Cows are not light footed

Before we bought our cows, everyone told us how destructive horses are in a paddock.  They wear paths, they cause soil compaction, and they eat all the yummy grass.  And God forbid should they somehow get out of the paddock.  Not to mention that you need two acres per horse, but only one acre of land for each cow.  Cows are so much better than horses ... so we were told.

Well we've now had the darling cows for over one year, and my husband, who uses the purest language, summarised it "The horses are pussy-ie...cats compared to the cows!"

The cows have managed to jump out of our makeshift crush.  (Ok, it was a poorly made crush, but we never believed that a cow can jump 90cm (3 feet) from a standstill until we saw it with our very own eyes).  They've jumped the fence to the next door neighbour's multiple times.  And don't even get me started on compaction.  Horses make tracks in the paddock, and then they gallop along those tracks.  Cows gallop everywhere, leaving deep indentations of their dainty forked feet here, there and everywhere.  They eat like there is no tomorrow (why has there been no blog updates all winter?  because I've been too busy feeding the cows!), and if you are thinking of an acre per cow you're kidding yourself.

I am glad we have a dam, so at least we don't have to watch in horror how much they drink.

I am not saying that we haven't enjoyed having them.  We've certainly enjoyed having them, and when this lot go (and the land recovers) we will definitely get some more.  It's just that they haven't been the dainty, goofy little creatures we expected.

The Cattle Yard

The cattle yard site, before work commenced.  (The logs in the background are not the building materials.  They are left overs from the previous owners.)

While the cows appear to be all ready for the winter, I cannot say the same for our cattle yard.

The cattle yard became a "work in progress", at least on paper, the minute the cows stepped onto the property.  However, it takes a while to finalise the design.  My husband worked on the design, but at the end of the day it had to pass by me for approval.  In general, I am not overly fussy, but I do know a thing or two about horses.  Cows are similar enough, except that you can't lead them, and they are more fearful because they don't get handled.  So the original design was rejected.

We also played around with the concept of making a round yard double up as a cattle yard, but in the end we decided that wasn't as smart as it sounds.

At long last a suitable cattle yard design was approved, the materials were orderd and work commenced.

Building a cattle yard is hard outdoor yakka.  So while the weather was fine, progress was made.  But the recent bursts of rain, which seem to come mainly on the weekends - the only time we can make progress on the cattle yard - have ground the project almost to a stand still.  It's not that my husband minds working in the rain.  It's that you actually can't dig the holes for the posts in the rain.

If we don't get the cattle yard done in time, then we actually can't take the cows to the market when the time comes.  If we don't take the cows to the market at the right time, and end up taking them later, then we won't get as much money for them.  The cows' value will peak when they are about 18 months old.

So now the pressure is on, as we have about four months to get this project finished.

The current state of the cattle yard.

The Cows

Winter is almost upon us and the cows have grown a nice long winter coat.  We've started feeding them hay.  I think there is still a lot of grass left in the paddock, as the horses only nibbled the hay, then moved on.  The cows made more of a meal out of the hay, then turned it into a nice warm bed.

The Barrista's Perspective

Every morning that I get into work, I put my things down at my desk, and promptly head back out again, downstairs, to get a coffee.  The barrista sees me from a distance, and by the time I get to the counter, my coffee is work in progress.

You see, the barrista doesn't know my name, but he knows that I have the same coffee every day ... as do most of his patrons.  So, when he spots me on the horizon he thinks "Ah, here comes 'small cappuccino'".

And, that short, dark skinned man over there - well he is a "tall latte".  The blonde haired tall bloke - "small machiato".  The two giggling ladies - "regular extra strong cappucino" and "regular latte".

Having said all that, I have recently changed work locations.  With that comes a new coffee shop and a new barrista.  The coffee is as good as ever, but this barrista insists on being on first name basis with all her regular customers.  Mind you, she still knows what your regular choice of coffee is.

Charlie

On Saturday, while I was unpacking the float and Sabina was merrily dancing around me, my husband came over with a little box.  Inside was a tiny baby mouse, still alive.  It's eyes were still closed and it had just enough hair to stop looking pink.  He'd found it in the old compost bin.  (As opposed to the "current" compost bin, which is where all our food scraps go.)

Sabina was fascinated.  I wondered whether the little fella could be hand fed.  So we went back to the house, got a pipette out and tried feeding him with cows milk.  Sure enough, the little fella was keen to drink, and while he probably bathed in most of it, I was pretty confident that he'd had a good drink.

Then we put him to bed in a box, with a hot water bottle.  He shivered for a couple of minutes, then settled down and went to sleep.  Sabina was ecstatic.

When Papa came in she ran over to him and said "Charlie has had a feed and now he's sleeping in his bed.  Do you want to see?"

Papa gazed at me with concern.  "You've named him?"

I gathered that the baby mouse was intended as an interesting farm exhibit, rather than a new pet.  Hmmm ...

As I had no idea how often and how much a little 5 day old mouse needs to be fed, I fed Charlie whenever I had some spare time.  But in the evening I warned Sabina "I am not getting up in the middle of the night to feed him.  He might not make it.  Ok?"  She nodded.  But Charlie made it.  He was a bit cold in the morning, but he made it.  And he had a good feed for breakfast.

For the next couple of blissful days we fed Charlie as often as we could, and he seemed to be thriving.  Sabina had a go at feeding him, and it was wonderful to see just how gentle, careful and patient she was with him.  We stroked him, and massaged him, just the way his mother would.  He grew stronger, and more vocal, and sometimes wriggled with great force in our palm.  He was happiest when held in a gently closed fist.  And he loved having his stomach massaged - he would lie still on his back, with his feet curled up.  Sometimes he had a mind of his own, and it was obvious that one day, Charlie was going to be fast.  Very fast.

We probably spent hours with Charlie.  But they were all blissful hours.  Hours that we looked forward to.  All other tasks got done in half the time, so that we'd have more time with Charlie.  Charlie became our family time, our time out, our escape from the real world.

Then it was time for me to go to work.  While I was very tempted to take Charlie with me into work, and I could even potentially justify that while feeding Charlie for the umpteenth time I was actually thinking up the latest and greatest architecture, it was going to break some serious security rules.  So, Charlie, together with Sabina (who happened to have the day off school), went to my Mum's.

Now my Mum has a huge affinity for all things living.  Everything thrives in her hands and under her care.  But somehow, Charlie didn't survive the day.  All I can say is that my Mum was more interested in the well being of her granddaughter than her granddaughter's baby mouse, and she didn't have enough energy for both.

The little guy got a proper burial in our backyard, and we decorated his resting place with petals.  This certainly gave Sabina a positive way to move forward, and soon she had wiped away the tears and was gratefully hugging her guinea pigs.  But I must admit, that the little guy has left a gaping hole in my day.  Lets just say that the massive enthusiasm to get up in the morning is gone.

I am grateful for the experience; Charlie will be missed.

Captain Hook

Recently we took a holiday at the sea side.  The weather was foul - it poured most of the time we were there, despite being the end of summer.  On one of those pouring days, we nevertheless went down to the beach to see if we could manage a swim.

There was only one other car in the car park, and while my husband and I were busy getting things out of the boot, the couple from the other car were, so it seems, doing likewise.

Slowly, I became aware of Sabina.  She was holding, no wait, more like gently gripping my elbow, while intensely eying off the other car.  There was this edgy feeling coming from my daughter that something wasn't quite right.  I glanced across at the other car.  Indeed, the man was missing half his right arm.  From the elbow to the wrist he had a nice enough looking prosthesis, which ended with ... a hook.

I pretended not to notice anything, and kept myself busy with grabbing towels, boogie boards and other what nots for the beach.  Sabina stepped in closer and closer, ever so gently molding into me, until there was barely enough room for our clothes.  When the man finally moved away, and went for a walk with his partner, Sabina dared to ask.

"Mama, was that ... was that ...", she stumbled.

"Who?  Captain Hook?", I said casually.

Here eyes widened with a stunned, fearful look as she nodded.

"Of course that was Captain Hook!" I responded boldly.

"But Mama, where is his ship?!", the little girl found her voice again.

"Well, no one, not even the pirates, can sail in foul whether like this.  So they've probably dropped anchor somewhere just out of sight, and the pirates have come ashore", I explained as though this was common knowledge.

"But Mama, why didn't he take me and hold me for ransom?", asked Sabina.

"Pirates aren't silly you know.  I was here, and Papa was here, and the life savers are here, and even the Police are here.  He can't exactly grab you and get away with it, can he?  You're very lucky, you know.  You're probably the only child that has seen Captain Hook and got away with it."

On and on it went.  For the next two days.  Captain Hook this and Captain Hook that.  We got a lot of mileage out of Captain Hook.  And I believe that Sabina, now back at school, is still getting plenty of mileage out of Captain Hook.

Run Guinea Pig! RUN!!!

My daughter received a DVD of "White Tuft, the little beaver" for Christmas.  The DVD is fantastic, filmed in the Canadian forest, with no visible human intervention whatsoever.  That's right, a real river, with real beavers, wolves, owls, lynxes, you name it.

Living in Australia, my daughter had never heard of beavers before.  So the start of the movie was littered with questions.  What are these animals?  What do they do?  Where do they live?  What do they eat?  And of course, what are they called again?

Then the part came in the movie, when White Tuft, the little beaver is being chased by wolves.  Earlier on, we were told that White Tuft's father was taken by wolves.  So the danger was obvious.

And, what are they called again?

At first Sabina tried to run off the couch in fear for the little beaver.  But, curiousity drew her back to the screen.  Yet, she couldn't watch the little fellow being followed by these wolves.  So in the end, she just screamed "Run guinea pig!  RUN!!!"

(Come to think of it, there are many similarities between the beaver and the guinea pig.)