You Can Teach An Old Chook New Tricks

A couple of days ago we acquired a new addition to the family – a young white Muscovy drake whom I call Paddy.

Frappe the hen was most interested in the new arrival, and every few hours would clamber on to an old tyre so that she could tower over him, and check him out. They are not friends yet but one can sense that they will be.

Muscovy ducks love to groom themselves, they need it as part of their waterproofing, but they get a lot of enjoyment out of it at the same time. I think it’s a male thing as the females do far less of it.

Chooks on the other hand, are not known for their sartorial elegance. A hen will throw herself down to the dusty ground, toss dirt all over herself and consider herself well-groomed for any occasion.

Frappe however has decided that there must be something to this preening business if Paddy enjoys it so much.
The two of them are outside in the middle of the yard in the rain (chooks hate rain) and both are patiently grooming themselves in unison.

It’s like looking at a mirror image although with a red hen and a white drake.

It really does have to be seen to be believed.

The Testosterone Hurricane

My house is suffering from an infestation of testosterone – it’s apparently dripping down the walls.

It’s school holidays and my teenage son,  and godson, and their friends are invading my space. They’re big, loud and smelly, and are working their way through my larder and fridge like a biblical plague of locusts.

They spend a lot of time wrestling in the lounge room,  usually when I’m trying to  read.

I’ve noticed that teenage boys don’t have a volume control, they have to yell at each other, even when they’re in the same room. They argue continuously over stupid things. They spent most of yesterday on: “what was better, Pokemon Go or Ingress?” I was ready to kill them all by dinner time.

But I have a bigger problem…

What is it about boys’ humour? Can someone tell me why bodily functions are so hilarious? They frequently make objectionable noises (and smells), and then laugh uproariously. And to make it worse, my husband thinks it’s funny too.

Is this a male-only thing? ‘Cos when I tell them that I think it’s revolting, it only makes them all laugh all the more.

The Frappe Invasion

Those of you who have followed this column would be aware of the flock of pet chickens that destroyed what’s left of the garden that wasn’t ravaged by drought and water restrictions.

Well, time passes and I’ve given away several, and a couple have died, so we’re down to one chook – Frappe – who’s either too old to lay or is so convinced that she’s a dog, that we get no eggs.

Anyway the damn bird believes she is a part of the family and should have house rights.

Frappe has learned how the dog door works and has began coming inside whenever the fancy takes her.

And as you can’t toilet train chooks, this simply couldn’t go on.

I tried barricading the dog door so she couldn’t use it. That didn’t work because Frappe would sit patiently pecking away for hours until she managed to shift enough stuff so she could get in the house and come looking for me.

To make matters worse, her favourite time for socialising is around dawn. One morning I woke to a sound near me. And there was a chook standing by my bed, staring up at me and clucking irately because I was ignoring her. I was not overly enthusiastic, myself.

I started shutting the bedroom door to prevent this happening again.

My son had a friend staying overnight. Imagine her shock upon encountering a chook,  in a dark hallway, while trying to navigate her way to the toilet in an unfamiliar house.

One day last week my husband got up before me and there in my office, sitting on my chair, staring at my computer, and complaining bitterly because she couldn’t find me, was that damn bird.

 

Baywatch Revisited

Imagine the scene in one of those romantic movies – the screen is all misty, and the gorgeous hero emerges out of the water in all his glistening splendour. He tosses his head, throwing back his hair – all in slow mo of course.
Can’t you just see it?

Well my 15 year old godson tried something like that, well, sort of.
I think he was endeavouring to impress a girl. All I know is that it impressed the hell out of me.

One minute I’m sitting around the pool enjoying a quiet drink with a few friends and the next moment there’s my godson, in the pool, with blood streaming from his head. He had tossed his head alright – straight on to the concrete edging around the pool. Not exactly the impression he was trying to make, I’m sure.

A trip to the nearest hospital, and 3 stitches later, we finally made it back to the party.

My godson was the centre of attention of course, but unfortunately, not for the reason he was hoping for.

The Monster In The Pond

We have a young duck who has more personality than most dogs. He’s named Lenin because he’s a Muscovy Duck – i.e. Moscow – and the duck house is called The Kremlin to take the Russian analogy even further – yes I know – I’m very sad.

Lenin has a strange way of looking at life – he’s quite happy to bully the dog but he wouldn’t go in his beloved pond for several days until I finally worked out that he was absolutely terrified of the yabbie that had taken up residence in the mud on the bottom.

Now please keep in mind that this was a tiny crustacean, only about 10cm long and the duck weighs in at 38 kg. But anyway, once I removed the yabbie he was very excited, and went immediately back into his pond where he proceeded to have a whale of a time splashing and diving etc.

As for the yabbie, well that’s a tragic tale…

The duck ate it (but only after it was safely on the grass and cooked by the sun).

The Love Of My Life

The first love of my life was a bad-tempered old Irishman – he was my grandfather and l adored him.

There was a special bond between us from the time I was born – he was scared of me and I of him.

He was black-browed and craggy faced, and he frowned grumpily over his glasses. I was too little for him to feel comfortable with until I was over 6 months old.

Being his first grandchild, and a girl, made me special for the rest of his life.

Even after I was married, and had children of my own, he still saw it as his job to look after me. He loved me, listened to me and even, on occasion, valued my opinion. But in his heart of hearts I was still about 12 years old and needed taking care of.

But his protective instincts, and the generation gap, led to some embarrassing moments when I was younger. Here are a few examples:

I can remember being at the beach, about 15, in a bikini, frolicking amongst the waves, trying to attract the attention of the latest heart throb. Everything was wonderful, a teenage girl’s dream day. Then I glanced over at the water’s edge and there was my grandfather – on guard duty – to make sure I didn’t drown (or so he said). My Pa glowered at the boy, threw me my towel, and announced that we had to leave, now. I never saw that boy again – I wonder why?

My grandfather was a mad keen golfer and his “trusty 9 iron” was his weapon of choice in any given situation. I was in the shower one day when I caught sight of a giant spider in there with me, so of course, I screamed. My Pa came thundering in, and ordered me to the other side of the shower cubicle. With one hand over his eyes (because it wouldn’t be proper for him to see me naked) and the other swinging the 9 iron, he charged once again to the rescue. I could have been killed – and not by the spider!

When I was pregnant with my second child, my grandfather made his wishes very clear – he wanted a boy this time. There had not been a boy born into our family for nearly a quarter of a century. When I rang my grandparents to tell them I was in labour – my Pa suggested that I not allow the baby out until it was the correct gender, i.e. male. Can you imagine anyone actually having the nerve to say that to a woman in labour?

Only my grandfather…

My Mother – The Grandmother From Hell

I’m rather looking forward to the day I become a grandmother. It’s a revenge thing actually.

For years I’ve been threatening my kids with: “I hope you have children just like you”.

Grandmothers have it so good – they can spoil the kids until they misbehave and then hand them back.

My mother is not my friend anymore – she’s switched camps – she’s now the kids’ ally instead of mine.

When I had my first child she was always there to lend a hand to a sleep-deprived and overwhelmed young mum struggling to find her way.

But the woman has betrayed me. She tells my children all the rotten things I did when I was their age and thus gives them ammunition to use against me.

I simply can’t trust her any more – she actually showed the kids my old school report cards and sat there giggling with them over some of the teachers’ comments.

But I have my revenge now – I pinned this notice to her corkboard:

On July 18, 1994 Rossanna Della Corte of Canino, Italy became the oldest woman to give birth – she was 63 years old at the time.

A Bad Day

I’m having a bad day – so much so that even my husband’s breathing is annoying me. The children have heard me count to 3 at least five times already this morning. So far, the plan is that they are going to have to spend the rest of their natural lives in their bedrooms.

I’ve just had enough – I don’t want to be somebody’s wife or anybody’s mother today. And I’m sick of the drudge detail too.

It’s been a rotten week, the pc crashed again, the house looks like a bomb hit it, the children fought continuously with me and each other, and even the dog and the chooks got into an all-out brawl this morning. And as for my husband – he’s been sitting back enjoying the show (just as long as it doesn’t interfere with TV of course).

I want a new life – maybe as an international celebrity – sounds wonderful doesn’t it? Swanning around with other people just panting to do things for you and make your life easier. In my real life I’m the one who seems to do the doing for everyone else.

My grandmother rang to complain about my grandfather. She wants to know why, after 60 odd years of marriage, he can still drive her crazy? It must be an eternal problem: husbands sending their wives temporarily insane because of the things they either say, do or even, don’t say or do.

As for the kids, I may let them out of their rooms on a good behaviour bond eventually – it just depends on how I’m feeling this afternoon.

In order to avoid committing murder (husband or kids, I really don’t care who at the moment – they all deserve it today) I went and hid in the back yard under a tree with magazine and a cup of tea. After 15 minutes or so of alone time I started to feel much calmer – but then the blood drained from my face as I read something truly terrifying:

The wife of Russian Feodor Vassilyev had 69 children including 16 pairs of twins, 7 sets of triplets and 4 sets of quadruplets.

Ouch …

That poor woman – can you imagine a bad day in her house – all those kids bickering with one another and telling tales? And they can’t even bother to remember her name, just her husband’s!

On second thoughts, maybe my life really doesn’t seem that bad after all.

The Coffee Club

We recently welcomed a new subgroup into our family – The Coffee Club – which contains four hens: Cappuccino, Mochaccino, Latte and Espresso (hence the name “The Coffee Club”). When I want to feed them, I call out: “coffee-time” which really confuses the neighbours (always an added bonus).

The girls have the run of the back garden which in turn has produced a ravaged travesty of a once flourishing vegie patch. But I live in hopeful anticipation of payback – I want eggs – beautiful, fresh, free-range eggs. The first hen to produce an egg will be pampered and cosseted for the rest of her life (well at least until the novelty wears off).

I excitedly informed an American friend that I had acquired 4 chooks: he paused, thought for a while and then exclaimed as comprehension dawned: “Oh Australian chickens”. I had foolishly overestimated the acceptance of this Australian idiom. The world is obviously not as small as we sometimes think.

There’s a much-loved aussie malediction that will really confuse all non-Australian readers: “May your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down!”

translation: chooks = chickens, emus = big birds like ostriches, dunny = outside lavatory

Anyway to get back to The Coffee Club – I found my FIRST egg this morning! I was so excited I dragged everyone out of bed to witness this miracle of self-sufficiency. My husband was singularly unimpressed and rather nastily pointed out that this one egg has cost me about $300 in building materials, chook food and lost vegies. Men just get so caught up in petty details, don’t they?

However as eggs don’t actually come with name tags (and the girls had taken off in their latest foray to utterly destroy the garden) I have no idea who actually laid damn the thing. I think The Coffee Club was aware of this and conspired to confuse me so now I have pamper and cosset ALL of them for the rest of their lives.

Bloody chooks!

Gravity – I Hate It

What is it about gravity? I don’t like to admit it but gravity is taking its toll. Parts of my body that should be perky are drooping at an alarming rate!
It’s pretty scary – I’m a small woman but I can see in the mirror (I forgot to take my glasses off first – damn it) that some things are definitely heading south.

In her heyday my grandmother was a big-breasted woman but these days she looks more like those African women you see on documentaries. It’s a standing joke in our family (women only) that she has to roll up her boobs before putting them into her bra.

My paternal grandmother wears full body armour whenever she ventures out her front door (an unyielding bra and girdle combo) and let me tell you: gravity doesn’t stand a chance with her.

Breasts are funny things genetically speaking – in our family they skip a generation. My mother and daughter have big breasts – my grandmother, sisters and I are somewhat deficient in that department (thank goodness).

My aunt complains bitterly that gravity doesn’t work properly on her as although her bustline dropped – her belly has risen up to meet it!

I don’t really mind getting older (the alternative is pretty nasty after all) – it’s the fact that I get such a shock when I catch sight of myself in a mirror. Inside I feel about 17 but the outside tells such a different story.

I really MUST remember not to wear my glasses around mirrors any more.