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.

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.)

The emergency

It's Sunday evening and we're getting ready to leave. This is never an easy time of the weekend - not because we have to leave this beautiful place and return to work. No. Simply because getting Pete and Sabina to come in for dinner is like herding cats. And after dinner I still have to clean up, pack the esky, the rubbish, the recyclables, and so on. My priority is to get on the road sooner rather than later, while Pete and Sabina appear to be hell bent on having a leisurely bath.

So I'm in the kitchen, starting to get frustrated, when Sabina runs in "Mama! We have an emergency!". Oh for goodness sake! These, so called, "emergencies" happen far too often for my liking. But, on the surface, I remain calm. I put down the tea towel, and follow her outside.

Well, it turns out that when Pete adjusted Fort Cavy this morning, he accidentally put one of the corners on a rock. However, the rock was surrounded by tall grass, so he didn't see his mistake. The guinea pigs ate the grass, and found a way out of Fort Cavy, and into the big world beyond. Yep, you could tell from the way the grass was eaten down, that they had ventured out of their little enclosure.

Very, very carefully, we slightly lifted a tunnel inside Fort Cavy. Just enough to reveal a couple of white paws. Cissy. Then we lifted a bit of bark. Just enough to reveal a brown backside. Ginny. Yay! The emergency was over, both GPs were sitting in the Fort, and I could happily return to being frustrated in the kitchen.

Typical day at the farm

I've been reading Bill Bryson's "At home" recently, and was awed by how little we really know about how people used to live on a day to day basis. It also occurred to me that, while I write a whole lot of interesting (or otherwise) things in my blog, no one knows what a typical day at the farm is really like. So, here goes. A description of a typical day at the farm ... from my perspective. (And just to be clear - this is a typical day now, post chemo. Before the whole cancer thing, life was a whole different kettle of fish.)

I wake up. Must be day, because there is daylight coming in through the ensuite window - one of the few windows where we don't draw the shutter at night. For exactly this purpose - so that when you wake up you can tell whether it's day or night. I jump out of bed, get a drink, take my homeopathic remedies, and jump back into bed. It's 7:30am. I lie in bed, thinking that maybe I still need more rest, but after 20 minutes I decide I am wrong.

I get up, get dressed and have breakfast. Very quietly of course, because the rest of the household, that is husband and Sabina, is asleep. If luck has it, they are still asleep at 9am, when I finally sneak out to ride my horse. I am back in the house (having ridden said horse), at 11am. By this stage, husband has had enough time playing with Sabina, and is absolutely busting to be set free. So off he goes, outside, engaging in farm maintenance and innovation tasks.

Sabina and I have a snack, and then I survey the situation I have been left with. Sometimes the guinea pigs need to be taken out, other times I might engage in a few small tasks such as throwing out a dead mouse and resetting the rat zapper, or cleaning a shelf in the pantry (yes, from mouse droppings).

At 12:30pm I start preparing lunch, which is usually ready at 1pm or so. Lately, husband has become pretty good with his timing, and is usually milling around the house by this time. On a good day he even comes in and sets the table. On a bad day, I have to get out the front door and ring the big fire bell.

By 2pm lunch is eaten. Sabina and I go for a 20 minute lie down, and husband cleans up after lunch. Then husband heads back to his farm tasks. When the alarm bell rings that our 20 minutes is up, Sabina and I usually have giggle and tickle time. Then we head out to ride Sabina's pony. Hopefully, I get to ride my pony at the same time. After riding, we feed the horses.

By this stage it's about 4:30pm at best. I gaze longingly at the garden, and see it screaming at me. I grab the required tools and dig in. Or slice in. Or saw in. At 5pm I realise that I should be heading inside to make dinner. Oh, but maybe I will just trim a little bit more. At 5:30pm I must finish. But of course I can't leave a mess in the garden, so I quickly clean up and put away my tools. By 6pm I rush inside. Dinner is now officially late, and I haven't even started yet.

I create a tornado in the kitchen, making salad, providing Sabina with a snack, slicing meat and preparing dessert simultaneously. We eat at around 7pm, then blissfully relax around dessert. Husband and Sabina head off to the bathroom while I clean up. At 9:30pm I dash off to the bathroom for my own shower, hoping that I can be in bed by 10pm. Quite often, however, I get caught up in some conversation with my husband, or some blog writing, and I end up in bed at 11pm.

I read a book for about half an hour, before turning the lights off.

Guinea Pig dramas

No, the guinea pigs are not drama queens. We've had a couple of close calls with our guinea pigs. Sabina's guinea pigs.

The first close call was when we had the guinea pigs in their portable outdoor enclosure. The enclosure keeps them contained, but is totally open above them. So we cover it with an old fly wire door. But that only covers half the enclosure.

Anyhow, that's how they were when Sabina and I were walking a horse back to his paddock. We looked up and saw an eagle. We marvelled at his wings, at his head, at his tail. We marvelled at his beauty. Then "Sabina! The guinea pigs! Quick!", I shouted. The little girl didn't need a second prompting; she arrived breathless at her guinea pig enclosure and kept them company until the eagle flew away.

The second drama occurred just before dinner time. This time around the guinea pigs were in "Fort Cavy".

Sabina and I were inside preparing dinner. An odd sound caught my ear. Sort of like dogs barking. "Mama, I think I can hear dogs barking", said Sabina. I dropped everything. I don't even know if I left something on the stove or not. Without another word I bolted out the back door, to find "Fort Cavy" surrounded by two keen Jack Russell terriers. Words flew, dogs started running, and I kept chasing them till they were well down the driveway, tails tucked under. They were very lucky I didn't have a whip handy.

The guinea pigs were just fine.

Operation GP

 

 
Over the whole year we agonised whether to get Sabina a pet, and what to get her. In our case this is a dillema as my husband is allergic to cats and dogs. Possibly rabbits too. So to be on the safe side we were leaning towards an outdoor pet. But, maybe something that can be brought indoors every now and then.
 
For a while we were leaning towards chickens, then it was rabbits. Then I got cancer and all bets were off. As my treatment progressed, the pet question popped up again. I asked Sabina what was most important about a pet to her. "Holding and patting", she said. So we decided on guinea pigs. Two females. A Christmas present for Sabina; and a total surprise. And so "Operation GP" was born.

Secret flatpack packages arrived. Sabina would walk around them querying what they were. I would respond "I don't know." Then the hutches and cages were constructed while Sabina was at school, and quickly shipped off to other destinations - like the grandparents'.

We would make various phone calls to family and friends getting information about guinea pigs, how to care for them, etc, always referring to the little creatures as "GP". In the evenings I would sit at my computer, itching to write about progress of "Operation GP", but resisting, in case the news "gets out". Having resisted the itch, I would scan the internet for available guinea pigs.

Finally I found one I liked. I gazed at it for two days, before showing it to my husband. He thought she was so cute that I should call the seller immediately. Then Sabina came over. She gazed longingly at the photos of the guinea pigs on the computer "Oh guinea pigs!". "Yeah. Which one do you think is the cutest?", I asked. She pointed to the GP I had been gazing at for two days. "Oh so cute! Hey lets play with your toy dog", I ran off to the play room.

Needless to say, the said guinea pig was bought. I picked it up and just fell in love with it. It was sitting quietly in the workshop when Sabina came home from school. It was still a week before Christmas, and that evening the GP was shipped off to Oma and Opa's - who took loving care of it, which included hand feeding.

In the meantime it was just so hard to keep it all quiet. At one point I asked Sabina "So, what sort of pet do you think you would like?". "Mama, I have changed my mind. I don't want a pet any more. Papa is allergic to cats and dogs, and it wouldn't be fair on him. And I really think I would like either a cat or a dog." Oh. For a split second my heart sank. "That's what I thought until I held that little GP. Just you wait", I thought.

For Christmas day we went to Oma and Opa's. Straight away we took Sabina to the Christmas tree, and showed her the guinea pig. We sat her down, and put the guinea pig in her lap. She stroked it for a while. Then she put it back in the cage. She sat next to me for a couple of minutes then she said "Mama, it is real, isn't it? It's not a toy?"

The guinea pig was named Cissy and Sabina has grown confident in handling her, feeding her, and "making home" for her. But of course a guinea pig is never really happy by itself. So, tonight we picked up another guinea pig - Ginny - a diminutive of "Ginger", because Ginny is reddish brown.

Sabina stood in the kitchen looking at the two cages, with one guinea pig in each. She held my hand and said, "Mama, that is just the best present ever."