A calf called 'Dave'

Dave

We are obviously only amateurs at this 'farming' lark, with our rabbits grazing the front lawn. A lady just down the lane has a calf grazing hers. Well, grazing a bit, maybe - this one is so young he is still on the hand-feeding bottled milk. He is a Limousin born last week but one of twins, rejected by the Mum who seems to have decided that one is enough. He seems to be doing OK but must be a bit lonely judging by the way he bounces up to the fence even when I have three dogs on leads. I had a good idea that this lady might be as 'silly' as us with giving the little mite a name. Well, she told me rather apologetically, the grand children have called him 'Dave'!

Rain, wind and a blizzard of autumn leaves coming down. Round here that is mainly the ash and the sycamore now. The hawthorn is already bare to the heavy crop of haws. We are a bit short on pretty colours this year, no flaming reds or oranges. The sycamore gets that tar-spotting fungus before the leaves turn a muddy brown. The ash just goes pale yellow and pathetic looking before it falls, the leaflets coming away from the central leaf-stalk leaving you with a twiggy mess. The beech and horse chestnut have tried a bit of orange but really, the only colour is coming from the more exotic garden trees - Acers and so on - up and down the lane. Not a vintage year for indulging in that bizarrely named American activity, "Leaf Peeping".

We love the Met Éireann weather maps on line, showing us the predicted rainfall (of which there seems to be plenty over this Irish Bank Holiday weekend (Hallowe'en). Rainfall is quoted in mm per hour, so 'heavy' would be any green areas, more than 1 mm per hour, 25 mm or an inch per day. The massive storms (yellow, orange and red) seem to be saving themselves for the south and east coast this time. You click on, and slide the time slider at the bottom of the map in 6-hour chunks and you can see it all passing through like a slow-motion movie.

Big thanks for this gift of wine from a generous benefactor. No names no pack drill - we are not at all sure the friend would want to be 'named and shamed' but you know who you are and we have, of course, made contact to pass on our thanks separately. Thank you very much. We love the name of this firm, "Wine on Line" based near Dublin and using one of the many excellent courier firms which seem to exist in these rural areas. These guys always seem to phone first before they arrive to check you are in and to confirm directions, which gives me a chance to get down to the gate to meet them. We had no idea this was coming so our first reaction was "What parcel? What have we ordered?"

John Deere Bob's new cattle on some silage aftermath.

The 2CV saga rumbles on and I probably know more about 2CV carburettors and the emissions tests now than it is healthy for one person to know. Ignore this paragraph if you have not interest in this! I will not bore you with a wealth of detail but the car is now back in the garage and being attended to by the senior guy (owner?) Keiran who is a whizz on these detailed tweaks and the gas analyzer. It seems that both my existing carb AND the spare I got from 2CV Llew have worn 'holes' where the hard metal of the butterfly spindles slot in. They do a smoke test apparently and can watch the smoke leaking out of what should be an airtight bearing. This means that they can set the mixture up but as soon as you tread the accelerator the butterfly opens but then can fall back into a different closed position. The air leaks around it and the jet has to be set rich to compensate for the air leaks, which can push your HC (hydrocarbons) out of kilter. Keiran thinks he can fix it but I am not confident.

Gladioli enjoying the mild autumn in the yard

In 2CV-Land there is an expert 'go-to' man we all talk to on line, named Ken Hanna. Ken thinks that the limits I am being asked to stay inside are set up for modern cars and engines with catalytic converters and clean exhausts. In the UK, he tells me, old cars are given exemptions and concessions. Even the new spec for a 2CV ex factory, he says would over-top the limits here (and fail) so I may be on a hiding to nothing. If this is the case then it is definitely not worth investing the (gasp) €240+ in a reconditioned carb. Ah well, we will find out on Thursday 14th Nov which is last chance saloon for this car.

Pups,Kittens and Bunnies

We seem to be accumulating animals (or at least potential animals) at an alarming rate. Mum and Dad have been looking to bring the dog count back up to three after the passing of Haggis. I am told I am a 'natural only child' rather resentful of the intrusion and jealous of my Dad's lurve, but I get no say in this, I just have to put up with it. I am told it is good for my soul and makes me a more rounded character. Anyway, there was talk that new dog 3 might or might not be a westie, and that Dad might finally take a look at long haired Golden Retrievers despite the mud of Roscommon, although Mum was looking a bit askance at this suggestion.

Then, 7 weeks ago or so, into heat came the Silverwood's young westie bitch, Lily, and into the job vacancy stepped their young boy dog, Maxwell. One thing led to another and soon young Lily was showing some obvious signs of being with child. My top picture here is Lily at her widest and most barn door, taken on Sunday when Mum and Dad had headed down to Silverwood to collect J-M's two rabbits, Ginny and Padfoot (but that's another story). That night, the Sunday 3rd June of Bank Holiday weekend  in Ireland (Jubilee Weekend in UK) Lily decided she was fully cooked and tonight was the night. Between about midnight and 0600 first time mother Lily slid 7 new pups into the world almost with not a bother (a brief howl at the first one's exit and then one afterbirth getting beaten into the canal by a quick pup so that we had pup, pup, afterbirth, afterbirth which caused palpitations for the Midwife (Mrs Silverwood covering the night shift)

Mrs S helped break the membrane around the nose of pup 1 but after that all was plain sailing with Lily proving to be an excellent Mum, licking all the babies clean, slurping up the afterbirths as per textbook birth and nipping through the cords very neatly on all of them. She accepted all 7 onto her (conveniently 7 in number) teats and let go her colostrum and milk to beat the band. We now have 7 plump, wriggling contented pups, a happy, healthy mother and poor aul' Maxwell banished for the moment to a life of pacing the corridor outside the Maternity Ward, wishing he could nip off down the pub to wet the baby's head, baby's head, baby's head etc

Whilst all this westie production was going on, Mum was also getting a hankering for some kittens or cats back in her life like we had in the early days of Faversham, before I was born. Mum has quite often had cats in her life and loves a kitten, but had abstained after their last cat (Felix) passed away because 'we' had three dogs.

So, stepping into the fray in a timely manner came the Silverwood's builder Tommo and his wife Sylvia who have a pair of fluffy cats described as having "bottle brush tails". The female was with child and due to give birth at roughly the same time as Lily, so Mum tentatively put her name down for 2 kittens.

And so it happened that the cat decided that her kittens were also fully cooked on the same night as Lily, and on Monday morning we heard that she'd had three and that we could have, if we liked, a boy and a girl "bottle brush kitten". This will be in about 6 weeks, so about mid July. Everyone is wondering what I'll make of kittens, given that my default setting is to chase anything that runs away, but Kittens are more likely to run at you and mug you. Could be interesting. Do I have any kind of maternal instinct or not? Kittens? Pups? Where will it all end?

Deefs

The Princess and the Hooker

Just in case you thought we all descend on the Silverwoods at the weekend for a chance of a rest and relax after all the builder-ing, here's the truth. Evil Landlady Mrs Silverwood makes us slave for our dry bread and water with a bit of painting and decorating. Here are, in no particular order

1) a nice coat of cream paint and a big "R" in princess style for a 4 year old R who is mad keen on all things Princess. On the opposite wall will go one of those fancy new 8' x 6' wall-paper murals, in her case containing an underwater scene of mermaid x princesses (Mermesses? Princaids?) as well as dolphins, shark and fishes.
2) Some fancy pink-roses on black wall paper, sealer/varnish on the new tongue and groove panelling and pink paint on the walls for the two older Silverwood girls, Em-J who is a bit 'goth' and wanted BLACK, and J-M who is girlie-pink and wanted PINK. Nice compromise. Went on well too till the very last minute of the first coat of pink when, holding a roller-tray and reaching for the open tin, Dad did a pink paint version of that cliche mistake where you spill your mug of tea because you rotate your wrist to look at your watch. Bubble gum pink paint all down his front and on his (old, fortunately) suede shoes. Gah! Excuse the mess, by the way. This is a teenager room and the builders are in (and the painters).
3) Also here, the Silverwoods keep 2 big rabbits (Ginny and Padfoot named after Harry Potter characters) in a hutch for the amusement of visiting Deefers. The two local dogs are bored with them at this stage, or scared of them. They got out onto the decking once and Max and Lily had to be rescued from a high vantage point, the kids' trampoline. Haggis has even been for a look in when toddler R left the door open and just stood there, nose to nose, confused as if asking them "What are you? Birds? Dogs? Big Mice?" I, though, an still convinced I should like to play with them, so here's me and Lily chatting them up through the hutch front. There are those who say I should know better because I have already fallen foul of local cat Thomas, taking a swipe across the nose when I got too close, which bled! He don't take no prisoners, that boy.
4)The beer? Dad says it's a nice local one, brewed in an artisan brewery in Roscommon. A place of pilgrimage, I would think.

Deefs

Yeurkkk! Rabbit!

We've mentioned before about the ARF diet for dogs (Species-) Appropriate Raw Food. When dad used to go on the Westie Chat forum there was a group of mainly Americans who swore by the system of feeding no tinned food to their dogs because of the cereal/rusk in it, and fed their dogs "chicken backs" and other raw meat of species appropriate to the size of dog.

We know from when we've tried it, that it's true that the food is almost 100% digestible, and the dog's poo comes out chalky white, pretty much just ground-up bone. The ARF lot also say that the firmness of the poo lets the dog effectively strip it's own anal glands (by the extra effort, shall we say, not wishing to upset anyone's tea). Anyway, you can read all about it by Googling ARF or clicking on the link

http://www.westieclubamerica.com/health/digestiveproblemsdiet.html

Anyway, as I've said "we" try it every now and again - and often get the "chicken backs" (spine, rib bases, pelvis and Parson's nose) raw when ever Dad is spatch-cocking a chook to roast it.

Tonight, though, the humans are having rabbit, and although the saddle bit is way too meaty and lovely for humans to pass to dogs, the rib-cage bit and neck end get passed down. They are leapt on with gusto by Meggie and the H man, but I amaze everyone including myself by taking one lick, and then turning up my nose and walking off. Yuck! Rabbits - grand for chasing but don't try to feed me them as dinner. I'm not off my food - I dive into the tinned as soon as it's offered.

There's now't so strange as dogs!

Have a great weekend
Deefski

Only gone for 15 minutes

There was this rabbit see, and........

Look - I was only gone for about 15 minutes. Dad shouldn't really have started worrying. I knew where I was all the time, and he was making enough racket with his whistling and shouting and clapping, I could hardly fail to know where he was...

But the rabbit chased off into this bramble thicket just as we were turning off the footpath to come in at the North end of the allotments, by the big old antenna, and then there was another one, and another and I got kinda carried away. I am told that when I emerged it looked like I'd been dragged through a hedge backwards (yup, only it was me trying to backwrads drag a bunny forwards).

And, of course we then had to meet sis Ellie all immaculate from the groomer (and her Mum all tanned from a hols in Mauritius) just to show us all up.

So it goes. I go in for a more street credible, "lived in" look and a dirty beige colour. Plus what Mum calls "minging", so I suspect we may be in for a bath at the weekend.

Look after yourselves

Red Mist

Did I mention that I am now "wrangled" securely onto a lead well before we ever reach the Cemetery? This is due to a (briefly successful) cunning escape attempt engineered a couple of weeks ago. The Cemetery is a "dogs under close control" area, but the tarmac path alongside, coming down from the Long Bridge is not, and I was dancing ahead of Dad, knowing that once in the Cemetery there were free running bunnies.

On this occasion I was a good 50 yards ahead when we were a good distance still from the gate, and Dad thought he had ample time to stop me, grab me and hook me on, before we got there. Ha! Without warning I raced for the gate and was through. Hot rabbits scattered in all directions, and Dad could only look on helplessly as I chased one first to the right (no problem), then scything round to the left, towards the end fence.

It's one of those galvanised metal paling fences, 6 foot tall, and topped with each paling cut into a trident of sharp metal. It comes right to the ground. Mostly. But not in odd little bits, where the ground dips and there are 3-4 inch gaps. Just big enough for a young bunny to squeeze under. Normally enough to stop a Westie. A young lady Westie though, of fairly petite frame, and seeing only the white scut of a bunny through a red devil-mist, will risk a scalping and serious abrasions all along her back to get under that fence too, squeaking and yipping all the way. You try to stop her!

The other side of the fence is just a bramble thicket, all across the rough ground under the Long Bridge. Bunnies can zip through this without harm ,but a Westie, even with red mist in front of her eyes, can only get a few yards before she's a tangle mass of upset thorns and spiked paws. The chase over. The red mist clears, the bunny is long gone and a girl can now hear Dad whistling from the Cemetery behind.

It would be bad form to scurry back to Dad, so we take a bit of time to sniff about and bimble around among the brambles biding our time, as Dad starts to sound more and more anxious. Eventually, when it starts to sound like there might be killings, I try to get back to the fence and re-find the hole. I work my way towards the whislte till I can just see Dad and he keeps glimpsing me between the thick tangle of brambles. I yip in reply but have to backtrack several times and find another route. Dad is near where I got through in the first place.

Eventually, before Dad passes out from the stress, I do get back to the "hole". Dad slides a hand through the fence and grabs collar. He manouvres me to the hole and tries to pull me nack under. But the "hole" without the bunny as encouragement is now suddenly way too small and to drag me through would involve pushing me flat to the floor and scraping my head and back all along the bottom of the fence to get me under. No way, and Dad can quickly see that this is no good. For a while I think he is going to put two hands through and try to lift me up "the wrong side", somehow hand-over-handing me past the horizontal rungs. But there are brambles above me too.

He ties me to the fence and walks along his side to find a place where the hole under it is bigger. Then comes back for me, unties me and drags me sideways, hand-over-hand, never letting go of my collar, his hands getting lacerated by brambles and stung by nettles his side, till we get to the hole when, at last, he can steer me (relieved and very happy to be back "home") through. On the lead now, I am walked over to where Megan and Haggis have been, patiently all this time, tied to a chair. Happy reunion. Don't know what all the fuss was about. I'd have got back eventually.

For some reason Dad now puts me on a lead about a quarter mile from the Cemetery gate, when we're still up on the Long Bridge. There's no accounting.

Have a great weekend

Deefer

Hugo the Dane

Dad comes home smelling of big ol' brown Dane, Hugo ("Hughie" for short). Dad's giving a guy lifts to work at present, and stopped for tea and cookies, met the folks and met the Great Dane. He's a big boy. His head is as big as I am, and he's as soft and friendly as you'd want. Doesn't like to be ignored though, so he tends to shout if you stop fussing him or leave him indoors when you're in the garden - big bellowy bass barks. You'd know he was there!

When Megan and Haggis were young they made friends with 2 danes who walked regularly on the Rec, Rudolph and Valentine. They'd run in circles and dive under the danes' bellies, causing those big ol' gangling, unco-ordinated, over-sized pups to trip over as they tried to chase the disappearing westie tail under their own self. Looks of confusion on their faces, and if westies could hide behind their hands and giggle.....

Our walk tonight is round the cemetery, where hot and cold running rabbits are provided for terrier entertainment. The rabbits are lazy and unfazed by mere terriers. The can scurry off twice as fast as even a young fit (ahem) terrier, and are always in range of the vertical cast metal paling boundary fence - the pales wide enough to take a rabbit at gallop speed, but too narrow for a westie (even a young svelt, slim, good looking one!).

Good fun trying though

Deefer