Continue reading »]]>

Here I am looking dorky in my Elizabethan collar and with my leg in a bright green bandage.

Dear Readers,

Who’d have thought one little lick could have started all this? Dogs lick. It’s what we do. Then I licked again and again until – and I was fascinated by this – a lump formed. I’m just regurgitating what the vet said here. I usually only regurgitate after I eat grass, but these are unusual circumstances which are, apparently about flea treatments. Because I’m special and sensitive, some of the usual stuff doesn’t quite work.

Anyway, here I am looking like a dork. I know this because the lady at the vet centre who I used to like looked at me and smiled and said, “Oh Floss, you look so funny.” Just because people can’t speak dog lingo, doesn’t mean I can’t understand every flipping word they say.

My boss, who I’m also cool on at the moment, has been heard marvelling about my good nature because when she gets me out of my cage to pee and poo I can’t wait to get back in. I don’t do this because I’m nice. I do it because I don’t want to be seen looking like a dork and I can avoid Jas the puppy. They call my neck gear an Elizabethan collar which confirms that the royal family, who my boss finds fascinating, are dingbats.

My leg, meanwhile, has a few teeny problems because I’ve ended up with insufficient skin to contain it. Ugggh. Doesn’t bear thinking about.

The only excitement during my incarceration has been thanks to the farmer. Soon after I’d had my right foreleg bandaged he came home with his right forepaw in plaster. What a guy! He fell off a truck while loading wool bales – just to make me feel better. Some bone that links his thumb to his wrist, apparently.

Then, when the farmer let me out to do ablutions, he forgot to put me on a lead. I was off up the back paddock at a gallop – finally in a private place to do what should be done in private. Then there’s the dodgy door he made for my pen. I had many long hours to check out that door before the day of my escape.

As usual, my boss was walking Kate and the annoying puppy along the beach. But I could no longer overlook her disloyal behaviour because she was with her friend Fluffy. Some people get us mixed up and call me Fluffy. I love that.

Then Kate barked, “Come on, Floss. It’s fun on the beach.” That did it! I ripped some slats off my door, wriggled out and was off, peg legging it along the beach, not giving a dog’s biscuit who saw me.

Finally, on the same day, the farmer and I set off to get our appendages released from prison. He came home bare pawed, but I was still bandaged – and furious.

One night, I bent my horrible collar, gripped the end of the bandage with my teeth and pulled like you wouldn’t believe. I was free!

I love going in the car, except once again I found myself at the vet centre with the lady who tells me I look funny. Turns out I knew best. They let me come home with no bandages, but I’m still locked up. Something about my skin being very fragile. Let me tell you, it’s not nearly as fragile as my patience.

Your friend Floss.

Continue reading »]]>

Floss, a vet’s dream (broken leg, infected foot, devoured a chocolate cake, spayed) being smooched by Cheetah, a budget cat so far, neutered with a quick snip – fingers crossed he’ll keep well and safe.

If you surrendered to a loved one who wanted a pet for Christmas it’s not too late to supplement your gift. Yep – I’m talking money. When animals break or get sick they need to be repaired unlike other gifts which can be returned or trashed.

Animals are for life – or that’s the idea – although I do know of two dogs and a cat that went to new homes when their owners couldn’t cope.

Over the years, some of our pets have notched up big veterinary bills.

Lilac had hyperthyroidism (she went to heaven in May). The symptoms were odd – she stopped hissing at the dogs, was no longer hostile to the cats. When picked up, she’d unfailingly slump, purring, on anyone’s shoulder. She’d always thrown up hair balls, but not food, and her fur seemed sticky, like she’d been in paspalum.

The clever vet’s guess was confirmed by a blood test.  Lilac gobbled tablets for the rest of her days – we chose not to shell out $600 for radiation treatment  – but regular blood tests meant regular outgoings.

Tara the cat’s decaying teeth made her breath smell like a Chernobyl drain – until a vet did dental work. Dot the cat is allergic to fleas – and perhaps something else, still undefined – while miniscule mites gnaw Floss’s skin (dogs are even more costly than cats) unless I use a special flea and mite killer.

The ills of the farmer’s dog Mo (now deceased) sent her to four-figure vet bill class. She had a growth removed from a mammary gland and snapped something in her leg that required surgery. Kate still suffers occasional pain following a hip op after she got run over, while Floss got skittled as a puppy, had an infected foot and scoffed too much chocolate cake. Chocolate can kill dogs, and the cocoa in cakes delivers a vicious punch. The loss of the cake paled in comparison to the cost of the Sunday treatment to make Floss puke.

So if you gave a pet for Christmas perhaps you could add a savings account. And if you got given an animal, it might be wise to drop hints about its running costs.

Happy 2014 and a big, warm thank you for reading my blog.

Continue reading »]]>

I tried to ignore my boss’s skirt.

A Blog by my Dog.

Dear Readers,

My boss recently went on a cattle moving mission dressed like a real girlie girl – and being a female, I’m qualified to comment. Oh, the shame!

I was, of course, wildly excited when cattle broke through a fence and got onto the beach. Not only is this illegal, but they hardly ever get onto the beach these days because the farmer’s done miles of coastal fencing. Pity, because dealing with cattle kicking up sand is fantastic fun. They’re excited and a good stiff ocean breeze gets them even more worked up.

We were in the ute on the way to sorting out the bulls when my boss spotted the place where they’d broken out – although there was a clue: one bull with its foot caught in the wire was bucking and jumping.

The farmer dropped my boss Rae and me then drove on down the beach to get the rest of the cattle – and that’s when I noticed the boss’s skirt. I kid you not, she wore a flimsy, pretty wrap-around skirt. Full length. It was flapping all over the place. Cattle, as you know, only like people in jeans. I took off after the ute, figuring if I ran really fast I’d catch up and . . .

“Floss, come back here,” called the boss in the voice she uses when she knows I’m not inclined to listen. Damnation!

Turns out it’s also the voice I can’t help obeying. Why is that? If there’s a question in the universe I’d like answered, it’s that one. I slunk back, sat beside her and thought, ‘Why did you have to wear that dumb skirt?’

Pretty soon, the farmer was herding the cattle towards the boss who was holding a stick with one hand and the flapping skirt with the other. This wasn’t going to go well.

But the clever farmer urged the bulls off the beach and up the bank to the break-out spot – where they gathered in a muddled huddle. No way would they jump the single low wire into the paddock. Bulls are odd like that – happy to jump over a wire to get out, won’t do the reverse.

Meanwhile, the farmer moved quietly around the bulls which were all gaping at my boss and her skirt. I knew their attention was making her nervous.

“Stay there, bullies,” she called before yelling at the farmer, “I’m going to get the ute,” and took off at a gallop – or as much as a gallop as she could manage, what with the flying skirt and wearing gumboots. I followed. Couldn’t help myself.

After she got back and delivered a hammer and nails to the farmer, he lowered the troublesome wire and the bulls ambled into their paddock.

On the way home my boss’s words whistled past my super-sensitive ears: “Did the tangled bull free himself or did you do it?”

“I did,” said the farmer whose face had been twitching with amusement for some time (there was a lot to laugh at – my boss, her skirt, her nervy attitude, her ungainly gumbooted canter). “I wrestled it to the ground and unwrapped the wire. The judges gave me 9.5.”

I knew this was nonsense, but I don’t think my boss did because she just grinned and said nothing.

Yours truly, Floss

(Hope you enjoyed this – I do enjoy Floss’s point of view. I’d love it if you’d share this or comment here or on my Facebook page. Thanks.)

Continue reading »]]>

Floss, who’s smart enough to write a blog, arranged to have the photo that worried her so much deleted – and her blog inspired ‘her boss’ to delete a few kilograms.

Dear Readers,

I’ve recently lived through a stressful time worrying myself into knots because I was sure the farmer’s death wish would come true. My first inkling he had death wish came when I saw him photograph my boss’s rear end when she was leaning over helping herself to Christmas pudding, brandy butter, custard and cream. Her tight jeans weren’t flattering and her hindquarters were smack in the middle of the photo.

I slinked underneath one of our guests’ cars and fretted. I’ve got a widening girth myself and hate it when my boss comments. Like her, I’m a bit of a foodie. Is it my fault bags of milk powder are left open when the calves are being fed? Is it my fault I like licking calf poo? Is it my fault my mate Kate is such a fusspot I sometimes nick her food? Is it my fault . . . The list goes on and the answer is always no.

I will concede to being a bad dog for sneaking to the manager’s house and scoffing the meat he’d left defrosting for his three dogs. The farmer caught me twice and I’ll never confess how many times I got away with it.

What would the boss do when she saw the photo? Almost a week passed before the inevitable moment. I was peering through the window when she downloaded the photo and I wanted to be sick. Normally I’d chew a few blades of grass, but at this moment grass was not needed.

Acid rose from my gut as she marched to the living area where the farmer watched telly. I raced to another window to watch and listen.

“There’s a photo of me at that lunch we had,” said my boss. “My bum’s smack in the middle of the photo and it looks enormous.”

“I’ve never said your bum looks big,” said the farmer (and here’s where I thought his death wish would come true) “because you’ve never asked, ‘Does my bum look big in this?’”

Then (danger, danger, I could barely breathe) he laughed . . . at his own sick, sick joke. The boss’s face went a funny shade of red. “That’s not funny,” she said as she stomped across the kitchen. Then she stopped, “Well, it is funny, but it’s not funny.”

Can you make sense of that? I couldn’t. Was she suffering from an attack of Christmas spirit?

Somehow I knew his life had been spared – until he asked: “How heavy are you?”

Danger! Danger! Rising bile! No grass needed!

“Four kilos heavier than when I met you,” she said with a sigh.

She had watery soup for dinner then a few days later bought jeans that are the same style as her old, ripped favourites. She couldn’t believe it when size nines fitted her rounded haunches because she knows and I know she’s really size twelve.

I was confused when she left the enormous ‘size nine’ stickers on the jeans then wrapped them in Christmas paper – until I saw the gift tag. The farmer gave them to her on Christmas Day.

Good luck with working off the excesses of the silly season. Your slightly fat friend, Floss.

Continue reading »]]>

Floss, a farm heading dog, in point position – she’s spotted a shag. She held this pose when she found the teeny kitten we named Cheetah.

I was a little put out when Rae questioned my intelligence in a previous blog, therefore I’ve put paws to keyboard in the name of the truth – it’s the boss who’s the space cadet.

It’s true I’ve had mishaps but these next questions all have the same answer: Who put me on the back of the ute which I fell off and broke my leg? Who turned her back on the chocolate cake I ate? Who let me run on the beach where I cut my foot? And who left me in the car for the time it took me to destroy the box of staples she thought I’d eaten?

While I’m at the computer, let me share more of the boss’s dim-witted moments.

When she started gardening, she froze silverbeet in little plastic bags. Everyone was too kind to make fun of her. (If she’d exercised the same restraint, I wouldn’t be writing this). She now knows silverbeet grow year round.

Tara the cat was about to deposit her first kitten on the bed when the farmer said, “Quick, get hot water and towels.” The boss was heading for the door when the farmer confessed he’d been joking. Tara hates water so she picked up her kitten in her mouth and, without leaving a smear of yickiness, decamped to a spare wardrobe where she gave birth to two more in a similarly squeaky clean fashion.

Then there was the day she was too scared to climb into the water tank when it needed cleaning. She’s scared of climbing ladders. She bleated (up till then the domain of sheep) to the farmer that she was sure to fall off the ladder, crack her head on the side of the tank and drown.

Rex phoned his mother who nimbly scampered down the ladder and set to work cleaning the tank. The boss’s next job was to coil lengths of alkathene pipe. It was like putting snakes in a box and she very nearly failed at that too.

To be fair, farmers often do dumb things. One told her recently that his tractor had a flat battery and no gas. He filled it up, started it with jumper leads and left it idling to recharge the battery. A couple of days later he remembered the tractor . . . once again with a flat battery and no gas.

Then we had a visitor who said, “That electric fence can’t be on, there’s a sparrow sitting on it.”

The farmer and my boss did eventually stop laughing. Now whenever she needs reassurance after a space cadet moment she thinks about that . . . ummm . . . really gifted sparrow.

Woof, Floss.

PS: A while back the farmer caught a fly blown sheep and when the farmer asked her to hold it down while he got the ute, she actually did that! Eughhh! Talk about smelly. She lay on the ground, hugged it and fended off blowflies. See what I mean, she’s not that bright. But she feeds me and loves me, so I guess I’m stuck with her.

(Dear blog followers – thank you all – 15 people get my blog via email and one via Networked Blogs. I hope you enjoy reading my yarns. Warm wishes, Rae)

Continue reading »]]>

Floss at Batley point, a favourite spot for fishing from the beach

It’s commonly thought dogs are banned from beaches because they frighten some people, fight amongst themselves and leave smelly poos.

But that’s not true – it’s because dogs are incompatible with fishing. They’re such greedy gutses they will nick your bait, hook, line but probably not your sinker and gobble down entire fish – including smelly old heads and bones.

When our fencer Tony was away it fell on me to walk his young dog, King, who adored fish including aged skeletons.  He was so cunning, he’d grab a disgusting, stinking fish then nimbly sidle away when I pursued him.

Once he even nicked a mullet out of someone’s bait bin when we were at the point where several people were fishing.  His audacity earned him instant forgiveness because he delighted everyone by lunging around proudly waving his catch in the air all the while munching away until the entire fish disappeared.

Another day he wasn’t quite so lucky.  He attempted to gobble some bait on a hook that had been carelessly left on the beach.  The hook caught in his lip and Murphy’s Law meant the Vet Centre was due to close any second. Luckily, I extracted the hook, but Rex wasn’t so lucky a few weeks later.  By the time he’d reached his dog Mo, she’d demolished bait on a hook that had been left lying around.

It was a Friday evening and Rex, figuring it was too late to do much, cut off the nylon line that dangled from Mo’s mouth and hoped for the best.  (He didn’t tell me this until after the happy ending because I’d have wanted to rush Mo to the vet which would have cost an even bigger fortune than it eventually did.)

First thing Monday Rex whisked Mo to the vet.  Two x-rays later, he learned the hook had proceeded on its merry way and was shortly due to be expelled. If he’d waited just one more hour, Mo would have done the crucial poo that carried the fish hook to safety.

Hot Dog Tip: When I thought my dog Floss had eaten paper staples, the vet advised me to feed her cottonwool balls dipped in wet dog or cat food, the concept being the staples would catch in the cottonwool and sail safely through her gut.

Continue reading »]]>

Bulls stepping over a wire in the intensive grazing system

Farmers use special language to speak to dogs even though they – the dogs – can work things out themselves and understand conversational English. ‘The farmer’ appears to think dogs understand expletives and he uses terms like “Git away back” and “Git in behind” which I suspect are the farming equivalent of legalese which we all know is designed to make us feel out of the loop.

Rex’s dog Kate recently proved that she knows more than she lets on.

This year’s yearling bulls are in a grazing system that relies on hot wires – electrified tapes. To reach fresh grass, the cattle step over a wire which we drop onto the ground and lift up afterwards.

When young bulls are still figuring out the grazing system, mobs sometimes get mixed up and have to be returned to their mobs. All it takes is a power cut, a stray bull or, on one occasion, low-flying ducks.

While the farmer separates and sorts the bulls, I stand in the make-shift ‘gateway’, i.e. a gap in the fence, stepping aside at crucial moments to let bulls through.

During the last reshuffle I was in a mellow frame of mind and everything went so smoothly, the farmer said afterwards, “Well done. We’ll make a cattle handler of you yet.”

Soon afterwards, while he was way down the paddock, I had to coax some inexperienced bulls to make the daring step over the wire. Kate marked me like a rugby defender, moving as I walked forward, trotting ahead if a bull looked reluctant or threatened to head in the wrong direction.

She hadn’t been asked to do this – I don’t know how to ask a dog to do anything as smart as what Kate was doing – and only when she had overseen the last bull safely into its paddock did she gallop off.

Soon afterwards the farmer asked me to go and open a gate so he could move some sheep and that’s when my dog Floss and I found Kate a few hundred yards away chasing birds (a favourite pastime). She was supposed to be helping her boss.

Armed with the thrilling knowledge that I have potential as a cattle handler, I figured I’d try advanced dog handling. Flapping an arm in the direction of Rex, I said, “Kate, get back there and help Rex with some sheep.”

Kate’s bat ears perked up and, after a second’s indecision, she took off at a gallop. I’d take the credit, but you already know Kate’s the one with the brains.

Continue reading »]]>

Floss has sat with her hind legs to the side since she broke her leg.

For an exciting few minutes I thought my dog Floss had medicated herself, although ripping off her loose toenail was never going to be in the same league as, say, repairing her smashed bone, regurgitating chocolate cake, fast tracking staples through her gut or preventing a gaping wound from becoming infected.

But even though it was a start, infection can quickly spread in dogs and once again Floss was on antibiotics – and once again the farmer was muttering, “I wonder how much that dog’s cost in vet bills,” closely followed by, “Perhaps she could also get a brain transplant.”

Floss, who was recently described by our mailman as a “good looking hound”, fares better in the looks department, but it wasn’t her fault she got run over – it was mine. I’d put her on the back of the ute, forgetting she got dizzily excited when other dogs were around, and she fell off.

Floss ended up with a pin in her leg and I spent weeks carrying her from her pen into the paddock to do her business. And boy, can dogs do a heap of business.

Then there was the time we scored half an enormous, rich double-recipe chocolate cake Rex’s mother had made (the recipe’s in the book). I was unloading the car and thought Floss had gone with the farmer to move cattle – until I discovered her licking her lips and most of the cake missing.

Chocolate can kill dogs; they react to theobromine which causes their hearts to race. The toxicity is strongest in dried cocoa, which makes cake dining a real danger. John the vet explained this after he’d administered something to make Floss throw up and while I walked her around the drain in the Vet Centre car park. Finally dear Floss barfed up steaming mounds of gooey chocolate cake. It looked as if the baking soda had continued to react in the cosy confines of her tum.

We’ll never know how she got the gaping hole in her chest, perhaps from barbed wire as she dived through a fence.

Then, after one of many follow-up vet visits, I left Floss in the car while I popped into a shop. On my return the contents of a box of paper staples I’d been meaning to give someone were strewn all over the place. Oh no! Had she eaten some? The vet told me to feed her cotton wool balls dunked in dog food. Any staples would, hopefully, get caught up in it and travel through her intestine.

The next day the farmer told me, with his nose turned up in distaste, that she’d deposited the cotton wool at, rather suitably I thought, the wool shed. As Floss looked healthy enough, I refrained from doing an inspection.

Her most recent damage was a cut foot and that ripped toe nail. Floss, Kate and Tony’s huntaway Tiny love running on the beach, but Floss is the only one who’s ever cut her paw and ripped a nail on an oyster shell.

Perhaps it’s because she’s the hare-brained ring leader who spurs them into their mad, joyful sprints.

Continue reading »]]>

Dogs must get so exasperated with humans – we expect them to be obedient, but don’t take nearly enough notice of their instructions.

I’ve recently attended four human obedience classes and now know that when a dog acts in an unusual fashion I need to respond.

Lesson One happened when Kate, a smarter-than-average dog, rushed inside, circled the coffee table, danced about and raced outside.

I idly thought, “How odd.” I’d heard my father-in-law’s vehicle skid as he navigated our steep, rutted drive, but that was no surprise; it presents a challenge to all comers.

I peered down the drive but could see no problems. Boy, was I ever wrong.

A few minutes later said father-in-law arrives at the door. After planting his foot on the accelerator instead of the brake he’d rocketed off course, collected the front fence, narrowly missed a concrete strainer, and flown over the small seawall onto the beach. Luckily he only suffered a bruised hand and minor whiplash.

But I’d learned. The next night I was trimming the grapevine after dinner when Floss trotted across the garden to watch the pet lambs.

Leads, weeds: both posed problems for Mary Kate.

As she usually shows little interest in the pair, I idly thought, “How odd” – and followed her. Boy, was I ever right to do that.

Mary Kate had got tangled in her lead. She was suffocating and on the verge of expiration. I flew through the gate and quickly whipped off her lead.

The gasping lamb huffed and puffed for ages before she could stand up. Even though her paddock was quickly sheep-proofed, she became most suspicious of me.

Then, a few evenings later, Floss barked. Nothing unusual about that, except it wasn’t her, ‘humans are approaching’ bark nor was it her ‘pay me some attention’ yap.

I investigated. Yikes! Turns out it was her ‘forty or so escapee bulls are lunging around on the beach’ bark coupled with her ‘a nervous camper’s cowering in the doorway of the public toilet’ bark. We swung into action.

Then came fourth time lucky: We were on the beach when Kate stopped dead and assumed the transfixed stare that usually indicates an irritating seabird blithely floating just out of reach.

As there were no birds around, I looked harder. A pod of dolphins several hundred metres off shore was delivering a spectacular performance complete with leaps, flips and stylish dives.

It was high time a human obedience lesson yielded something good.

Continue reading »]]>

If car chasing’s your game, allow me to recommend Batley. It’s car chasing heaven or so close to it, you won’t know the difference.

No more standing for hours by your garden gate only to have cars zoom by and leave you in the dust. Batley’s a dead end so your victims start slowly and you get a head start. Plus lots of them tow boats so they’re really slow off the mark.

I especially enjoy jumping round in front of cars and you can only do this if you pounce early. When she’s silly enough to let me off the lead at home in the hope I won’t run away, I duck down the drive when I hear a vehicle start. If she sees me leave I ignore her shrieks and go for it.

And man, can she shriek. One day the farmer, who I only follow when he’s on the quad, stopped dead and said: “That shrieking sound you make. Is it really necessary?

“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get Floss to listen.”

Listen! Has she not noticed that I curl up on the ground with my paws over my ears? We dogs have highly sensitive hearing.

I even ignore her when we’re walking on the road. Boy, does that send her into panic mode. The instant she hears a car she’ll call me like she’s some kind of sergeant major and, if I get close, she makes a wild lunge for my collar. Then she gives me the sit down command and holds onto me like I’ll explode. Sometimes she even puts that horrible choke chain on me for a while.

The fact is it’s a drag when she’s around. I can tell she’s annoyed when I chase cars because she yells and yells, “Come here, Floss” like a cracked record.

But here’s the kicker – when I finally run back to her she’s pleased with me cos I’ve just done what I’m told. Geddit? Man, have I got her sussed.

The post van is great to chase because it comes every day. Last year she put a note in the box for the post man warning him about Houdini lambs with no road sense (in my view they’ve got no sense of any kind) and this year she apologised for me even though I heard the mail guy say he likes dogs and doesn’t mind if I chase his truck. But still she gets her knickers in a knot. And she says I don’t listen!

Two weeks later:

You won’t believe this, but cars have started throwing out electric shocks. At least they’re not as bad as the ones I’ve got off fences. Man, have I had some doozies off fences. I guess all up only about half a dozen cars threw off shocks. They hit me on the neck and, frankly, they’ve made me reconsider the car chasing game.

At first I wondered if it was her, but when I’d run back to her after getting a shock she’d pat my head near this great big collar she puts on me sometimes and say, “Good dog”. Nope. Wasn’t her.

Now every time we’re on the road and I hear a car coming I sit down immediately. I get the feeling she’d prefer it if I didn’t sit in the middle of the road, but I’m still a bit fuzzy on that. So, yeah, I’ve given up chasing cars and, if you don’t mind, I’ll retract my earlier invitation. It’s just not worth the hassle.

Signed: Floss

PS: We get on better now I don’t chase cars even though I still go nutso over cars with dogs in them and she still bangs on at me for licking fresh cowpats. The farmer who I only follow etc also yells at me over that. What’s their problem? It’s processed grass . . . just like milk. One little lick and they’d be addicted.

www.Hypersmash.com