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Back to Jack... I find it
interesting that the New Zealanders managed to breed such large
specimens of rabbits, possibly to counteract the possums we sent them?
Anyhoo, Jack didn't put up a struggle either, seemed rather resigned
to his fate, in fact. It appears that, in the storm, his cage
had been molested by the wind. Jack is the closest that rabbits
will get to co-existing with daschunds, I firmly believe.
Jack lives in the kennel previously
occupied by David, he being the daschund father, for those of you not
up with the soap opera farm. Miniature daschunds were bred to
hunt rabbits. The love that daschies have for rabbits is
one-sided. Extremely.
Brian worked his usual miracles and
had the kennel in an enclosure involving HUGE farm fence posts laid
down and galvanised iron sheets nailed to them width wise. The
back fence was a mesh screen door, the other side was the aviary from
Port Fairy that is part of the feather pen (the fence posts stopped
David digging into the feather pen or out of the enclosure) and the
gate was a brilliant arrangement of two long thin pieces of wood at
either end to form a slot for a piece of strong steel mesh. One
lifts up or down the mesh to allow egress for the contained critter.
Now I was given to understand that a rabbit of Jack's inordinate size
would have an impossible task ahead of them to get through the spaces
of the mesh gate. Not so.
Hence my going around the old caravan
we use as a cubby house for Alice, trying to wheedle/chase Jack into
my arms. Foolish woman! Ten minutes of that (Alice was
getting ready for school, Brian hates playing chasey, gets very bad
tempered and was also sleeping after a 12 hour shift, no way I was
waking him for a rabbit), and I was no closer to getting said rabbit,
but Alice had to catch the bus.
Now you may be thinking, "Why is
she bothering? It's just a rabbit" Well, two major
reasons: I would never let a pet just run loose because its
survival chances would be akin to the infamous snowflakes. And
the other is that one does not let rabbits or other introduced
creatures loose in Australia. We have enough pests here.
Why help the ferals? And we certainly have enough rabbits.
And of course, Alice would not have been happy.
When I came back, I found Jack in the
aforementioned position of sniffing interestedly at the other (female)
rabbit's cage. YES! Caught, and then the search for a way
of stopping him going through the mesh. Now I am not as
technically minded nor as handy as said husband. I do know which
is the business end of the hammer, but remember what happened with the
toilet?
Anyway, after much searching around
and mentally discarding possible solutions, I hit on it. I
mentioned previously the empty and useless galvanised and ribbed
rainwater tanks that we put on their sides and filled with free
firewood. My husband used the bonnet of a car to act as a
stopper for the wood that wanted to use the path of least resistance
to the Earths core, and follow gravity into a wet pile in front of the
tank. As so often happens with these things, the bonnet
eventually fell over, and we didn't bother picking it up.
This time I did, and hauled it over
to the cage, leaning it against the inside part of the gate.
With sticks propped up against it, it stayed in place. So did
Jack. At least until last nights storm hit. Apparently it
was said to be the worst in thirty years. Jack wasn't staying
around to find out. Not that I blame him. That bonnet
decided to fall at the standard 32 feet per second per second (minus a
teeny bit for (need I say it) wind resistance) and he was almost
potted meat.
Having surveyed the problem, I
thought there had to be a better way. I tried more lumps of
wood, of various shapes, sizes, thicknesses and points. Not
happy. I considered wedging, and tried moving the bonnet to the
front of the gate. Now it just wanted to fall the other way.
Gravity is so good. Helps me stay on the planet, very useful.
I looked for ideal wedges from the stuff in the firewood, but
discarded that idea, and then thought of tent pegs. Both would
be too short for the height of the bonnet.
Back to the drawing board. I
went around to the sheds, to see what was available. Bingo!
A spade with a broken handle but intact shaft and blade. A
hammer. I tried the spade one way and then the other, in the end
with the concave side against the bonnet. I hammered it into the
ground thereby removing the rest of the handle. Perfect.
Or at least, it is for now.
Well, it has finally happened.
One of the geese has turned into pate. I think it might have had
a one-sided battle with a truck. Hasn't taught the others,
though. I am beginning to believe that most farm animals are
like teenagers: plenty of attitude and appetite and no sense of their
own mortality except when you really feel like killing them.
We have so many chicks now, although
with the new tabby ( a very pretty grey, we think someone dumped it)
we realise that may well be why a couple are missing. Today I
let out Mowgli, the daschie puppy, who is, I hope, learning that he
may not play with the chicks. He sat down, staring
up at me, as I fed the baby chickens. One saw his wagging tail
and I believe mistook it for a black worm or lizard, pounced upon it
and pecked it. With a yelp of surprise and pain, Mowgli shot
into the air, and gave me a look of mixed hurt and indignation.
Took a bit of soothing, which neither of us minded.
Ode to String
String! String!
Glorious string!
Such useful stuff
whether smooth or rough
How often have I have had need of
thee
to tie up a fence or a trouser knee
keep hold of a calf bucking like fury
emergency leash on a walkie
Bind up hair or a bouquet
cardboard for recycling day
use as a skipping rope at play
even good for a bale of hay!
Dominus tecum,
Leonie
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