GULL GRATITUDE

As the blog suggests, I love animals and have been a rescuer of all things furry and feathered and even some with scales, or not.

I’ve rescued and sometimes successfully rehabilitated kingfishers, sparrows, hawks, owls, albatrosses, gannets and swallows, inter alia. All were interesting, but the seagull was the most unusual.

A beautiful pastiche of soft grey and white feathers, it had a dark bill and legs, hence a juvenile.

A friend had rung me earlier to say there was an injured seagull on the beach.

It was immediately apparent that it had become entangled in fishing line and looked a sorry sight with its wings trapped at its sides.

After a short stay in a dark box – to settle it down – I fed it some pilchards.

A fish-hook caught in the shoulder muscle had been there some time as the wound had healed around it.

After carefully removing the hook, I unwound the fishing line that had bound the wings so tightly. The gull lay quietly on my lap for the duration of the procedure.  It seemed to know it was being helped.

Another rest and feed and a testing of the wings (holding the body whilst letting it flap its wings), and it was time for release. I knew it would take a day or two before it could fly properly, but as it had come from a safe beach and had a crop-full of the cat’s fish, it would not be an issue releasing it close to the water where it could bathe and get rid of any lice that may have made their way onto it, as well as, hopefully, finding something to eat now that it was more mobile.

The release was to prove the only problem.

It refused to leave its perch, clinging determinedly to my hand with its paddle feet. I had to lift it off and place it on the sand

It was a relief seeing it finally scuttle off and head for the water. I wished it ‘bon voyage’ and a good life as it blended with the other gulls.

But, wait, that’s not all, there’s more!

Two days later, a juvenile gull landed on my back fence and sat there until I went out and greeted it. It allowed me to approach very closely, cocked its head, and, then, after a long eye-balling, flew off.

The same gull? Who knows? What I can say is that no other gull had done that before – they don’t come into my yard, courtesy of Bonnie, the Killer Maltese – and no gull has done so since.

I believe all animals are much smarter than we give them credit for. And, who's to say gulls can’t have grateful hearts! I like to think he/she came to say, “I’m okay, and by the way, thanks!”

A Couple of Swallows

Being called a bird-brain is a great compliment. Imagine the tiny head of a swallow containing a brain that can navigate continents and oceans, build a nest of mud and saliva so strong that it can be used over and over. A marvellous micro-chip that is as quick as its flight, turning and twisting, dipping and darting. It turns fighter pilots green with envy.

Many years ago, a little boy brought me a swallow with a broken wing.  As I held the delicate bird weighing only a gram or two (okay, maybe three), it seemed that it would not live long. The little heart raced and the tiny black eyes were fixed on my face. How could something so fragile survive the trauma and if it did, what would life be like for a non-flying swallow.

I rang a bird rescue centre close-by and was told to bring the bird in the next day. They would be able to tell me if the wing could be fixed.

This was not my first encounter with a swallow. Previously, I’d heard a woman screaming in the motel unit beside mine. A swallow was flying about her room and she was trying to bat it with a broom. It was terrified and exhausted so I caught it gently in the curtain and then held it in one hand with the other covering it so that it was in a dark warm place. Birds tend to drop off to sleep at once in a dark place. After a short while, I opened my hand and it looked up at me curiously. As I was outside, I  flattened my palm so that it could take off. For some time it lay there and then when I gave a small encouraging flip of my hand, it finally soared off and disappeared from view.

This new one would need full time care. It would also require regular feeding to keep it from dying of hunger – small birds have amazingly fast metabolisms so need to eat constantly – and be kept warm and quiet.

First – the dark and warm box.  Then, armed with a fly swatter, off to search for flies and other insects to feed my voracious little friend.

I fed the flies on tweezers and was delighted to see that it took them readily.

Back to the box for the swallow and back to swatting flies for me. The second time, I held out my finger and the little bird climbed onto it with its short, cotton-thin legs invisible beneath the downy tummy feathers. Its tiny claws were equally delicate filaments. This time it took its feed even more enthusiastically.

Rather than put it back into the box, I lay down and put it on my chest where it sat quietly for some time and watched me trying to read my book. As soon as it began to stir, the feeding was repeated. I did this several times before dusk when I was able to consign it to the box for the night.

The next morning, it was as tame as the day before and eager to get on with breakfast.

At the bird shelter and hospital, I was delighted when the wing was strapped up. The break was clean and my brave little friend would fly again.

This pure soul taught me that courage optimism and uncanny wisdom can come in very tiny packages.

SMART SHEEP

I wanted to make real Haloumi cheese, so I acquired 2 day-old East Friesan lambs, Daisy and Rosemary. All their family had botanical names, so I kept the tradition.

Snoodles was obsessed with them from day one. They in turn, loved and accepted her immediately as a potential mother and milkbar. Their udder-seeking head-butts were their sole and inadvertent retaliations to her rough games.

If lambs, without ovine mothers to teach them better, have an outstanding quality, it is their total trust. No doubt the result of their own mild natures.

Then, they never complain. When they got flystrike, which seems inevitable in Northland summers, I was distraught, but they didn't murmur, just lay down and looked sad. The treatment must have caused some distress as I tried scraping off the monstrous maggots to see how deep they'd burrowed into the tender pink skins. The powder applied to their wounds must have caused some discomfort, but not a sound - like a lamb to the slaughter and the silence of the lambs are true epithets.

And, they have no sense of revenge. Daisy loved me ever after and would come running at the sound of my voice, her lambs at her heels.

Stupid animals? Not at all!

Basil, Daisy's first ram lamb whom I gave to friends, a gentle and friendly fellow who had never been handled other than once for his injections and de-tailing, is evidence for the defence.

Three years after he'd gone to 'stud' - a prolific sire of mainly twins and some triplets - I visited his owners who were shearing.

As I was chatting to one, suddenly, a loud bleat, a ram rushing up to me, and then my hand being licked. It was Basil. He remembered me.

Truly, My sheep know My voice.

Snoodles

Lambs are surely the most innocent, innocuous and gentle of all creatures - hence the name of the blog.
I have learned most from those with pure hearts - most animals, little children and, of course, the Lamb of God.

The site is dedicated to Snoodles, one of the most pure in heart I have had the pleasure of knowing.

 

Shay aka Snoodles and Snoods,

you were the first to show me that one can learn much from lambs, ewes and even rams, and all those others with innocent hearts - cats, birds, horses , cows and fish.

But first, let’s talk about you.

Your mother was an uptown standard poodle who fell in love with a working dog, a bearded collie.  Your mother’s human companion was outraged and consigned your siblings to the care of the SPCA. Someone saw the black bundle of fun and took you home. Her husband was outraged – a POODLE! Not a bloke’s dog! You had to go – immediately!

Just when you were about to be consigned to the SPCA for the second time, a friend told me about you. I went, I saw and I was conquered. For the SPCA price tag, you were surrendered to me.

Three shiny black dots at one end and an enthusiastic pompom at the other end of a ball of curly black fluff distinguished front from back as you crouched in the prison cage.

As soon as you were released, despite earlier rejection and abuse, you exploded into my life with undiminished joy, optimism and love. That never changed throughout the remaining five years of your life.

The two lambs I was raising were a surprise to you – as white as you were black. Your play was a bit rough, but they got their own back when they were larger and could butt you, rolling you over in turn.

When you were old enough you had to be ‘fixed’ since you were a rescue dog and that was the deal, so you never had pups. But you did a good job of helping me raise orphan lambs, washing them, keeping them warm at night as they snuggled up to you and playing with them during the day and giving them the love they so needed.

You were the same with the kittens I rescued. You loved everything and everyone. Even TV! Well, the Dr Harry show and Tux Wonderdogs – I made sure to switch on for you so that, summonsed by the theme tunes, you could ensconce yourself in front of the large screen and interact with the other animals, licking the little ducklings and kittens and barking back at the working dogs.

You were the smartest dog I’ve ever known and were housetrained the first day I got you. It just took rushing you outside when you squatted and then much praising and patting when you ‘went’. That was all it took!

Jumping came naturally too. I noted how you jumped every obstacle even as a tiny pup, and when I held up a stick to see what you’d do, you sailed over it. “Over” got you over legs, tree stumps, streams, chairs – anything and everything. Children loved this and you never tired of making them laugh at your antics, upping the action as you were urged on by their joy.

A trip to the beach was pure fun – you’d run and run and run, chasing sticks; swimming and surfing through any type of sea (eat your heart out Lotto’s Wilson, Snoods did it first!) to retrieve said sticks; then, want to start all over again once we got home.

You loved horses too – greeted them with a kiss on the muzzle as you did the sheep – and ran with them when we rode out to enjoy forest and beach. You probably did double the distance of horse and rider as you chased possums and rabbits, your sworn and only foes. You were a merciful executioner, though, killing instantly with one bite and a shake. Strange that you did have the killer instinct even though you never ate your prey and never extended your enmity to any other creatures. Did you know they were fair game while everything else wasn’t?

Indeed, Snoods, you were absolutely the funnest, jumpingest, swimmingest, runningest, lovingest, joyfulest, optimisticest, forgivingest, kindest and smartest dog ever!

So, how could anyone have imagined you’d harm their stock?

One neighbour did – offering dire, unasked for predictions of how you would cost us our home and land us in hot water with the authorities.

He was convinced you would bother his cattle, the one animal you ignored, or join up with other dogs and kill someone else’s sheep.

Your other ‘est ‘thing, the diggy one, sadly, was to prove your downfall.

Remember how uou roamed the area disposing of rabbits, much to the delight of most, but not that one? And, how, on his property, you excavated a whole warren, leaving caves that a man could fit into. Of course the rabbits were all gone, but you had dug on his property. “His cattle might crash through the sandy ground into the caves and be injured, blah, blah, blahity blah”.

Outraged, he complained and warned again.

If only you hadn’t been the diggingest dog too, you would still be with me. But, tragically, a bullet ended your digging and everything else.

Of course, I don’t believe you’re dead, not the essential you. That lives on in my treasured memories. And then there is that wonderful Nordic legend.

It tells of a beautiful meadow just outside the pearly gates where friends like you run free and happy until one day a familiar scent catches your attention. You prick up your ears and follow your nose. There you meet with your human companion and after an ecstatic reunion, together (in my case we will be several) we pass through those wonderful gates into paradise where there are no more goodbyes.

So, we’ll meet again one sunny day, my wonderfulest dog.