like a right goose - knowing that the farmers in the two farms have no doubt been watching me do the tartan rug swan dance to the morning sun in the middle of the road in Harford.

Mrs Bloody Wilkinson

When I moved to Harford I inherited a small pony - very small pony - named -well no one was really quite sure. When I say inherited I mean basically that she was left behind - aside from a comment thrown over the shoulder of the elderly son in law of the previous even more elderly owner - which was something along the lines of "watch out for that pony - she is the devil".

oh great. And she was a little devilish, a little hard to catch, a little hard to worm, a little dangerous to get anywhere near the back end of - but gradually we were making head way - she came when she was called with a small incentive, she only tried to kick me occasionally - and only occasionally managed to get through into Peris paddock - though Peri is a little rough so she would come back again.

However after today things may never be the same as Mrs Wilkinson (named after a Jilly cooper fictional racehorse) decided enough with this joint (she has been on starvation rations on account of the spring growth) I am a little bit out of here - and she has been missing since the early morning. Up the road - along the highway (which doesn't bare thinking about) and into the garden of the people across the road.

Now normally I shut the front gate - always the first rule - when stock are in residence - even if it is only one tiny pony - but late last night I didn't on account of being under the weather with a cold - and there you go - little devil just took herself off - pushed through the wire fence - so that this morning her gate was still shut and all looked well - and that as they say was that.

Now whilst all's well that ends well - this could have ended oh so very badly. Needless to say - will be shutting the front gate tonight - yes I know even if it is after the horse has bolted.

Drover

I want to talk about Drover today. Why I am not sure, except to say that I don't want the story of Drover to be one about what a great dog he was when the inevitable happens, but rather about what a great dog he is.
Drover has a condition, not really sure what - most likely an inherited condition called kelpie ataxia - or maybe a brain condition bought on by his mother being vaccinated and the pup having a reaction - not really sure - and either way it doesn't really matter the end result is the same - and that is that Drover has a slowly degenerative condition that effects his movement. Sometimes his brain says - hey legs go left - and they will do but only after they've done a hokey pokey knees bend a bit to the right. Symptoms are most noticeable when he is going slowly - flat out he's great.
The thing I love about Drover is he loves to be called - often of a morning he goes for a wander down the paddock, and I for once not worried about snakes given I would rather him have an adventure while he can - let him go a distance before I call him.
And when I do call him it's something to see. Run,and run like he's the happiest dog on earth, I want him and he's a comin'. He might be awkward, and gangly - but he doesn't know and sometimes it is so beautiful it could make me cry if I let it - but I make a choice and I smile instead.
And he likes to get on things - the back of the ute, the 44 gallon drum, the garden bench, the only problem being that he can't get himself up so he runs to which ever is next in the path I'm walking - shed past ute, drum to shed and stands and waits for me to walk past and pick him up.
And I always do - running late, clean clothed, doesn't matter cause if this is the last time - and anyone of them could be - then there is always time.
And he loves to lean on you - when doing his stand up on things - if you pause for long enough he stays standing but leans back on you, back of his head on your chest - I ask you what is so important you don't have 2 minutes. And he might be smelly but your hands will wash.
And he's no fool - when he first arrived I had him in one yard - and later on moved him to a second yard... and every night when it's dinner time he waits in the first yard while I mix his dinner - and when I call his name he runs to the new pen. He's a man for routine.
I often think of Drover if he could speak he would say "I like the gentle jobs". No chasing the mower, no staring at sheep, he's the guy for leaning on you at the clothes line, for lying in the sun while you garden, for the stacking the wood. The gentle job boy.
Don't get me wrong - he's not perfect and if I said I didn't get heartily sick of the way he can't be toilet trained I'd be lying.
But there is something about Drover - Mike my wonderful vet on meeting him for the first time said to me - as Drover stood with his front legs on the vet table - feet on the floor leaning on me - geez but that dog looks like he could talk... to which I replied but Mike he can, and he has something to ask you... he wants to know "is he going to die today", and without a blink Mike replied no Drover not today.
Drover is humbling, and Drover is life affirming, and I hope that he has a long long time ahead... and there is really no point to this entry except that as I said at the outset... I wanted it known now what great dog he is ... and may was be a long time coming.

Shearing

When they say "we're shearing this week" at home in NSW they literally mean they will have the shearers there for a week, the shed will be full of sheep - that get run in in a stop and start flood kind of a way and trickle out a sheep from a stand at a time.
Well they don't really trickle out as in slide - fall or stumble out.
For those who have never been in a shearing shed running at full throttle it is hard to explain what it is that makes it such a fantastic place to be.
In part I think it's the noise - hand pieces make a noise like nothing else... they -well what is the noise - they thrum is the best word I can think of it... then there's the smell, sheep and wool - and by the end of the day bloke - and there is always an element of danger - they don't have a kill (as in the blades - not the sheep) pull on the motors for nothing.
And maybe it's just that if you're in a shed and your standing still or you're not helping out then you're just in the way. In the shed it's a bit of a case of pitch in or piss off.
We had shearing here in Harford this week... all 9 girls - yes 9.
And the thing about shearing from my point of view is that the best thing is the reason to legitimately work a dog. There's is nothing like working a dog at the best of times - but working them for fun is one thing - working them to get a job done is another.
I have no shed and stand here so the farmer next door kindly lets me use his. It is a fantastic little shed with everything you need and a few things you don't - like wall paper on all the walls on account of the fact that is was a little weatherboard house until 50 years ago or so - so the sheep come in through the kitchen - wait in the bedroom - and exit through the lounge.
But the thing I love about it is working the sheep up the road - down the drive of the farm and into the shed... thank you red dog.
And when the sheep have been run through, they're shawn, they're drenched and treated for lice, then you and your dog walk them home again.
And something happens on that walk and in the shed, and I don't know what it is - but there is a satisfaction at the end of it that you can feel in the soles of your feet and in the sun on your hat as you walk back down the road, dog at your heels "get behind red" and the sun shining and stock well cared for... for a little while life is very simple and very good. Maybe it is just that when you're working a dog - or moving stock - you can only do one thing at a time. Life making life simple.

... and they’re off!

Here's the thing - a studio is just a room until you're working in it... all the thought process about fitting the room out, all the appropriate floor coverings and shelving mean nothing till you're actually creating something in it...
So yesterday while the rest of the nation was off at Melbourne Cup lunch - and the work phone was completely silent - here in Harford we sprang the gates on the studio - in terms of the piece of work created - I think it's a horse that finished last in one of the minor races...
But as they say - you've got to be in it to win it - and art - like the Melbourne cup is a race for stayers!

I went up this morning to retrieve the kettle - and took this photo - not much of a one on account of the fact that the sun was belting in the window like it has no where else to be. And today when it's back to work proper there is no where I'd rather be either.

... and good morning to you too

up VERY early this morning on account of letting Mac, Bon and Guestey out of the house - whom then all proceeded to bail up a feral cat in the old tin stables where the star droppers and old posts and gates are stored - so the cat went screaming up the old wooden wall, the dogs started going mental and all manner of stuff started crashing down and Guestey who has the loudest bark on earth - it is a long drum after all - was barking the bloomin' house down... though it should be noted bloomin' was not the word I used in the thick of the fray!

SNAKE thinks I leaping from bed - though about half way across the lawn in my bare feet and PJs it becomes apparent that it is WAY TOO COLD for snakes out in the open at least - nope what we have is a dinosaur size feral cat bailed up - up the wooden wall lining - just out of reach of the demented dog team

what to do -

1st and most importantly SHUT the dachshund up! As the racket he is making would appear to be sucking all the oxygen out of the atmosphere ....
2nd - this cat seems to stick to rates and mice - now noticeably absent from the hay shed - so we might want to preserve his life - with the added bonus of avoiding bloodshed before coffee... from both dogs and cats and self that is ... so lock the dogs up...
3rd - get your feet warmed up and cleaned off before they fall off, get back inside and have a coffee - and give up on the idea of going back to bed...


so begins another peaceful day at Finchhatton Farm -  and my eyes aren't even open yet.