Me and You and a Dog Named Boo…

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It began with Rohan stating ‘um… there’s not enough poultry in there’.

When you round up the same flock of 30-odd birds every day you get a sense of how many there should be, even before you employ the head count. Being nine birds short is pretty obvious.

We found one of the missing birds. At least, we found her body. One Pekin duck confirmed dead. Five Silkies, one Hyline, two Pekin ducks and a Muscovy missing, one Muscovy refusing to come off the dam. Ten birds gone in broad daylight. They call it ‘dispersal’, when young foxes leave their family home and go looking for their own territory. Young foxes lack the life experience to be cautious and leave their hunting to night time.

Six days later it came back. Four more birds dead. The boys spotted the geese wandering in the front yard and went to investigate. The geese had flown out of the farmyard to safety, most of the ducks had fled down the paddock, but poor Muscles my beloved tame Muscovy drake, too heavy to fly and still recovering from his fight with the gander, was killed. Also killed was my last Rhode Island Red hen, my evergreen little bantam Australorp and my senior Silkie hen.

I felt completely helpless. In the two and a half years since we moved to the new house, we had only lost a couple of birds, and those were ones who ventured to the far reaches of the property. The foxlight and the night pen kept the majority safe from predators. A killer that struck during the day was a whole new ball game.

We built a pen for the remaining three Silkies and one Hyline layer in the house yard out of an trampoline frame and a 1000lt water container. We planned a new chook yard within the house yard that the dogs could patrol. And then the killing stopped for a while. I moved the chickens back to the farmyard.

When I came home one afternoon to find that not only had the rest of my Pekins been killed, but also my large 6yo gander, I began to despair. A 6yo gander would put up a much bigger fight than a newborn Anglo Nubian kid, and my young does were due to kid in a few weeks. I was desperate to keep not only my birds but also my new kids safe.

We had talked about getting a Maremma before Rufus the barn cat came along, but decided that a large dog was not compatible with the cat. I had more recently asked about Maremmas and cats on a livestock guardian dog discussion group, and been assured that cats and LGDs could and often did live happily together.

I got on Facebook to see if any dogs were available nearby and by pure chance found pups for sale locally. A couple of messages and a phone call and I had bought a Maremma pup. He would come home the next day.

Boo was an unbearably cute white fluffball. He took to the goats straight away. He is not allowed out with them unsupervised yet, but he has the makings of a good livestock guardian. Most importantly, we have not lost a single bird to predators since he arrived.

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Boo just after he arrived.

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Breakfast time, day 2.

Boo is now about six months old, and parks his front paws squarely in my chest when he greets me. He loves to go down the paddock, roll about in the grass, and curl up with his goats. He is also fond of chasing goat kids at times, so he is still kept restrained unless there is someone to watch him and tell him off if he gets too rough. But his guarding instinct is clearly evident in the way he responds to strangers and the way the goats will all seek shelter and huddle together when Boo makes his Big Dog Bark.

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Boo at nearly 6 months.

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He is slightly bonded to his humans too.

I have started to restock my poultry. I was left with four Muscovy hens, one red layer, two buff Silkies, one of my Silver Appleyard ducks and a goose. Down from a mixed flock of 30 birds. I have added a couple of red laying hens, as well as another buff Silkie pullet, and another goose to keep poor lonely Agnes company. I still need another Muscovy drake. My older Silkie hen is currently sat on six eggs, so hopefully we’ll have a few more Silkies before too long.

The cat was originally unimpressed with the big fluffy pup in his farmyard, but he has grown used to Boo and is no longer bothered by him. They are not quite friends, but they have an understanding.

It takes at least 12 months for a Maremma to be settled and reliable around stock, and by the time I raise him on premium large breed puppy food and make sure his parasite treatments are kept up to date, it would probably have been cheaper to build a poultry fortress within the house yard. But I like for my birds to be able to free range, and my goats are beginning to rely on the presence of their protector. He is very different to regular dogs and takes up a lot of my time, but I should be able to rely on him for at least ten years of service once he matures, and I love an organic solution to a problem. Most of all, Boo is a wonderful member of the community, with an important part to play, and we all love having him here.

 

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Staring Down the Barrel

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Sienna, Maia and Meredith, expanding rapidly.

Three weeks until the first does are due to kid.

I haven’t had does due this early before. It feels like it is still Autumn, with a whole winter to get through before Spring returns. Spring didn’t really start until November last year, when the rain finally stopped after a miserable two and a half months, so based on that, we have a long, cold, wet half a year ahead of us.

And kids due in three weeks. The first to kid will be the older does in the quarantine paddock. Sienna was bred on consecutive days before Australia day and didn’t come back into season. Meredith seemed to miss on the first cycle and was bred three weeks later, but she showed heat on and off for a couple of months so could be due any time. She is the size of a house, though, so no doubt about her.

Maia seemed to be doing nothing for a very long time, but recently it became apparent that she is already in kid. The only time this could have happened would have been when the bucks first came in rut and Fitz broke the gate latch and got in with the does. Making Maia due a day or two after Sienna.

Sienna and Meredith will both be 7yo this year, and it is my intention that this be their last lactation. They are both residents of the quarantine paddock, so their kids will be hand raised as a biosecurity measure to give them the best chance of not contracting cheesy gland. The plan is to milk them both for a full 365 days and get the highest herd recording result possible for them, as well as a Q* 24 hour production award for Sienna, who has proved her ability to get the butterfat and volume required during previous lactations. Maia is only a fairly young doe, who lacks the production capacity of the other two but has a really nice udder. She had really lovely twins last year, but the doe was lost to joint ill, so another daughter from her would be wonderful.

There are still a few things to do before kidding. The gutters have been installed on the shed, which should solve the problem of water running off the roof and coming in under the back wall during wet weather. The feed area has been cleared out and will be used for raising kids. I’ll need to get a lamb bar or similar for feeding multiple kids.

I’m in the process of acquiring a milking machine. With two high-volume does to milk, and a history of carpal tunnel issues, I’ve had to admit that hand milking more than one or two does is more than I can cope with. I’ve found the make and model I want, now it’s just a matter of having it delivered and figuring out how to work it.

After last year, I am pretty apprehensive about facing another kidding season. After the three older girls kid I’ll get a bit of a break before the other five younger does are due, spread over September and October. Hand raising kids is a lot of work, and very time consuming, even when everything goes well.

For me kidding season is about late nights and early mornings. It’s about the moment when you realise that even if the doe kids right now and with no problems you are still going to be up most of the night. It is huddling under the heat lamp, staring at a glassy-eyed goat who could give birth at literally any moment yet manages to hang on for hours. It is the accumulation of straw on the carpet due to all the washing that has to be dried in front of the fire, and all the straw your clothes pick up from the pens while you are on your knees trying to get frustrating newborns to feed. It is dry, cracked hands, the smell of amniotic fluid and colostrum on the cuffs of your coat, and endless trips back and forth to the shed in the dark.

It’s the feeling of relief when all the kids are out, even if they haven’t all made it. It’s the difficult decision of when to wait and watch and when to help a doe to deliver.

I don’t know how many kids we will get this season. Between none and 24 is the reality of it. Somewhere around 16 is likely if things go well. Inevitably we will lose some, but all I can do is hope that the 50% losses we experienced last year were a one-off.

For now I will enjoy the good nights of sleep and the relatively quick morning and evening routines milking just one doe. The calm before the storm. But before long I’ll be under pressure to get up at 6am, fit in feeding kids three times a day and go to bed early. I’ll be working out how to fit in evening milking with footy training. Checking the online camera every hour when there are does in the kidding pen.

There is no going back now. This will happen, soon.

Nothing Like Christmas

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After the last post we had two does with live, healthy kids on the ground and one who had lost her twins. Gaia was being treated for an infection in her joint, and the next doe due to kid was Meredith.

Gaia hung on bravely, hopping about on three legs, feeding and growing, but the antibiotics didn’t work. She was put down at 23 days and buried behind the barn.

Meredith kidded unexpectedly a week early. Her big buck kid was a beautiful mottle, but despite two days of nursing he didn’t make it. He was buried next to Gaia.

At this stage I had four does kidded and only three kids running around. The next three due were maiden does and I wasn’t completely sure when Juliet’s due date was.

Lizzie kidded on a Saturday afternoon at 150 days on the dot. We were out shopping when I checked the barncam and saw that she was getting very close. We rushed home and I watched for a while. After about half an hour, with only the kid’s nose visible and not a lot of progress being made, I decided it was time to investigate. I found that only one front leg had come forward. I dragged Lizzie up onto the head bail, thinking ‘I just need to push the kid back, find the other leg, and it will slip out no worries – I’ll look like a hero’.

Nope.

Being such a small doe, Lizzie, as it turns out, has a fairly small pelvis. I was able to push the kid back a bit and feel about for the other front leg but what I found was more like three or four legs and I had no way of knowing which one belonged to the halfway-born kid.

I called the vet and got Anna, his wife, who I had not met before but who is also a vet. She was in town but came straight out to my place. She had a poke around and discovered what I had – a stuck kid with a leg back and whole lot of legs to choose from. After much pushing and manoeuvring the second leg of the first kid appeared, and with considerable traction she was removed.

The second kid followed hot on the heels of the first. A doe and a buck, both big-boned and rowdy. They were on their feet within an hour and after a little bit of encouragement Lizzie was happily feeding them. I paid the Saturday call-out fee with a smile on my face, relieved to have healthy kids on the ground and a healthy doe to feed them.

Juliet started to make her udder and I was apprehensive, with no way of knowing what stage her kids were at or what to expect when they were born. She laboured all day Wednesday with no visible goo, which also had me spooked. Just after dark I checked the barncam to see that she had produced a very interesting little kid. I put on my outside gear and rushed out to the shed.

The first kid was a boldly marked dark brown and black with loads of white, black ears with a white border, a big white top-knot and a white dot on her otherwise black face. Very cute. I left Juliet with this kid for a while, as they were both lying down peacefully after the effort of birth But after a while I moved it to where Juliet could more easily clean it without getting up and took a look under the tail – a little doe. Juliet cleaned her up very well and after about 45 minutes lay down again and produced two more kids, both bucks. The kids were small, but clearly fully-cooked, they were up and feeding before I got around to weighing them.

My kid population had grown to eight from six does and things were starting to look up. Maude was due a few days after Juliet kidded, but the date came and went. At 154 days she started to make an udder. At 157 days I was due to make a trip to Melbourne for a two-day Radical Feminist conference.

When I bought the ticket for this conference my calendar showed that the dates were in the middle of a 23-day window between Maude’s due date and Hera’s. I should have been fine to leave the farm. Matt assured me everything would be fine, so I left everyone in his capable hands and headed off to Melbourne.

It turned into the sort of scenario that even Murphy could not have anticipated. At 11pm on Friday night, with me ensconced in a hotel room and the next train home not leaving for 8 hours, Maude went into full labour. She was working very hard, pushing and getting up and down. I messaged Matt to keep an eye on her. I used up my hotel free wifi allowance and had to use my mobile data to keep watching. At about 1am Maude lay down, exhausted. I must have nodded off after that, but when I woke at 4am Maude was still lying in the same place. I rang Matt again and told him something was wrong. ‘Those kids have to come out now’ I told him. He sighed, put on his waterproof gear and headed out.

With Maude up on the bail, Matt quickly identified a hind leg presenting first. I instructed him to find the other one, which he did. ‘Now what?’ he asked. ‘Now you pull’, I said.

The kid was stuck. Really stuck. I suspected that it was probably already dead, but didn’t say so. It still had to come out. I could hear the anguish and rising panic in Matt’s voice as he worked to get the kid out. The geese were squawking in the background. Another doe somewhere was calling out. Poor Maude was silent, she had basically dissociated and gone to her happy place.

Matt got the kid out, but the reason for the obstruction was obvious – it was grossly swollen, big but underdeveloped, mostly hairless and incredibly grotesque. With this kid out, a big gush of fluid followed then another kid, front feet first. Then came the words I was not expecting to hear.

‘This one is alive.’

The third kid was also dead, and mostly normal. But we had one live kid, which meant there was still plenty of work to do.

Maude was not at all interested in her kid, so I instructed Matt to bring the kid inside. I told him to take her temp and not give her any milk unless she was over 37 degrees. I left the hotel at 5.45am and caught the early train home. When I got in just after 9am I found Matt asleep in front of the heater with the kid wearing a heated ICU rug on a towel next to him. I thought she had died, but when I picked her up she opened her eyes. I took her temperature and she was so cold that the electronic thermometer couldn’t get a reading.

I sent Matt to bed and the boys and myself set about warming the kid up. I got the heat lamp from the barn and set it up in the TV room, while Rohan warmed the kid with my hairdryer. I put her in a tub with some straw and towels, the heated rug warming her from one side and the heat lamp warming her from the other. Then I headed out to milk and feed all the healthy crew and clean up the mess from the hours before.

Hera had a bit of goo under her tail and was clearly uncomfortable. ‘Here we go again’ I thought. With two weeks still to go until her due date I knew her kids had probably died. I put her in a pen and got on with my tasks.

I watched Hera through the day and into the night. She did not look distressed, so I left her to it. In the morning I found her lying flat on her side, legs and neck stretched out, with a recently-expelled dead kid behind her. For a moment I thought Hera herself was dead.

I called out to her and she opened her eyes and sat up. A second kid, tiny, was still hanging from her in its sac. It was malformed, as was the bigger one, and neither would have been viable. She seemed much relieved to have that all over with, and after the second kid came out she was up and about, and I let her out to be with the others. She went looking for food and water, and was back to her normal self by the evening.

In total, four does had either dead kids or, in Meredith’s case, a live kid that died soon after birth. From those four does we lost two doe kids; four bucks, one too small to tell and at this stage one doe kid is still alive. Meanwhile four other does had healthy kids. The only link seems to be that all the aborted or unviable kids were by one buck, the healthy kids by my two proven bucks. Whether that is just a coincidence I have no idea. We have run a few tests which have turned up nothing. The only option is to roll the dice again next season, and do a full investigation if we encounter any similar problems.

I used to say that kidding time is like Christmas – you never know what you are going to get. After a couple of bad years I now approach kidding season with trepidation rather than excitement, and when things go well I can hardly believe it. Just when I think I have seen all the problems goats can throw at me, and learned how to deal with them, something comes up that scares me. I am incredibly grateful for my vets who are not far away when I get to a point where the situation has gone beyond what my skill and knowledge level can deal with.

Every now and then you catch a break. A particularly nice kid turns out to be a doe or a first year milker comes in with an especially good udder. The wet weather is making things even more challenging, but with kidding season over and half a dozen does to milk there is plenty of cheese to be made. Show season is around the corner, and that can always go one way or the other.

But when all those Nubian does come screaming into season in Autumn there will be little hesitation in breeding them again. And once the kids are in there, they have to come out eventually. And so it goes again.

 

Cats Are Awesome, Just Ask Them.

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I’ve been quiet on here for a while, but I’ve had it in my head to make a post about our shed cat, Rufus. Then Zoe cat joined us as well, so I figured I might as well produce an all-cat extravaganza post. So if you like cute cat photos, you’ve come to the right place.

Name: Louie G

Likes: Sleeping under the blankets, sticking her bum in your face, back rubs and the fireplace.

Dislikes: Strange dogs, being put outside, Zoe cat.

Also known as: Catbearpig, Kitty Lumpkin, Your Sister’s Mongrel Cat, Spewy Louie.

Louie (named after Luigi from Super Mario) was the littermate of Sunny, who died earlier this year. In a story something like a cross between City Mouse, Country Mouse and Sons And Daughters, Louie spent her formative year living with my sister in Melbourne, while Sunny was raised with us on the farm.

When you’re a cat in the suburbs you have to make your own fun, so Louie spent a lot of time tormenting my sister’s dog and bringing home gifts of mice, worms and goldfish.

Upon coming back to the farm, she quickly took her place as the wacky counterpart to the more serious Sunny, and dominated her larger, more athletic sister at Kitty Smackdown several mornings a week for many years.

These days Louie loves to watch TV in the evenings and you have to be quick to grab her before she realises that it is time to go outside. If you are too slow she will disappear under the bed or leave you chasing her Benny Hill style around tables and chairs. If you are quick enough to catch her before she knows what you’re up to she will growl at you as you approach the front door to put her out.

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Louie’s likes to lie in front of the fire and pretend to be a beanbag.

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Inconveniently located scratching post prevents her from tearing up the carpet in this spot.

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She doesn’t mind sitting through a few episodes of Orange is the New Black

 

Name: Zoe

Likes: Eating toes, fairy bread, watching footy with Callum

Dislikes: Louie, having a dirty litter tray.

Also Known As: Smoosh, Muppet Kitty

Zoe came from the RSPCA Pet’s Place. She had been picked up as a stray, and while her owners were located they did not want her back, so she was offered for adoption.

I have difficulty understanding why anyone wouldn’t want this little cutie back in their home. To begin with she was very docile, to the point where I was concerned that she might be unwell, as every time you picked her up she would go all floppy. But after a couple of days zooming around the house, getting up on the table and generally proving to be quite a livewire, I stopped worrying.

She still goes floppy and relaxes completely when you pick her up, but she’s just a super chilled-out little cat. She hangs out with Callum, sleeping in his bed, watching footy on TV, sorting out the footy cards, and even playing with her little squashy football. Even the hordes of children who descended on our house for Callum’s recent birthday party didn’t bother her – she was happily passed around for cuddles and didn’t do the normal disappearing act that cats tend to do at parties.

She struts around the house like she owns the place, but will retreat to one of her hiding places (under the buffet, in the back of the fridge, the suitcase in Callum’s room) when she hears the bell on Louie’s collar.

 

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All feet must die!

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Zoe off with the fairies after stealing some fairy bread…

 

Name: Rufus

Likes: Goats, goat milk, hunting.

Dislikes: Dogs

Also Known As: Wuffy, Ferocious Kitty, Savage Beast

I was desperate to find a solution for the rat and mouse problem in the goat and poultry shed, so I put out word that I was looking for a shed cat. A work colleague found me a seven week old ginger kitten on a local buy, swap and sell network, and Rufus came to live with us.

At that time he looked like this…

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I wasn’t completely sure about leaving such a tiny little furball to live in the shed, but he started out in a cage, being let out while supervised, then spending his days outside and soon graduating to the free-range life.

He killed his first mouse before he was even old enough to be desexed, and soon the only evidence of rodents that I found in the shed were the bits he didn’t eat, like rat tails and jaw bones. He eradicated all the rats and mice from the area and began to venture further afield. He regularly brings rabbits from the house yard back to the shed to eat. He did eat one young Silkie cockeral, but apart from occasionally smacking an upstart chicken he mostly leaves them alone.

He has adapted to outdoor life incredibly well. He will snuggle up with the goats on cold mornings and follow them down the paddock during the day. He has come to expect a dish of milk at milking time every morning. He waits on the gate post each morning and night when I come across at feed time, and climbs on my head and shoulder while I open the gate. He then rubs his head on mine, purring enthusiastically, as I transport him across the yard to the shed.

The farmyard and shed are his domain, and he oversees them admirably. He is always there to help with chores, unless he is busy hunting. This will be the first kidding season with him in residence, so it will be interesting to see what he thinks of all that.

 

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Free range cat out for a morning stroll

 

A Boy And His Cat

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Stay tuned for the end, where Callum makes his Barefoot Cook debut with some thoughts about his time with Sunny.

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Callum and Sunny, circa 2008

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Callum and Sunny, circa 2015

 

I’ve been putting off writing this for a couple of weeks now, hopefully I can get the job done tonight.

We had been closely watching our frail aged dog for signs of being ready to depart the world of the living, when suddenly Sunny the cat became very unwell.

I say suddenly because we hadn’t been watching her slowly decline over several years like we have with Rosie. But over the course of a couple of weeks Sunny had lost weight, despite still seeming otherwise well. She was still hunting and roaming as she always had. And then she became noticeably poor, lethargic, not interested in food or going outside. The cat with a history of crying at the bedroom door for hours before crapping in a beanbag because she refused to use the litter tray was not even well enough to complain about having to wee on some packing paper in the bathroom. She lay on the bed for 36 hours and was taken to the vet on the Monday morning. The vet diagnosed kidney failure. We tried a day and a half of medications and IV fluids but the damage was done, and on the night that Callum was meant to have been buying his new football boots for the season, we instead made a trip to the vet clinic to say a final goodbye to his favourite pet, followed by a funeral among the trees near the back fence.

Sunny and Louie came to live with us as tiny abandoned kittens, around four weeks of age, when Callum was a toddler. We still had the legendary Puss Puss living with us, but Buster the cat had stopped coming home altogether. I knew that three cats was not something I would be allowed, so my sister agreed that she would take one of the kittens when they were old enough, on the understanding that it would come back to live with us when Sarah went off on her planned trip around Australia.

They were so tiny. And mental. Their eyes were blue and their hind legs were still wobbly. They  made themselves at home, tearing around the house with their bells jingling, to the delight of the boys. After a couple of months Louie went to live with Sarah and she would bring her to visit on weekends. The pair of them would be nothing more than a joyful blur of tortoiseshell fur and jingling bells from one end of the house to the other. After a little while, though, we had to stop these visits as Sunny would be very sad when Louie went home again.

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Tiny Sunny

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Kittens playing in the recycling box

Louie came to live with us permanently when the cats were about a year old. The two never cuddled up together, but they would sleep on the same bed if it suited them. Their relationship was complex, Louie being the stirrer and Sunny the sensible one. Regular bouts of what came to be known as ‘kitty smackdown’ occurred, usually instigated by Louie. They would fight over a particularly good patch of carpet, for no reason other than one was lying there and the other thought she should have it. Fur would fly, bells would jingle, collars would sometimes be removed.

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A rare photo of Sunny and Louie together.

I don’t know at what point Sunny became Callum’s cat, but she made herself comfortable in his cot and was happy for him to cart her around by the underarms, along with his blanket. She tolerated being used as a pillow and cradled like a baby. She was there at dinner time, at bath time, at play time and at bed time. When there was no longer room for Sunny and Callum to comfortably share the cot, they were moved to a bed.

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Mmmm baby soup!

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Playing with Thomas and the boys.

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Whose bed?

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Sunny, Blanket and Callum.

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Once again, whose bed?

Sunny was not so fond of Rohan, in the early days. On one occasion she ambushed him as he walked past the end of the couch and left him with claw marks across his face. Another time she surprised him from inside an expanding play tunnel, giving him such a fright that he turned and ran into the study door, hitting his head on it so hard that the door opened, and rendering him inconsolable for about half an hour, with me unable to stop laughing at the spectacle.

Sunny had a bright orange face framed by darker patches and would stare at you while miaowing slowly, as if talking in a slow, loud cat voice could make you, the dumb human, understand her.

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So comfy.

She would spot me in the garden or hanging out the washing and make a beeline for me, jump up on my back while I was bent over and rub her face all over my head, purring, while I hung out washing or weeded the garden.

She could open double sliding doors by first running her paws over the join until a tiny gap opened, then squeezing one foot through, followed by her face and the rest of her body.

She was a brilliant hunter, catching rats, mice and rabbits on a regular basis. At the new house she had plenty of rabbits to prey upon, and made herself a secret bunny stash on a shelf in the garage to prevent the dogs from plundering her spoils when she couldn’t eat the whole thing in one setting.

But most of all, she was comfortable hanging out with the boys. She would sit with them for hours watching TV or playing games. Bedtime every night included the ritual of removing Sunny from Callum’s bed and putting her outside.

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Chilling on the kids’ couch.

Callum had often joked about taking Sunny with him when he left home, or having her stuffed if she died before then so he could keep her on his bed even once he was grown up. In the end neither of those things happened, and his special friend left him way sooner than any of us had anticipated.

It has been two weeks now. A big log and a pile of rocks marks the place among the trees where Sunny’s Earthly remains now rest, no doubt to be joined by other friends at some stage. Callum still wears her collar around his ankle, rests his arm on her fur-covered couch blanket while watching TV, and looks at photos of her every night before he goes to sleep. I recall the grief I experienced at a similar age when my beloved dog Mandy was killed by a car and know that these are the things that shape our childhood.

We are looking for just the right picture of Sunny to have enlarged and framed for Callum to hang in his room among his footy posters, and I expect this to take some time. There are still photos scattered on devices and in files that we haven’t come across yet. We won’t get him another cat, but I do intend to find him a new friend of some sort before too long.

Wherever cats go when they die, I hope that the rabbits are slow, the food dish is always full and the doors are always left open just enough to let a cat through.

 

 

Callum Writes…

It was hard to believe it. I couldn’t believe it, but I had to. Its a really sad feeling when a pet (friend) dies and only the people who have experienced know what it feels like.

My favourite memories with Sunny are:

When we moved and brought the cats it sounded like Sunny was saying hello,

When Rufus got out of the farm yard and Sunny saw him she froze and stared at him,

When we (Rohan, Sunny and I) were waiting outside the shower for Mum,

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Sunny and the boys making sure Mum doesn’t spend too long in the shower…

When Mum put Sunny outside out the front and she (Sunny) would walk around the back and I would let her back in not knowing Mum had just put her outside,

When Rohan and I were walking down to the to the bus stop in the morning occasionally Sunny would come with us some of the way,

When her and Louie were fighting, once Louie flipped her over.

Sunny was the best cat you could hope for and I will miss her forever probably, mainly because she always slept on my bed and she always meowed at the door in the morning and usually left a dead rabbit on the doorstep (until Leo stole it) and most of all because she won’t be here but she is always in here ❤

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