Oh the things I can do…

I’ve dropped Man and Boy off at the airport. Hopefully they have winged their way Liverpool-side and I have two weeks of … quiet… Aaahh!

Things I can do. In no particular order.

• a naked dance. I’m not going to because no more than 10 cm squared of my flesh is exposed at any one time from now until March, but I could do, if I wanted to.
• listen to the KIIIIINGS very loud. Whoo-hoo-hoo.
• Get even more baubles out.
• Eat cake for breakfast. I could do this before, but it seems such an inappropriate lesson for a child to learn.
• Dance with the dogs. I do this anyway and Stephen laughs. A Lot.
• Watch girlie things. Glee is on download and I DO NOT CARE if you think that is funny for me to do because I’d quite like to see Dr Spencer Reid’s Mum being a PE teacher bitch.
• Work at any time of the day, not just when Boy is asleep.
• Use one plate for all meals.
• Cycle round and round in my garden. I won’t, but I could if I wanted to.
• Commandeer all the hot water bottles and duvets and sleep under ALL of them.
• Eat chocolates without having to share.
• Get anally-retentive with the housework. That’s how I roll.
• Watch Criminal Minds again, from Start to Finish. And maybe again. Yes I know who’s done it. No I don’t care. I loves me a Penelope Garcia and a Prentiss and a JJ and a Dave and a Dr Spencer Reid and a Hotch and a Derek Morgan. And then I might watch NCIS again. Just because I can.
• Watch me some French stuff without having to put the subtitles on for Steve.
• Listen to Brazilian and Cuban music without feeling Stephen’s music snobbery breathing down my neck
• Play Bing Crosby from dawn until dusk
• Break out the festive because as Steve said yesterday, he’s a man’s-man and baubles aren’t very manly. Apparently. I think a real man’s man would be comfortable with his festive side and not be such a miserable Grinch, but there you go.
• Go to bed at half past eight without anyone laughing at me. What’s that about??! It’s like a competition in this house to see who can see as much of the night as possible. Who wants to be awake at the time you feel all rubbish and tired??! I want more daylight!
• Keep a clean kitchen.
• Eat veggie food every day without anybody passing comment about lentils.

But I will miss them a little bit. I won’t miss them bickering. I won’t miss having my head pecked or being laughed at or being the butt of the joke. Give me two weeks and I might have got over my urge to make them live in the cabin at the end of the garden.

The dogs, unfortunately, already have Man and Boy sized holes in their life. Moll is unlikely to vacate Steve’s chair. Tilly spent half an hour looking for him when I drove back. I suspect long walks and a bit of girl time are needed. Besides, Moll will forget all about Steve once my dad breaks out the pork crackling for her. Poor doggies.

My gorgeous boys

Before I start, I need to say that Fox and Bird had bloody big paw-prints to fill. Basil was a whimsical, petulant spoilt king who I adored. He’d been with me through so much and I still miss his little furry body next to me in bed. I miss him poking me to wake me up, and I miss his constant chatter. He was a very chatty cat.

So Fox and Bird had to follow in the wake of this great beast, well worthy of TS Eliot.

But they’re so endearing and so lovely, it’s impossible not to love them to pieces.

I worried about them coming here – if they don’t have good road sense, they’re not going to get far. Plus, Basil was so distressed when I first got him, he ran away for 5 days. I worried these boys would do the same. I worried about them with the dogs and with me and with new space.

But they’re brilliant. It’d be impossible to have more fantastic cats.

Fox always leads the way: he’s the brave one. He’s the one who first came in the house and the one who first curled up on the sofa, claiming it as his own:

In fact, he quickly started claiming wherever he wanted to lie as his own, not even caring about silly Tilly – and she’s really glad to have a new friend. She’s so waggy when she sees them, despite chasing them for  a couple of days:

Fox is so playful. He spends half his time racing round the garden, sticking his head into holes. He’s caught two mice that I know of and he seems to love catching moths that gather near the windows.

He’s so full of playfulness it’s delightful. Whilst some cats (like Clint, our ex-foster revival) are savage as well as playful, he’s so gentle. He is very happy to be petted and purrs so loudly. He will clean anything that gets near him: hands, dogs’ heads…

Birdie was less confident – and still is a little timid. He spent the first couple of days in the barn, nowhere near as adventurous as Fox, and he would come down for food then go back up again. It took him a while to want to venture near the dogs, but this afternoon he was sitting with Molly and Tilly under a tree – rolling on his back and enjoying their more peaceful company. He’s spent the last two nights getting happier about coming in, and spent the last two nights curled up on my bed trying desperately to wash my hands when I’m trying my best to re-read Annie Hawes’ Extra Virgin – a book about a woman who bought a house in Italy in the 80s – by house, I mean a rustic old summer house up in the mountains. It’s a great book. Whenever I think I’m roughing it, she reminds me I’m really not. Plus, I read it in England whilst dreaming of a life like the one I have now, so it’s so much nicer to read it with a little more sympathy and ‘insider’ knowledge. She’s a great writer.

Anyway, I digress.

My little Bird seems to channel the spirit of Basil, curling up next to me, demanding attention and, fondly, shitting in a corner. He pulls my hand to him to be petted. And that’s where the Basil similarity ends, because Basil would lock on and claw me to shreds, and Birdie just washes my hand.

Birdie got just enough confidence to come in and say hello, and now he won’t leave! What I love about the boys is how they play together and how they cuddle up to one another. They really are the best brothers. I love it how they sleep in Saffy’s old basket on the windowsill, arm in arm.

By far the cutest, though, was when both got into bed with Molly. Molly likes to put herself to bed when she’s decided it’s late. She doesn’t bother waiting for us, just takes herself off and that’s the last you see of our lazy dog. But a couple of nights ago, Bird and Fox decided to join her. Excuse the unmade bed. I’ve no excuse.

Why oh why…

Did I want two more dogs??

I might as well have Dog Slave and Boy Slave written on me in permanence. I do nothing but pander to the whims of the various animals from dawn to dusk.

First is Moll waking me up by wanting to get under the covers and then get out again. Because I’m blanketed up, she’s got three to get under or out of. Thus, I have to be fully awake to unwrap and re-wrap her. This is Steve’s fault for letting her sleep in the bed. Now she’s entitled.

Second is navigating cat shit. Basil no longer wants to go outside on account of the other dogs and so he’s back on litter box duty. However, he misses. Today he shat in my last box of card from The Card Factory.

Third is navigating Tilly’s ‘girlie accidents’ (according to the ad about her from her previous owners – actually, completely un-housetrained… hmmmm)  and mopping up before letting them all out, having safely secured Basil in a dog-free eating environment so that he can eat his precious cat food in peace without being molested by Saffy or Tilly. Molly wouldn’t dare, but Saffy and Tilly are greedy and their eyes are bigger than their consciences or fear of punishment.

Then comes petting Tilly after she’s weed and congratulating her on weeing outside or doing a big shit. I’m going to start congratulating everyone for shitting where they should. I might stand near my brother and go “Good Aim!” when he gets it in the bowl.

Following this, I have to then retrieve Basil from his cold dog-free buffet and settle the dogs down again.

Mostly, things are fairly calm until I need to go out. It’s not so much the going out that’s the problem, it’s the coming back. Tilly sits on the back of the settee so she can look through the window, which is very cute and thus I am heart-broken upon leaving. Then when I get back, I have not to greet Tilly until she’s weed, and fuss Saffy who barks until you do and pet Molly who I like fussing when I come back because she doesn’t wee or bark. Then they rifle through my bags.

I then have to have three dogs underfoot in the kitchen until I send them all packing. I do a good line in ‘Out! Out!’ until they all disappear, before sneaking back in. Then the whole rigmarole again.

Tilly, not being house-trained, likes to sit near the door knowing full well whenever she does we’ll let her out. Then Saffy follows her, not wanting to miss anything. Tilly used to go out to drink – both dogs are compulsive drinkers, because they’re so used to it and doing it out of boredom. Tilly goes outside to drink from the laundry basket and then comes in and wees in Jake’s room or the dining room, or the kitchen, or some other place I’ve yet to find and I mop again. Saffy barks every time she goes outside because she’s so excited to be outside and nobody has ever told her not to. So if they go out, I have to follow – firstly to inspect peeing and nervous drinking – and secondly to stop the barking and chicken chasing.

Molly also has got into the habit of sitting in Steve’s chair, behind him. The chair isn’t big enough for both of them, so Steve usually falls off the edge as Molly shoves her way in. Tilly sits near the door desperate for some extra water or a sniff at some cat food. Saffy, thankfully, is sleeping.

This is obviously not even including the walking and the fussing and the constant attention to dog psychology.

But, I must say, I love it really.

New beginnings and not being lost

Is it a tradition that Boxing Day and New Year’s Day should include walks? I guess it’s to walk off the excess of the festivities! I managed not to get lost today, after having managing to get lost on an epic, two-hour, scale yesterday. That’s always an achievement.

The Beast, the Ewok and Madame Cholet, wombling about

I took the dogs down to the forest again – a different part this time. It definitely seems that the bit north of the main road is a lot less accessible and that the devil has a lot of business with the signposts, and the south-side is a whole lot more organised and Godly. We parked up by the Maison Forestière at Le Gros Fayant and just did an hour trail. However, after yesterday, this felt like a simple stroll and not worthwhile. I suspect my Achilles tendon won’t have that ripping feeling tonight, and if your Achilles doesn’t feel like it’s fabric that’s been stretched to within an inch of its resistance, it’s not really a walk, to me.

Moments later, they decide to 'off-road'

It was bitingly cold by the time I got there – bit of Vent du Nord going on, and the sky was that grey crime writers always call ‘gunmetal’ and I love. The forest is mostly deciduous and so I spent most of my time marvelling at how green some stuff is. It was quite a bit above freezing, but it was still cardigan, hat and scarf weather. Speaking of scarves, I have had a hair-brained idea (why do they call it hair-brained? Or is it hare-brained? I need to know this!) to take up knitting. I haven’t knitted since primary school, but I spent much of last night looking at knitting videos on Youtube and believe I can do it. Plus, I’m from a family of knitters. I sense hand-knitting will return in a big way. Anyway, I digress, and I’m back on my ‘yule’ theme…

New Year Gloom

I can kind of see why we have ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ as a pseudo-Christmas carol – though let’s face it, we all know Holly and Ivy had nothing to do with Jebus or his birth. Still there was lots of fabulous shiny holly dotted about in between trees, lots of ivy and then occasional bunches of mistletoe here and there. Very yuleish. If I wanted to bring something green in to remind me spring was on its way, I’d go for a Christmas tree and some holly, some ivy and some mistletoe. There was only the bright green swathes of broom alongside that, and let’s face it, that’s not photogenic at all. Nobody is going to make up a carol about broom.

Holly - nothing whatsoever to do with Jebus

Still, had a good (if short-feeling) walk with the dogs, spent much of the walk getting giddy with Moll about sticks. The other two are not bothered at all about sticks. Saffy goes crazy for a ball, but Tilly just ambles along looking like an Ewok and being cute when she gets batted over by Moll. It’s almost regular, now. Madame ‘Cuisses de Tonnerre’ – Molly Dog – will turn around, find Silly just behind her, jump over her – or attempt to – not quite clear her and knock her flying on to her back. Silly Tilly always looks at me as if to say ‘Make this indignity stop!’ but after she chased my cat today, we’re not best of friends.

Molly de-molly-ishing a stick and Saffy, looking on, bemused

Moll, it must be said, takes no prisoners when she’s giddy. She quite often – pardon my French, but it’s the only word that works – twats me on the back of the calves with a ficken great stick. She did it again today. Sticks are part-toy, part-weapon to the Moll. They’re all weapon to me. Now all three girls are asleep and cute and clean – Moll and Saff snoring, and Tilly cute as it’s possible for a blonde dog to be.

 

Pedigree dogs

Now Saffy and Tilly have settled in a little more, I’m left thinking a little bit about how wonderful the Moll is. She’s sitting looking at me right now, so I’ve got owner-guilt. Molly’s a Bassetts… Allsorts! She’s probably a bit ridgebacky, a bit bully, a bit of lots of other things. She’s such a kind dog, and such a caring dog. She’s very aware of her size and she’s very, very gentle. She is, however, totally spoilt where as it’s clear Saffy and Tilly know their place, sitting in their baskets and staying there. Probably as much comfort as anything else – it must smell of home.

It’s clear they have been loved – they’re both a little plump, though Saffy’s through illness – but as to what’s happened recently, I don’t know. Lack of money, no doubt, rather than lack of care. Both have fleas and ear infections and conjunctivitis. They’ve been around the world. Saffy seems to have come from Lancashire, then gone to Florida then come to France. Tilly was bought in America and then has come to France.

It’s hard not to be judgmental – especially when it’s animals. I know I’d be upset if I found a child at school who’d been coming to school with nits and ear infections and eye infections, but of course it’s cheaper to treat children than dogs. But that brings me to the whole ‘pedigree’ issue.

Apparently, although I’d missed it, the Hope Association had two dogs named Scruffy and Alex. Scruffy is such a sad name for a dog! They were cross-breeds, and it was apparently a lot harder to shift them than these two lovely dogs. Mutts don’t have the same appeal.

Yet, having done some writing for Defra and the Kennel Club, I’m intensely aware of the difficulties of a ‘pure-breed’ dog and would rather, if honest, have a cross-breed Moll. Although we had a pure-breed spaniel, Ticker, a.k.a Little Lady Lovelace, she had all the typical spaniel problems – cataracts, deafness, eczema, dermatitis. My Nana had Westies, first Cracker, then Chip, before she adopted my uncle Geoff’s very lively American spaniel.  Westies are fraught with leg and hip problems.

I have loved the dogs in my life – as Steve in his – his family are lovers of Alsatians – again, associated with mental illnesses rather than physical ones, and needing a good breeder.

I understand why, if you have working dogs, you might want a breed dog. Also, if you’ve got history with a breed, you want to keep that history going. Some breeds are ‘perfect’ for a particular situation or family.

BUT… they just aren’t as healthy as a mutt! Neither my mutt cat or our mutt dog has had problems caused by their breeding – and I for one am completely torn about where I stand on animal husbandry. On the one hand, Tilly, like Sunny – my Nana’s American Spaniel – is a beautiful cuddly (if smelly at the moment!!) teddy bear; on the other, she’s already got ear infections and conjunctivitis. It’s a shame. Breed dogs are a lot of hard work, and unscrupulous breeders should be shot (A little harsh, I know!) – my friend Carlo loves grey Staffies, but he’s trying to breed Earl, his stud staffie, and can’t find any breeding females who’ve been tested for genetic diseases!! All the breeders are really laissez-faire about the pups they bring into the world, and then charge £800 for! At the same time, I think of his older female, Macy, who is constantly ill. He’s got to sell his car to pay for her next bit of treatment. She’s constantly at the vet’s with non-life-threatening illnesses – and it’s just a shame. She’s a beautiful dog, but she’s an expensive one.

So… if you’re going to buy or adopt a breed dog, I’d suggest you need to have enough cash to keep them healthy and that you do thorough research and even blood tests on their parents. And, spare a thought for the Mutt. Scruffy, Alex and Molly might not be the most cute looking animals, but what mutts lack in looks, they make up for in health and happiness and loyalty. And when I say cross-breed, I don’t mean labradoodles or cockapoos or any other weird combination!!

Our Moll Heinz 57 is a credit to mixed parentage! But, God bless all dogs that need a home, and God grant them happiness and health and people who love them. A dog can make us a better person. It teaches us to care, to be altruistic, to think of others’ needs, to be selfless. It teaches us about loyalty and unconditional love. It teaches us to be responsible and we can often exhibit love for an animal in ways we British can’t show for other people. I think of the kisses and cuddles Jake and Steve lavish on the dogs, and in a way, it’s much easier to love a dog than a person! It teaches us to forgive too. I might not be as forgiving of Jake if he peed on the kitchen floor – or as understanding!! I think sometimes the way we love animals should be the way we love people too…

We put them first, we care about them, we brush them, we tend to them. They bring us intense happiness, and you can never be really cross at them, even if they chew your shoes. I think all families are improved by a dog!

3 snoring dogs, 2 violent men and a Lady Justine in a pear tree*

*Alright… not in a pear tree.

Tilly and Saffy arrived today at 5:30. Both were exhausted from their long journey up from the south, but seemed to settle in fairly quickly. Saffy barked for the first half an hour at anything that moved. It’s clear she’s got cataracts as well as a thyroid problem, although her details say she is only nine. Poor thing. Tilly is a cute little teddy bear of a dog. Both have fleas, and I’ve given them a dose of Advantix and sprayed all their bedding with flea spray.

Molly is such a fantastic dog – she let them come in, barked a bit at David who delivered them (she doesn’t like men, for some reason) and although she looks a little concerned, she’s snoring next to me like she realises her world hasn’t changed that much.

Both Tilly and Saffy are CUTE dogs. Molly’s more a loveable dog. Molly’s got great character – I’m sure we’ll see if Tilly and Saffy do too. Saffy is in her basket, snoring a little more quickly than Tilly – and it’s her I feel most for. She’s from Lancashire originally – I see from her papers, and then went to America, then went via Barcelona to France – she’s done a lot in her 9 years of existence. She’s also going to be the one who misses her former owners the most I should imagine. She’s clearly not very well, but I’m hoping that getting her on her medication will help. I can’t help but think she’s not going to last a very long time.

Tilly is already finding her feet, although she’s sleep barking at the moment. She’s had a couple of accidents – once when she saw Basil – but I’m hoping that disappears when she realises she’s here for good.

Basil was okay at first. Both saw him when he came in for his tea – and neither made a fuss. Basil came creeping in an hour or so later, sniffing round the door and having a good look. Saffy woke up and barked, Tilly barked too, and both went haring off after him. Poor Basil. He ended up on my bed. Both are very well trained, it seems. Neither jump up on the couch, and neither beg like Molly does for food, although Tilly was interested. I’m sure Basil will be fine. Tilly was the one, though, who finished off her own food and then went on to eat Saffy’s and then Molly’s. We’ll have to keep an eye on her!

I’m wondering, however, about the chickens and how they’ll get on tomorrow. I’m guessing we might have to shut the gate into the courtyard to allow the dogs to get used to the chickens and vice versa.

I’m thinking long bonding walks tomorrow – not sure how Saffy will cope, so might be a shorter walk for her! I’m sure Tilly, once she gets used to Molly’s size, will be fine.

Two new additions…

In the last 24 hours, we’ve become almost foster parents to two spaniels, Tilly and Saffy – courtesy of an ad on AngloINFO from the Hope Association asking for help for the two girls who would become homeless in the next few weeks if a place wasn’t found, and then have to go to the dog rescue centre. Dog rescue centres in France are not good. Like most Europeans, the French are much less sentimental about animals (although it’s true to say they love dogs – there’s a much broader spectrum of what’s considered fine for an animal, and small cages, tight chains, bark-buster collars and muzzles are less frowned upon) and so the dog rescue centres aren’t quite like our English ones.

Unfortunately, lots of people who emigrate here leave animals behind. It doesn’t make me happy, but I try not to be judgmental. I know everyone has their reasons, and it must be hard to leave family pets behind. Still, Molly and Basil are passported up and I wouldn’t go anywhere without them. Basil gets fed before anyone else. Molly hogs the bed.

So, when I saw the ad, I couldn’t let two spaniels go to the rescue centre. We had a gorgeous spaniel when we were growing up – Ticker – she was absolutely adorable. In fact, she equals Moll in gorgeousness, though Moll takes the edge in personality. And my Nana and Gramps had an American spaniel they took on from my Uncle Geoff – Sunny – who was absolutely bonkers. He shredded tissues, rooted through handbags, loved my Nan’s Mint Imperials, ate a pack of butter, a frozen loaf and ate the meringue off a lemon meringue pie, leaving the lemon and the pie – so neatly we thought my Nana had forgotten to put the meringue on it. Sunny had to be in front on a walk and would scrabble and scramble until he got in front of everyone, so he could get first dibs on spilt curry sauce outside the pub. He waited by the door every time my Gramps was due back from work – the most loyal and good natured dog, if completely stupid and ‘blonde’. So, to find a couple of spaniels needing a home for Christmas (and beyond) seems almost fated!

One of the ladies, Saffy, is 11 – she’s not well, but it will probably be really hard for her, and really strange without her family. I hope she’s okay. It’ll be so strange for her. I hope she settles in fine.

The other girl is Tilly. She’s the American spaniel – which are, in my biased opinion, the cutest dogs on the planet. All that blonde hair. She’s 4, so hopefully she’ll be a good playmate for Moll. Moll’s such a good nursery dog, I’m hoping she’ll really look after Saffy.

Tilly, Saffy and Molly… my lovely ladies. That’s 3 dogs, 4 chickens, a cat, a boy, a man and me. Oh, and some moles in the garden.

And I couldn’t be more pleased.

I thought long and hard about it. A dog, especially an older one, is a commitment. It can be expensive. Pedigree dogs are so much worse. Cross breeds are healthy and strong and intelligent – pedigrees can be nothing but inbred problems. Plus, it makes it so much harder to go away – 3 dogs is a lot more to ask people to look after. But, costs and looking after aside, it’s worth it.

The pecking order…

Well, the Simpsons’ ladies are well established. Only one, however, is laying eggs, although I suspect another laid an egg last week. But none since then. Apologies to all those who subscribe to the ‘man’s dominion over nature’ theory rather than the ‘man as caretaker’ theory, but they are all definitely developing their own personalities and as different as can be. What’s ironic is that they are living up to their name somewhat.

At first, Marge, with her golden neck feathers and dark tail feathers, seemed to be in charge. She was first out of the box, first to explore and she’s definitely the noisy one who warns all the others, in true Mother Hen style. Patty and Selma, the two ‘true brown’ hens were difficult to tell apart, unless you knew them well. Selma has whiter neck feathers. They were boxed up together and very subdued when out of the box. Patty hid in a corner, with Selma very close by. Lisa, who is smaller and whiter than the others, was the curious one, going into all the nooks and crevices and looking at the nesting boxes. We named them according to these first signs, and we did a good job! For any of you doubters who didn’t realise hens have personalities just as much as Basil (the Steve equivalent, and sometimes the fussy Jake equivalent) and daft Molly, who is much like myself (except she farts more) the hens really do!

Marge is now probably fairly secure in the pecking order. Nobody bothers her. If she wants a drink, she has a drink. She still warns all the others and clucks more. Patty and Selma are the meanies. They hog the water and the feed, only moving over for Marge. They hang about together. Ironically, Patty is the egg layer. Poor Lisa, however, often struggles to find her place. She can only get to water if the others let her, though Marge always makes sure she can, but Patty and Selma can really flap about and scare her off. If Patty and Selma are eating, she’s stuck at the back. Poor Lisa! She’s the one who is most likely to be off on her own. Having said that, this morning, Patty and Selma were nested tight up against each other, and Lisa was underneath them, with Marge all the way over the other side. I was quite convinced hens like to snuggle up, but not so. Most nights they take up one space on each corner.

Anyway, I shall keep you posted on the psychological welfare of the ladies!

The Simpsons Ladies

We are now proud (if nervous) owners of four Warren hens, which apparently were bred for battery farming as they are ‘egg laying machines’ – Marge, Lisa, Patty and Selma. I asked Jake what we should call them, and even though, as you know, I was pressing for Maria Callas, Lady Di, Jackie O and Margot Fonteyn, Jake had already thought of some names. Bart was the first one. I explained, dutifully, that only girls lay eggs. Not quite time to go into my ‘all roosters are rapists’ speech, I feel.

Jake and Steve had cleaned out the hen house in preparation – whilst it might be a little aged, it’s very functional. It has lovely nesting boxes and a couple of ladders to help them get to their perches. Then we’d bought some bedding – flax seemed to be our choice, since it’s more absorbent than straw and I couldn’t find any ‘copeaux de bois’ (wood shavings) at such short notice, which apparently are the best bedding. We’d chosen food for layers and sorted out the fly situation with the hens’ own ‘catch’. Then it was off to Rouillac market. Yes, the market of golden cheese.

I walked past the cheese lady today with an air of severity and seriousness. I’m not the tourist who would be buying cheese for 20 euros (although I had to hide a dried saucisse in the fridge at L’Eclerc today. I need not to sample wares!) and headed for the chickens. I was beginning to wonder where the chickens were. We’d gone past stalls of knives (which, each time, I have to peel Jake and Steve away from…) and stalls of cheese, vegetables, garlic (there must be four garlic stalls, at the very least) and old french-lady-nighties (think winceyette and neck-high) as well as pinafores and slacks. Contrary to popular belief, fashion is not really a French or Italian thing, since a good 80% of the female population expand without reason after 30 (my uncle Paul calls them popcorn women – they are small and skinny until the heat warms them up and then they pop!) and the French ladies have a penchant for pop socks, slippers, winceyette nighties, overall aprons and nylon.

Anyway, past the final stalls of vegetables, there was a general squawking and squealing. There were a few rows of pretty caged birds (how sad!) to get you excited and make you think a little that there are no chickens to be bought, and then there are about 10 stalls of birds. They include all manner of sad-looking poultry – geese, ducks, goslings, ducklings and chickens. There are plenty of chickens for ‘chair’ (flesh) – and a lot of hen-pecked creatures missing feathers and looking a bit worse for wear.

We went to a quieter stall where the chickens looked a lot less sad, although very cramped, and I liberated our four ladies, if only for a short while, since they were then put into very small boxes which we carried back to the car.

Once back, we unpacked our presents. I should add at this point that I’d woken up at 5:30 and Jake at 6:30, which is as rare as hen’s teeth. Jake is lucky if he sees the morning-side of noon. Two of the girls went into the chicken house; the other two wandered about a bit. Molly had come in with us, and we’d managed to contain her a little – although she was excited enough to piddle, I could just tell – although when one flapped near her, she went bananas. After that, we left them to settle in.

Marge

Patty and Selma hiding under a bush

Lisa hiding in the hen house

Des pissenlits

So Steve has finally started packing. Unlike my military-style, highly-organised packing, he’s opted for the more laissez-faire approach. I’m now up to about 100 wine boxes, all labelled, all clearly identifiable, all helpfully sorted into room-by-room groups. I may colour code them, but I think that may be too much. Steve, however, has gone for the more ad-hoc approach of finding random-sized boxes of varying strengths, styles and shape, and he’s filling them with whatever he comes across. This may not help very much with my deciding where everything is likely to go, but it will help create an exact replica of his disorganised home. I, for instance, have packed CDs with CDs, make up with make up, handbags with handbags. He’s gone for the roman coins with shoelaces with history books with lead fishing weights. It’s novel. I’ll give him that. To give him credit, it makes sense to him. Quite why he wants to bring two small safes with him is beyond me. Both of them can be carried off to be smashed elsewhere, one of them has a single-tumbler lock and the other doesn’t lock (or shut) at all. In fact, the most use they’ve been is for our baby-sitting rescue cat to hide in.

The rescue cat has a story of its own, and we’re deeply affectionate about it (apart from Jake who seems to think the cat hates him with a passion)

Some time last summer, Jake and his friend ‘found’ a kitten under a hedge and brought it down for our perusal.

“It’s dead.” Steve said, unemotional as ever. The friend gave a look of abject horror.

“Dead?!” and the kitten was all set to be launched into space which would definitely have finished it off for good. Luckily, it gave a little move just in time, Steve realised his error, ran to its rescue and relieved the young boy of his fear that he may indeed be holding a dead animal. He put it in a box and waited for me to get home, having tried to tempt it with some milk and then some water. If Jake hadn’t found it, it’d be dead. If Steve hadn’t put it in a shady spot and fed it a little liquid, likewise.

Luckily, I have charm where animals are concerned. I’ve rescued a hamster, a gerbil, several fish and my own cat, Basil, from several near-death escapades. I hand-fed Basil New Covent Garden chicken soup when he was very poorly, and I know how to sort a cat out. Poor baby kitten was covered in fleas, lice, and most disconcerting, fly eggs and maggots, which had already begun to eat him. I washed him down and raced him to the RSPCA in Salford. This is an experience in itself. There was no apparent way in, as it has to be kept under constant lockdown from the nearby druggies, and it was operating on a three-door policy, where you went through one, were vetted, then went through another. Honestly, it was worse than airport security!

There was a chavvy looking bloke in there, with, yes, a Staffie and its pups. The Staffie had killed one, and they were worried it would kill another. Probably saw the life its children would lead and decided to put them out of their misery. Leather collars with metal spikes on, hanging around offies looking menacing, and being paraded as a menace when you’re really a sweetheart dog must be enough to drive any mother to consider euthanasia. Anyway, the vet took a look and then it was my turn, with my little shoebox with the recently-named ‘Ollie’, partly in honour of Oliver Twist, the most literary foundling I could think of, partly in honour of having a sound-alike to ‘Molly’. Steve had suggested ‘Arfur’ (‘Arf-Alive) but I like to bestow literary names upon my cats, in the best T.S. Eliot style.

I was worried Ollie had broken back legs, but it was just that he was so weak he couldn’t hold them properly. And the vet gave me some rehydration salts and sent me on my way.

Ollie had to be fed the fluid with a 2ml syringe. I sponged him down, put him in the airing cupboard, kept him warm, wiped his bum, knowing that baby cats need a mummy cat’s tongue on their arse to make them wee, apparently. What  a job. No wonder I’m not maternal. And I’m not even a cat. I gave him 2ml every hour, kept him clean, powdered him with gentle flea powder, and cleaned his eyes, which were glued shut with pus and snot.

Next day, he was still sniffing and sneezing. I knew the vet had missed something. Ollie had cat flu. He had to have. I took him to my vet, Michael, who is an adorable man. He’s so gentle and kind – he’s exactly what you’d want in a vet. And he agreed. Cat flu. Probably wouldn’t survive the night. Didn’t even know if he was old enough for anti-biotics. I thought he was about 6 weeks old, but in retrospect, he was probably only 2 or 3. So I paid up a princely sum for anti-biotics, cat milk, de-fleaing drops, and took him home to start the lengthy process of bringing him back to health.

The first two days, he didn’t move at all. He barely woke up when I was feeding him, and he was not even moving an inch during the day, just sleeping face down on Basil’s old cat cushion. I was convinced he would make it, despite what the vet said. I made another couple of trips to pick up more anti-biotics, and have check-ups, but it didn’t bode well.

Then he did a little poo.

Ollie, a couple of days later

All was beginning to look a little better. He was beginning to move from 2 ml to a 5 ml syringe, and he moved a little bit on the Thursday. He was a little cleaner, and he managed to get one eye open. Over the next week, he began to lap milk from a saucer, coaxed by me moving the syringe nearer and nearer to it. And he began to sit up and look more alive than dead. I went through many syringes, many towels, many cotton wool pads and cotton wool buds that week.

He began to move about a bit, and was kind of nicknamed Wobbly Bob. I don’t know why people who are wobbly get called Bob, but so it is. So Ollie became Ollie-Bob, and occasionally Bob Sagat (via Bob Seger!) and he began to get a lot more lively, although still very, very fragile!

Ollie looking a little bewildered

And he was beginning to follow Molly about, looking up to her like a surrogate mother. She loved it, and it made me feel a little bit sad that she’d been spayed, since she would have made an excellent mum! She was incredibly patient with him, though excited by the new addition to the family, never jealous of the time we spent with him. He even took to copying her mannerisms!

Molly teaching Ollie her best moves

He really was unbelievably small and wobbly. But one night, Ollie crept into Moll’s basket and cuddled up, and she loved it. It was like she was made to be cuddled up to by small animals. She wouldn’t move, and even when we went up to bed, she didn’t come with us, and that never happens. She always comes up to bed!

Moll's best friend

Not long after, my sister, Abi, had professed a desire to have Ollie. On one condition. He had to have a new name. My brother-in-law insisted he should be called Clint, after his film star hero (I assume!) and Ollie had to go. Not a problem. We’d come to realise, confirmed by my vet, that Clint was deaf, so Clint it was. Clint Horan. More Clint Boon than Eastwood. And he’s since lived up to the Clint Boon/Eastwood moniker by becoming a complete Manc hoodlum claw-slinging terror-mongering maniac. Now he’s in full-grown kitten hood, and although he walks around with his head on one side a bit, due to his early cat flu, and he’s balance-inept, and he’s unable to meow in any other way than making a Sweep-like squeak, we love him completely.

He’s come to rule my sister’s house. He breaks draining boards, knocks things over, terrorises anyone without shoes on and will willingly hang from you if you walk past.

Whilst we’ve been babysitting Clint, he’s managed to worm his way back into Moll’s heart, and was cuddled up next to her this morning, albeit with her under the duvet, and him on top. He eats her dog biscuits, she leaves his food untouched. He steals her bed, she sleeps in a corner. She sniffs him, he bites her head. But they’ve had this ongoing game of kiss-chase going on for days, and we’re really going to miss him when he’s gone. Still, whilst he might play well with Molly, Basil’s having none of it, since Clint seemed to think Basil was some kind of cat guru and has spent the last 4 days following him about everywhere in the house, trying to do exactly what Basil is doing, and desperate to play. But Basil is stately, now, and so he’s just put up with him, desperately trying to get some proper sleep. As if I won’t have enough animals with me without our little Clinton.