Life isn't all about Living

We survived the Canterbury earthquake on September 4th 2010 but it certainly shook us up, forgive the pun.  When the big 7.1 hit before the rooster crowed, my first instinct was to grab Hunky Husband with vicegrip fingernails of one hand and Taiza puppy with the other.  Poor old Monster man was left to his own devices in the lounge.  As things started dropping onto the floor, my ears strained in anticipation of a giant thud as my grandads cabinet, a six foot oak monstrocity with leadlight doors, hit the deck.  Silence reigned as the rumbling and shaking subsided.  Other than being terrified, without electricity, water and phone for the next twelve hours, and power the following two nights, we had survived.  Thousands of aftershocks later, you would think as we head towards autumn 2011, that we would be desensitised but that would be miles from the truth.  If an earthquake terrifies you, the first one will and the 3001st one will too.

In the spring we found ourselves in the circle of life, and not all pleasantly.  The excitement began on the 20th of November when our first Orpington and Plymouth Rock chicks hatched.  Rooster Ben had to resign himself to being a pseudo dad after failing to produce offspring of his own.  Neighbours offered us some eggs to raise and share in the families.  We would take two hens out of the 10 chicks and they would take the rest.  Ten chicks hatched.  One was trampled on day 2 and then a week later another drowned in the water bowl.  Too tiny to get up and in on its own, after seeing a chick on Blackie's back, the evidence to its demise was clearer.


A blue Orpington chick on Blackie, a black Orpington hen



It wouldn't take much effort at all to fall into a water bowl from that vantage point. 

The family grew quickly and both Houdini and Blackie shared mothering duties incredibly well.  Even Ben played the part and alerted the brood to patroling hawks or magpies.  It wasn't long before the whole family was defending the garden from sparrows.



Houdini (left), Blackie (centre) and Ben with the babies



Not everything was going well on the farm though and our idillic world of babies was about to come to a crashing halt.  While all this chooky cuteness had me gooing and garring, the Mistress, our Pekin duck, was busy keeping 13 eggs out of harms way.  For a long time I couldn't find them so early one morning I played detective and behind the bushes, stalked her to ascertain the pozzie she was sneaking off to, under the agapantha bushes in the Lincoln Dell (my special garden full of camelia).  Just a few days later, tragedy!  I had gone out to check on the Mistress and to put out some fresh water and feed only to find the nest abandoned.  As I looked around for her, I noticed something white lying on the opposite side of the garden by the large flax bushes.  My stomach turning with dread, I soon realised what I didn't want to be real.  The Mistress had been murdered, and with her demise, the eggs were lost too.  Hunky Husband had already left for work so I had to look after her, taking photographic evidence first to show him what had happened.

That afternoon I noticed the feral cat that hadn't been around for two weeks, mysteriously re-appeared.  I chased it off several times for fear it would have a go at the chicks.  Previously Ben had stood it's ground but after seeing the Mistress, I was no longer confident he could really protect himself or the girls.  I went to the vet and rented a trap and baited it up.  The general consensus was the the murderous raider was actually a stoat but there had been plenty of opportunity for a stoat to partake of a free meal over the last year and no actual evidence that we really had such a cunning and sneaky invader.  Nothing happened in the trap and then four days later I was on the terrace in the middle of a phone call and saw the cat slinking up the fence line in the ram paddock.  Hunky Hubby was doing the dishes, I quietly moved inside and hissed at my Hubby 'cat'.  He didn't need telling twice.  He unlocked the gun cabinet, retrieved and loaded the rifle and stole out to the fenceline, crouching low behind the flax.  The unsuspecting feline stopped to casually preen itself in the last of the setting sun and then crack!  It lept into the air as the round collected it's target and all was quiet once more.
Hunky Hubby retrieved his prey, one clean shot right through the head, justice had been served and the Mistress had been avenged.  Donald and Daisy still patrol the garden but from that day to this, Daisy has not laid another egg.



Donald (left) and Daisy - Pekin ducks

 Thus began the death event of 2010.  We took Monster man to the vet late September and had aural tumours removed successfully but at the time there was a small lump under his ear that was put down to enflamed lumph nodes.  As Monster recovered from the surgery with flying colours, the lump got ever increasingly larger so at the time of his post op visits I began harrassing the vet about it.  The eventual diagnosis was a tumour, but they were hesitant to operate due to it's rapid growth and location to so many vital nerves.  We put Monster man on a course of steroids in the hope of slowing down the growth and prolonging the inevitable but on the 23rd December we were back at the vet praying for the miracle that we knew in our heart of hearts wouldn't come to pass.  Hunky Hubby came along and we sadly farewelled out 14 year old friend.


Monster man 23rd December 2010 RIP

 We knew it was the end when Monster man started sleeping behind the furniture and would never come out for cuddles, this was a puss that always shared the computer desk during office hours and if I wasn't fast enough, he would be in my lap before I had even managed to sit down.  He had given up, so it was time to let him go.  RIP buddy, you were a great and special friend, you can go and be with Queenie now xxx.

As if that wasn't enough pre-Christmas trauma, on Christmas Eve, I experienced the worst thing I have ever seen.  The 24th was my last day at work for the year and as was my usual morning ritual when I fed Lacie bunny, I always checked her underbelly for her notoriously bad toileting.  She would sit in what she pooped so had to have her bedding changed daily, sometimes twice, and had to be bathed regularly, she was a really dirty bunny.  So, on the 24th she appeared ok but I made a mental note to bath her the next day anyway and because I had to go to work in the city for the day, I never took her out for cuddles.

On Christmas Eve, I opened the cage expecting her to dash away as normal but instead she was stretched out motionless, I thought she was sleeping.  Lacie was a large Lop rabbit and not easily picked up in one hand, I always complained at how fat she was.  This day however, as I lifted her from the cage, not only was she virtually lifeless, but she was also weightless.  I turned her over to cradle her in my arms to check her underneath and to my horror, saw a seething mass of wriggling maggots.  Forgetting to be sick I raced into the house, yelled at Hunky Hubby and made a dash for the bathroom, turning on the tap just wanting to wash them away.  As I rubbed them off her, I noticed great lumps of fur just washing away under my hands and more maggots, hundreds of them, errupting out of her hips and back like the sand volcanos that had devastated the city streets following the earthquake.  Lacie had fly strike and those parasitic monsters were eating my beautiful bunny to death.  They were everywhere, crawling under every available inch of skin.  I just cried to Hunky Hubby... 'get the gun'.  I knew what had to be done, Lacie could not be allowed to suffer another second.  Hunky Hubby bundled her up and went outside, there wasn't even enough blood left in her to bleed.  I was devastated beyond belief.

A couple of days later I searched fly strike on the internet.  I kept wondering what I had done wrong, why I hadn't caught it two days earlier, I had only missed cuddles on one day.  I got the answers.  It wasn't so much Lacie's dirty toileting habits as her baths that had been her misfortune.  Even though I was vigilant at drying her as much as I could so that she never caught a chill, any moisture at all in the middle of a scorching Canterbury summer was all it needed to attract a fly looking for a cushy place to lay eggs, and on a nice furry damp bunny was perfect, on her back was all it needed.  I would never have seen them.  Once hatched it was just a quick burrow in through the skin and Lacie was history.  Maggots excrete a powerful anaesthetic while they munch on their host so she wouldn't have even felt uncomfortable enough for me to notice a change in her behaviour to alert me to her stress.  It also didn't help that we live on a farm with sheep which also put her more at risk but I think the biggest problem was my ignorance, I just didn't know that rabbits could get fly strike, I only thought it was a problem for sheep.  I will never have another pet rabbit, I had the hutch on the rubbish truck within hours of saying goodbye to yet another faithful friend.



Hunky Hubby and Lacie bunny

 The last loss for the year was Ben, our rooster.  He had become quite aggressive and his advances toward Blackie and Houdini had disrupted the dynamics of the girls so that we made the grave decision to dispatch him.  I figured I had a say in the decision so I had to see it through to the bitter end, which I did, but never again.  I will grow spuds, onions, and pumpkins but I will not breed chickens for the pot.  Eggs and old age and that's it.  Ben was magnificent and he had a wonderful life here but sadly, the welbeing of the rest of the girls had to come first.  I tried to rehome him but to no avail so the day came and it was done....



Plymouth Rock rooster Ben RIP


So that is almost how our year ended but we couldn't see out 2010 so sadly.  Once we knew how unwell Monster man was we started looking at new additions to our family as Taiza needed company.  The cost of Shih Tzu pups and British Short haired cats was prohibitive so we trolled Trade Me in search of a cat that was begging for a new home and a fresh start.  It was there that we found 'Mr Magoo', affectionately known at our place as 'Gooey'

 







Mr Magoo, aka "Gooey" as advertised

 
I mean, what can I say, who could look at that face and not want to give him home.  I txt the photo to Hunky Hubby advising that we had found Taiza a buddy and on Boxing Day 'Gooey' came home.  Two months on, he has just experienced his second major earthquake, the 6.3 on Tuesday 22nd February 2011 that has literally demolished our city, this time though, the country areas have remained standing to continue it's recovery while assisting our city residents.  Gooey and Taiza are like brothers from different mothers, while Taiza is almost two, and Gooey is only one, we are now looking forward to at least another 12-15 years with our two special boys.


Freaky eyed brothers Taiza and Gooey





The Ratbag evolves

Notice the deck is now black

It's been a while but slowly and surely the 'Ratbag', as my truck is affectionatley known, is evolving, not only with my own ideas but with the input of my Hunky Hubby, along with the folk that assist me in the work.  The latest of which has been the powder coating, one wheel at a time, the front nudgebar and then the new flame window winders.  It's really coming together.  I hadn't intended on pinking up the nudgebar but Marge from Action Powder Coating thought it would look pretty cool and I have to confess she was right.  There had been a bit of discussion about the deck and we finally decided to change if from the natural Maple finish to that of charcoal, so it too looks black.

Check out those sexy pink rims

The powder coated wheels look awesome, these too were a difficult decision as I thought the entire wheel in pink would be too much but then just the half inch outer rim wouldn't be worthwhile considering the amount of work for Conrad at Action Powder Coating.  I'm pleaseed I took the gamble as I think they have turned out wicked.  The pink lidded top box has also been added which looks super cool.  We had been concerned about the first warrant with the wooden tailgates but we didn't need to worry, it flew through with both the gates and the wing mirrors.  Being in a class as a service vehicle we were allowed the extra width on the mirrors, just as well.

The only other warrant issue was the auxillary lights on the front. Negotiation arose as to whether they need to be able to be operated separate of the headlights and because they weren't wired on and individual loom, we removed them for te warrant. Following the pass, we were informed that as long as they operated with the full beam only, they didn't require an independant on/off switch so Hunky Hubby set too and put them back on and wired them up again,.

Tickled pink nudgebar and wheels

Visitors - nice and nasty

The Nice
It was getting late in the evening, around 9pm, the frost already glistening in the moonlight but our country silence was broken by a heart wrenching howl, bordering on screeching.  Hunky Hubby and I donned gumboots and jackets along with headlamp and ventured out in the darkness to identify the sound, worried that a dog had been thrown from a truck and was entrenched somewhere in the paddock.  Once outside the paniced creature went quiet so Hunky Hubby went to get the car, we were going to need much more candle power if we were going to find this hound.
It wasn't long before the headlights identified the glistening orbs of two terrified eyes reflecting out of the darkhess and only a few minutes longer to encourage a cold, wet and fearful Labrador/Beardie cross between the fence railings and into the car.
We drove our passenger to the nearby farm but no one was home so back to ours and secured him in the shed with the creature comforts of a duvet, a feed and a bowl of water.  He seemed placid enough but all creatures in shock behave accordingly so until morning, this poochy was going to have to accommodate a little rough. 

Phone calls were made to local farms with no joy before bed but I was confident someone was going to be looking for our late night visitor and if not, he would have a good home with us.
The next morning the first port of call was to allow our shaggy intruder out for ablutions.  No interest in the ducks or chooks who were already up and vocal inspite of the early hour.  A feed and a cuddle and back to bed for a bit longer.
I got on the computer and created a flyer with a couple of pictures taken at day break (to drop off at the butcher and local supermarket) and then I took our visitor for a truck ride to the vet to see if he was microchipped, alas he was not.  He wasn't recognised by the staff either so after leaving a flyer, it was back home.
I decided this gentle giant was definately a much loved pet so risked bringing him indoors on the lead, assuming he would rather snuggle in front of the fire instead of be left in the shed or in the garden.  No aggression towards Taiza, no interest at all in Monster, the cat, so things were looking really good.  I was liking this old boy a lot.
And then a knock at the door changed everything.  A gentle man and lady stood apart from my ice clad path on the grass trying to snatch a little warmth from the watery morning sun enquiring if I had found a dog, anticipation and tentative excitement spreading across their faces when I opened the door and called to my visitor 'Mummys here'.  As the woolley mammoth made a bee line for the gentleman, the lady was hugging me furiously thanking me for finding her boy.  Apparently she had called one of the farmers in the morning that I had called the night before and they told her where he was having his overnight vacation, thank goodness for the country grapevine.

His name is Guinness and he is seven years old and like my smallest chook with the same name, a bit of a Houdini.  One of three dogs, him and his smaller companion managed to sneak out through a hole in the fence at their home about 5 km from ours.  Once free it was likely the lure of a runaway rabbit across the fields that found Guinness in one of ours.  Lucky for him, and his family, he had been discovered by like minded animal lovers and was well taken care of, and now he's returned home to his family.
The thank you card that followed from his folks mentioned that come Thursday, Guinness has an appointment at the vet for microchipping. 

The Nasty
Each evening before bed, Taiza has a nature call.  This is also the time that I check on the ducks to make sure everyone is bed and often put the drier on a bit longer in the shed for the evening load of washing.  This night I could hear some scratching in the chook shed against the metal walls.  In passing I commented to Hunky Hubby that perhaps there were some rodents in the shed but then it was quickly dismissed.
A couple of nights following the three amigos were still outside in the cold and damp when I did my nightly rounds, under protest I eventually had them rounded up but the next night it was the same scenario.  Convinced our terror tunnelers were back we donned the trusty headlamp again and searched the chookhouse, lifting the straw and the wooden pellet beneath, sure enough there was the evidence, piles of dirt and stones on top of the flagstones.  As it was late and very cold, we threw in a poison bait and put everything back for the night.
The next day I was back pulling the shed apart, this time lifting the flagstones as well and found the loose bait in the middle of a large nest along with a decent pile of chook food.  I destroyed the nest, filled in the tunnels, nailed baits to the underside of the pellet and after taking a mental note that there was more tunneling under the nesting cupboard, put everything back until the weekend when there was more time.
That was a couple of days later.  This time I took all the straw out completely.  Because the three amigos sleep in the chook house, I cover the entire shed in straw to keep them dry and to stop me from slipping, its so easy to remove a fouled slab of straw and replace it with fresh.  The soiled slab goes straight out to the garden under the trees as fertilised mulch so nothing is wasted.
After moving the cupboard, and filling in the tunnels beneath I decided to check the baits under the pellet and there she was, big and brown and nasty.  Initially I was going to stomp on her but then I envisaged her running up my pants leg and freaked myself out.  She somehow managed to squeeze under the flagstone and made a bee line for the exit under the wall of the shed that I had filled in.  I could see her tail under the corner of the flagstone so jumped on it and discovered it had movement so I jumped on the opposite corner to provide some lift.  For a few seconds I stomped on the flagstone in the method of a see-saw.  I stopped briefly, the tail twitched so a few more stomps.  I'm no light weight so she had to have succumbed to the pounding pressure of my stomping.  Gingerly, using the pinch bar, I edged up the corner of the flagstone.  Her head and shoulders were under the wall of the shed and her hips and tail inside.  I had to make sure she was dead and not suffering so I pulled her out by the tail and gave her a quick sharp smack to the skull with the hammer, and then I felt sick!.  I had just killed one of God's creatures that I had no intention of eating.  I stood and prayed for forgiveness at the same time proud that I had just killed the rat that was tormenting my ducks.  I was hot, sweating but proud, but I got the bee-arch and even took the photo to prove it.

Dreams versus Reality

Isn't it strange how we can spend years dreaming about something but once that desire becomes a reality, it somehow looses its importance, or perhaps we just loose the passion that drove the desire?

When I was a little girl walking to school in Motueka I would go past the home of an older girl that had just got her first car.  To me, she may as well have just landed on the moon.  The reality of me ever owning a car seemed too fantastical.

When I was 17 I had my second real boyfriend, hindsight being 20/20 I would of been better off not to but every experience we have in life directs us to where we end up so for that I am grateful.  This chap had a Honda CB100 motorcycle, turned out it was his second bike but his Triumph 650 Bonneville had been stolen so I missed out on the classic REAL motorcycle.  Anyway, he had promised to take me to the movies, it was the first showing of the first Star Wars movie.  He'd had a couple of ales on his way home, he slid in some gravel and did them both some serious injury  That was the end of the date but the beginning of my dertermination to learn to ride so that I never had to miss out on something because of someone elses behaviour again.

There were some horrendous journeys on that CB100 over the years but that little bike was also my training ground for motorcycle mechanics as I rebuilt it, and the CB650 Custom that followed it a few years later.  Granted my butt was incredibly smaller in those days, the thought of this arrangement adorning that tiny frame is all but farcicle.

Anyway, I digress.  Back to the dream, it was always the Harley Davidson.

The CB 100 dude ended up being husband #1 and that ended with a broken CB 650 Custom which in turn was replaced with another CB 650 Custom albeit without the stainless steel pipes.  A broken marriage, a broken bike and a broken body (not literally, just a lot of bruises that took many months to heal) it was time to move on.  The accident knocked my confidence around but it didn't keep me off the back of a motorcyle for long.  Over the years that followed the CB 650 Custom became a Suzuki GSX1100 and then a Honda 700 Magna which in turn gave way to motherhood until 2007 when the Beast arrived - originally a Yamaha XS1100 it was unrecognisable as it had been when it left the factory but for me it was love at first sight, of course the price helped too as it was totally affordable.

The Beast was all muscle, it was black, it was heavy and it was loud, very very loud.  I reckon the previous owner was a Harley wanna-be so it suited me to a tea, cause that was me too although I don't think I would have ever butchered this bike to the degree it had become.  It wasn't long however and the Beast became a financial black hole and a potential death trap so it was time to repair and replace and the dream finally became a reality.  Caution gave way to insanity as I commited myself to a $21K debt to ride my dream machine, a 2008 Harley Davidson XL1200 C, 105th anniversary edition.  To tell the truth, if it wasn't for meeting Hunky Hubby #3 I don't think I would have returned to motorcycling after junior parenting but because of his passion and encouragement it was a natural progression, also helped immensely that he proposed while test riding the Harley Davidsons but that is another blog :-)

I was absolutely precious about the XL1200C, it was the only brand new vehicle I had ever owned and it had taken a lifetime to realise the dream, 46 years. I was in heaven.  I had my bike and I was engaged to Hunky Hubby, the only thing missing was the place in the country but that was to come less than six months later.  Thanks to the musical persistance of new neighbours we left Bishopdale in January of 2008 and moved to Southbridge.

The cottage was awesome, the driveway was dusty and so began a disgruntled relationship with a bucket and brush to keep the beauties clean as by now Hunky Hubby was on Harley number 2,  a lovely Softail that I was also privileged to ride, usually in the rain when it was due to be taken to town for a service but it wasn't really a chore.  It was big and black and loud, oh what a beautiful note it cracked!  But with our country lifestyle also came sacrifices and the extra hours travel to town meant that we stopped attending the Ulysses bike club meetings mid week.  It also meant that the average 250km ride became 350km so we began to pick and choose the events that we attended and then our weekends became so labour intensive that the riding diminished to the point a ride had to be added to the calendar just to be included into our lifestyle.

This year began tough.  With Hunky Hubby still struggling to find a permanent position and the government threatening, and succeeding, to increase registration on motorcycles, we had to face cold hard facts.  Our lifestyle had surpassed the dream and now the two just weren't compatible.  The decision was made to let the bikes go.  I think we both immediately went into mourning and began second guessing our decisions but it was meant to be.  The bikes spent more time in the shed than on the road, our lifestyle was more designed to a truck than a motorcyle so for now, the dream was overshadowed by reality.

It's probably been three months now since the Harley sold and to be totally honest I haven't missed it.  I decided to sell the car too and followed the lifestyle we now lead when I purchased the Ratbag.  With #1 son moving out again in a couple of weeks, and he too the proud owner of a truck (following in his mummys footsteps, so proud), it just cements that the decision to sell was the right and practical one.  Hunky Hubby is still unable to find a permanent position and we are facing some incredibly tight financial times ahead therefore no time for expensive dreams just now but...................in the future, perhaps a trike, a Harley Davidson of course!

Passion for Trucks

Not quite sure when my passion for trucks began but perhaps my love for them began with the gratitute I felt for the Motueka logging boys that didn't run over me as a child.  We lived on the main thoroughfare in the day, from the hills where the logs were felled to the mill at Baigents where they were processed.  According to the stories my mother told, as a toddler, I was always getting out of the section and onto the road, causing the logging trucks to stop, and remove me from certain disaster.  As the story goes, I was put in a dog collar and tied to the fence in an attempt to curtail my wandering and potentially fatal ways.  As I am still in the land of the living, obviousy at some level, it worked.  Whenever a truck show came to town, I would be there dreaming. And then we moved to Southbridge.  I yearned to leave the city and work in the country so once again the dream to drive was at the forefront.  Opportunities were a bit limiting, 'a' because of my age and 'b' because of my experience, or lack thereof but still I was determined and began both the study and the driving lessons at the Charter driving school.  After I had acheived my Class 2, I hired the truck from Charter and drove it to Southbridge just for fun.  I was over the moon, the truck felt enormous and I felt as if I could accomplish anything.  One step closer to working in the country I began studying for my Class 4.  It was more expense and more challenging but I was determined to succeed, and more determined to leave the city commute to work behind.    

The proof in the pudding came once this next goal was achieved.  My workplace was relocating across town and there was no one to drive the truck that had been hired to move the furniture.  Everyone knew I had my Class 2 so the job fell to me.  Driving with an instructor and driving a fully laden truck through the central city are TWO totally different things, as well as holding up the traffic on a main road so that I could back into the site, with everyone lined up on the balcony watching (fortunately for me, I couldn't see that). 

As fate would have it though, I acheived my goal of working in the country but by design or flaw, I never got my Class 5 license, although I did get to drive a Class 5 beauty.  I left my job in the city and started working from home part time in my home office and the other part- time feeding calves (another story).  When calving was finished, I began full time from home, essentially The Phone Guys 'Dan Carter Country Contact Centre'.  Nowadays my Tikled pink RatBag is as close to a truck driving job as I have, and that is ALL pleasure.