The Cat Management Task Force would like their dinner now...

They were disappointed they weren't invited for submissions to the Tasmanian Cat Management Plan proposed to 'improve the management of feral and domestic cats in Tasmania', but when not even considered for the Tasmanian Cat Management Reference Group, well this caused a major upset.  Whilst the feral cat problem is exactly that, the proposal to restrict domestic cats to owners properties is like saying your goldfish is only allowed to swim on the left side of the tank.  And as cat owners know, no two cats are alike. Some, like Maxwell failed in his early attempts at the outdoors and was bullied by birds which has left him with permanent anxiety issues.  Minnie on the other hand likes her food served early and often, and no longer has the physical attributes to chase endangered wildlife or pull any rare parrot out of a tree.  Happy (read spoilt) cats have little reason to stray.  Minnie being our outside cat, knows her place outside is to kill the odd mouse (the less mobile ones anyway) and sleep in the workshop.  She doesn't stray beyond her fence border as next door's dog would just eat her.  And probably eat us as well if we ventured in uninvited.  Max, being restricted to the indoors knows only a privileged world of regular meals, Laura Ashley blankets and ten minutes of play time at 8 o'clock each night. I'm not sure why that time, he just likes routine.  The only time Minnie crossed the threshold was when the bathroom was being renovated and we arrived home to be greeted by Bennie and Minnie each sitting on lounge chairs. So it is difficult to make rules for cats but confinement to properties could mean big costs for cat owners which seems a bit rough.  'Just keep feeding them, and the good stuff, and heaps of it' was the response from our own Cat Management Taskforce. 

Chickens have the right of way

From one extreme to the other. Today we've got hot wind coming through the lounge room window.  The green tinge that the front lawn took on after the downpour is already starting to fade.  Our indoor cat remains upstairs as usual.  Max considers downstairs inappropriate most of the time, and I'm entirely to blame for subjecting him to too many episodes of Downton Abbey.  He already had a well developed sense of entitlement and now considers me his very own Carson.  Minnie has flaked it in the shade of the verandah and will only manage a few steps before a dramatic fall to the floor again for full effect.  And the chickens sit with their respective families under the shade of the plum trees.  Our driveway has now become a major road hazard with a chicken fatality on the weekend.   I wasn't aware of it until Mrs Chicken (pictured) came running up to me in the driveway and then went and pointed at the flattened chick in the drive.  I felt bad. I tried to explain it wasn't me that did it but she clearly wasn't interested in hearing my side of the story.  It's become increasingly difficult to reverse our cars out as the families of hens run towards us thinking we are all day, every day food vending machines.  I'm reluctant to install a lolly pop man and I don't think designated walkways would help.  I am attempting to get them to feed with the main pack but unfortunately adult chickens don't possess 'it takes a village to raise a child' mentality and peck the smaller ones to get them out of the way of food.   I'm looking forward to them getting a little bigger so we can have our driveway back, and hopefully they can go to traffic school, or something.

Raining scones and jam

It's raining today.  About time too.  There is a heavy cloud all around us that's a bit like fog but we don't mind at all as it's bringing some steady falls.  The garden was staring to look a little deep fried.  It's not the heat, but the wind. The hydrangeas faint and the fruit trees start to look like satay sticks.  It's like taking your hair dryer out into the garden, plugging it in and blowing hot air on your veggie patch, for a couple of days.  So hooray for rain.  Being a Friday there's not much happening on the gardening front but we could always take shelter in the glasshouse.  We've been known to muster up a decent mug of tea and scones with some homemade jam to discuss new plantings, or in some cases post mortems.  Of course being jam makers now (note the tone of righteousness) we must have scones to showcase the jam, in the words of Scone Master Sally Wise.  And the beauty of the scone making exercise is that the leftovers go in the freezer to be reincarnated as breadcrumbs for tonight's Flathead.  Gotta love a bit of frugal every now and then. 

So peaceful...or not

There is a misconception that if you live on a farm, in a regional or country area, you live in peace and quiet.  Not the case if you've got a few acres with a lot of beaks, hoofs and mouths to feed.  As the summer day ends we often take a cold glass of something out into the back paddock to sit and feel the serenity, as they say.  Over time I've tuned in to the many sounds around the place that include the various chook and baby chick noises, like happy sounds versus the oh shit I've fallen in the water bowl again and can't get out sound.  The goats have the most astute hearing of all.  They can hear the back door open and know our cars.  Their call is about, let me out of here and on my tether so I can eat new stuff and not have to listen to chicken's gossiping all the time.  The sound of ducks from the back paddock marching over usually happens about dusk.  They are keen to see if the kind lady with the chicken feed might show up again, maybe tomorrow night.  And everywhere you walk in the garden you are followed by squawking and swooping noisy minor birds telling us that Minnie is on the move.  They harass her terribly and one day she'll reach up and swipe one just because she can. Or she could, if she lost a few kilos.  There was a strange squawk last night from the top of the macrocarpa tree.  It's over over 100 years old and the top is pretty high. Sitting at the very peak was a black cockatoo.  You rarely see one on it's own.  They are usually in pairs.  As it called out for its partner from the top branch, every chicken sat up alert.  Mother chickens called their chicks in and sat on them quietly until it moved on.  The peace was soon interrupted again with a stray sheep arriving in next door's paddock.  Our own four highly privileged wander over for a chat and when they establish, they can't do much to help, wander off.  The lost sheep keeps calling and a few texts get sent around the area, is it yours?  As the sun begins to descend a bright red, blue and yellow Rosella swoops through and shows off his colours in the berry tree.  I call it the berry tree because it grows tiny red berries and vomits them all over the courtyard for months.  I wish the birds would eat it to death, but no such luck.  Time to call it a night and we close the kitchen door - for a bit of peace and quiet.

Bennie's Summer Horribilis

Not good.  Last night we took a very sick little dog into the after hours Pet Surgery in North Hobart.  Clearly in pain, unable to eat or drink we knew Number One Son was in trouble.  Kept in overnight for tests and fluids, he still managed to howl the place down even under medication.  As we left him in capable hands, we stood at the surgery counter waiting while they tallied up our bill (the equivalent of a night in a Crown Towers Suite with a bottle of Grange thrown in for good measure) we read the brochure about Pancreatitis.  Vomiting, depression, abdominal pain, all caused from eating fatty foods.  Oops.  We had given Bennie some lamb straps that were off cuts of our recent lamb delivery.  Whilst only on the smallish side, they were high in fat and too much for a highly susceptible breed as we read, like Cocker Spaniels.  So we picked him up this morning and he was transferred to our local vet who will keep him in, and on pain killers and intravenous fluids for tonight.  We're hopeful he'll be discharged tomorrow (expect to pay another equivalent night in Crown Towers, with French Champagne and use of private jet).  We're to have him on a special diet of plain chicken and rice for a few days.  The Paleo diet is off the menu for this little guy.  We highly rate our local vet surgery and we've had a few visits now.  At one point the nurse looked up from her computer and said,  'Oh, you're fish hook Bennie...'.  Yes, that's him.  He'll be glad when this summer is over.

Farmers' Markets with real live farmers

Being farmers (uh, hum...), we go to Farmers' Markets.  When we lived in the bayside suburbs of Melbourne we had a local Farmers' Market.  We'd trundle along, and trundle we did as that's what you do when you have a nanna trolley.  You know the canvas ones, with the wheels?  I once thought I was a happening market goer when I bought myself a coloured pull along wire trolley.  It's only short fall was that small round objects would fall out through the wire which made it a bit useless and when one of the wheels rolled off in a veggie stall disappearing under the mandarins never to be seen again, I took my limping trolley home and binned it.  Now that we have the proper nanna trolley, it works in rain, hail or shine.  Which is what you get on most Tassie Farmers' Market days anyway.  Our Melbourne suburban Farmers' Market was well attended by the neighborhood and a gold coin donation would get you past the armed volunteer at the gate.  The market was fine just a little short on farmers.  A bit of bakery (good), some home grown veggies but not much (also good), a stall selling oranges (ok) but no one who could actually say they came from a farm and produced food for a living.  What I love about the Farmers Markets here are the people behind the stalls.  There is Ruth who we buy apple trees and chickens from, pets of course.  In fact we've got some baby Guinea Fowls on the way (great, more birds!!).  There is the Gin man who made the Gin in the bottle in front of you, Jenny who will give you some advice about your non performing plants and the really informative wine guy who we are on first name terms with but just don't recall his name, so he remains as 'that guy from the winery'.  And these are just to (almost) name a few. There is always something to go in the nanna trolley every time we go and the day starts off with a coffee and some music just to get you in the mood.  I do note however, that we are the only trolley lugging people there. Perhaps it hasn't caught on yet. 

You can't eat your chips out of an online newspaper

Remember when fish and chips came wrapped in newspaper?  They didn't have menus back then, it was just whatever had been caught locally and hadn't sold out.  These days the many fish and chippery joints offer a huge selection of fish, with some of it travelling long distances by shipping container freezer and requiring a passport.  Not the case here.  We visited the Dunnally Fish Market today.  And when I say market, I don't mean the huge wholesale style market that you immediately think of, this is more about if it's in, we got fish...if we've sold it or they're not biting, we don't, style market.  The first time we went there we walked in and looked for the menu.  The first mistake.  Then we started talking about what we'll have.  The second mistake.  Before we got carried away with ourselves we were interrupted and told the rules.  There is no menu and you have what's in.  For either one person, two people, or three.  That's your choice.  And don't bother saying where you are sitting, she says she'll find you.  And she always does.  So you find a seat either inside the dining area (and I use that term loosely) as you sit on some 40 year old, metal backyard chairs staring at the faded photos of fishing memories, or the dusty shell sculptures nailed to the walls, the old black dog with the grey around his nose walks past with a limp and his front paw slightly lifted.  The notice at the front door says he's old and grumpy so don't expect anything of him.  He recognises some sympathetic greetings and limps over to us.  We offer a chip, he turns it down, like he's understandably a bit over the free chip offer by now and stays long enough for a bit of a pat and some friendly attention.  He walks off with a tail wag and limp gone.  Today it was calamari, and some small pieces of fresh crumbed fish that could have been leather jacket but not entirely sure as I'm not up there with my fish knowledge.  Regardless, it was so very fresh and so very much what a fish and chip shop used to be.  Not a Greek Salad in sight. Just the fisherman's basket.  Wrapped in newspaper. This being the only modern day thing about the place.