Monthly Archives: May 2013

Farm Dogs

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Farm dogs are mostly breeds called working dogs and over the years I have known many lovely kelpies, collies, and heelers but there are other breeds who can and do pull their weight on the farm.

One of my best yard dogs was a Silky terrier. I knew he was accepted the day a truckie came to tell me he could not unload a four-deck semi-trailer of weaner sheep. It seemed that they panicked on seeing the wide open plain and could not be persuaded to leave the safety of the truck(and who could blame them) without their mamas.

The truckie carried my Silky up the side of the trailer and put him through the rails. It did not take long for him to assure the sheep that what they really wanted was fresh air and grass; and in a very short time there was an orderly procession down the loading ramp.

When he was still a puppy, this little dog saved me from almost certain death by a rogue bull that had broken every fence in the district and would charge on sight. The bull charged me from behind the shed and my dog leapt for his nose. With no sign of fear and the speed of a whirling dervish, he went from nose to heels, nipping both until the bull tired of running in circles, giving me time to get to safety.

Despite his penchant for chasing everything from bulls to snakes and goannas far larger than himself, my dog lived to the grand old age of sixteen.

I missed him terribly which is probably why, when I saw a half-sized Silky puppy in a cage at the Vet’s waiting for the inevitable, all I could see was my little dog. Her pitiful yelps and this uncanny resemblance made it impossible for me to leave her there.

Sucker: Apart from the usual terrier characteristics the resemblance was only silky-coat deep. When I describe her to people, they nod wisely. “Oh, yes,” they say. “A Manilla Terrier: I know.”

If you don’t happen to be acquainted with the Manilla Terrier, let me give you an overview: Though ranging widely in colour and style, having descended mainly from terriers like Silky and Maltese and toys such as Chihuahua and Pomeranian, they have several defining characteristics:

They are heart-wrenchingly, gregariously cute; entirely self-willed; and very small. They are also crazy. No doubt, you’ve heard that hackneyed old term ‘Pocket Rocket’? It was coined specifically to describe the Manilla Terrier.

They might be of a size known as ‘toy’ but try telling them that. All are genetically programmed with the unshakeable belief that they are bigger than a Great Dane, tougher than a Bull Terrier and braver than a lion. Add to that their conviction that their way is the only way and perhaps you begin to see where I made my mistake. And to compound the problem, this one has an insatiable penchant for travel.

Work sheep, did I say? Well, she might condescend to cut a swathe through the middle of the mob, scattering them to the four winds, but only if they stand in the way of her path to adventure.

My next farm dog is going to be a kelpie, a collie, or a blue heeler …

A 19th Century Mastectomy

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Angelina Jolie’s recent brave decision to go ahead with a pre-emptive double mastectomy and her frank publication, calls to mind another brave decision made more than two hundred years ago.

Having to make life-changing decisions while you’re reeling from shock at a diagnosis is incredibly difficult. The physician sets before you the type and degree of aggression of your cancer, a five year percentage survival rate for each of the possible treatments and says, “You choose.”

It is not always as stark as that, but it can be. Ultimately, you have to make very difficult decisions. No-one can say, “This is the way. If you follow it, you will get well.”

This is one reason to be thankful for the support of other breast cancer survivors and groups like the Breast Cancer Network and the Cancer Council. They’ve been there. They know what you’re going through. They can help you fight your way through the fog.

If you already have warning of a time bomb ticking away in the form of a breast cancer gene, maybe before it happens is a better time to make a decision.

One thing is certain: the decision must be made by you. Gather all the information; add up the odds; make the decision. If you can afford it!

Medical Insurance regards pre-emptive breast surgery and reconstruction as cosmetic. Yes, girls, a double mastectomy is cosmetic! Where are these people coming from? Even in the 1920s they didn’t take fashion that far!

While researching capitalisation in letters and diaries, I came across a letter from the 18th and 19th century novelist and diarist, Frances Burney (Madame D’Arblay) to her sister. In it she describes her 1811 mastectomy conducted without anaesthetic in France by seven surgeons (one to perform the surgery, the other six to hold her down. Although she says she refused to be held).

She describes the procedure, her reactions and her agony in graphic detail. And, yes, she used capitals (Though not as many as she might!), ruining my theory that only nouns were capitalised. She used the adjective ‘Bright’.

Her experience traumatised her so much that she could not bring herself to write about it for nine months. If you have not already seen it, her unabridged letter can be found here.

Some people speculate that Fanny’s breast lump could not have been cancer, but I like to think that she was rewarded for her courage and fortitude because she lived another 29 years to the grand old age of 87. She published her most famous novel Evelina when she was 26, married at 41, had one son, and lived a full life after the shocking trauma of her surgery, her journal letters giving us great social insight into her life and times.

In our time, however hard our journey, at least, we can be thankful that we do not have to endure surgery without anaesthetic.

Bravo, Madame D’Arblay! We can all learn Something from your Courage.

Good Enough to Hang?

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My radio is a constant source of inspiration to me. But I did a double-take when I heard these words expressed by one of our Local Treasures: “I like a good hanging,” she said, with a happy lilt in her voice. “I love it when they’re good enough to hang.”

A public hanging sounds fairly historical. Ghoulish stories abound of villagers and townspeople turning out for such a spectacle. Although in those times, surely the debate would have been whether the person in question was ‘bad enough to hang’?

The general run of people are not quite so blood-thirsty these days, certainly not our Treasures. So, lifting my head from a text on the behaviour of the crowd in history, I was momentarily non-plussed.

Of course, as those with more artistry in their soul than I would already know, the lady, an artist and long time volunteer at the gallery, was referring to the inclusion of paintings for an upcoming exhibition.

Immediately, I began to think of a favourite print, a 1925 painting of a Paris street by Maurice Utrillo. Perfect in perspective, the street goes on and on, far into the distance towards a church or cathedral in the background.

In the foreground, shaded by trees, people stroll. A building proclaims its business in large, uneven lettering: vacheresse, cammionage, gravier, voitures à volonté (cars with steering wheels). This last fires my imagination. Suddenly, I am on the street in my straight, modern flapper dress, the breeze ruffling my new, shingled hairstyle, an assortment of long beads and chains clinking against my flattened bosom. A door opens in the building and I follow a handsome man inside. While he effortlessly cranks the elegant Bugatti, I shrug on a driving coat, wind a long, silk scarf around my head. The ends will stream out behind me like a gonfalon, inspiring envy in the breasts of all who watch me drive by.

The car trembles, sputters into life. My hero opens the door for me and I step in, settling myself in luxurious leather seats with ebony buttons. Light shimmers gently off the rosewood dashboard as I reach for my goggles. The engine purrs and the driver expertly manoeuvres the vehicle into the open. The cool air fans my glowing cheeks.

“Ready?” asks my escort, an irresistible gleam in his eye.

Before I can answer, an alarm discords, breaking up the lovely picture. I fall out of the car, out of my dream, out of the painting. Cursing the phone, I pick myself up from my lounge room floor, obedient, as ever, to its shrill demand.

Now, I will never know what it was like to go driving with that gorgeous Frenchman along a tree-lined street in Paris in 1925.

Isn’t it scandalous the way we let everyday matters interfere with our lives?

But, yes, I couldn’t agree more. A painting like that is certainly good enough to hang.

Oh, and by the way, I did learn something from the text about crimes of the ‘bad enough to hang’ variety. Historically, whenever crowds rebel, most of the deaths are caused by the authorities cracking down on them and not by the citizens themselves. Surprised?

Has anything changed?

Yes, Pat, It’s Possible

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 I love my life on the land and my animals, but the price I have to pay to maintain this lifestyle and my herd of lovely cows is to sell their progeny. This, of course, is the business of farming. But I console myself that I do my utmost to give my animals the happiest life I can while I have them; and ensure humane treatment thereafter.

The other day, I was speaking to a man who loves his horses, dogs and chooks; an honest, hardworking man. He was looking puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said, referring to a recent ad against intensive farming on our TVs. “Those chickens looked OK to me. Their combs are red, their eyes are bright. They’re just moulting, that’s all.”

I had to agree. I felt the same way about the pigs. They were in good condition, bright-eyed, took a healthy interest in the cameras; showed no fear; and their skins looked pink and unblemished. We weren’t shown their housing, so I don’t know how much room they had.

It is easy to believe what we are told, especially when accompanied by images that tug at the emotions. But what if we are shown only one side of the story?

As a researcher of history, I have become accustomed to looking at the big picture. So before we demonise the farmers, let us take a look at the other side.

We are fond of romanticising nature – freedom, fresh air and sunshine: bliss! But take a closer look. Nature is not pretty: It is the survival of the fittest – a harsh concept. It’s the heartbreak of a tiny wren almost dying in the effort of raising the chick of a much larger cuckoo that has smashed its eggs. It’s struggling for sustenance in a bad season. It’s living every second in fear of predators. It may look beautiful to us, but it’s something else for the creatures trying to survive in it.

Susceptible farm animals must be protected from the vagaries of nature.

Chickens, for example, cannot survive in nature: There are no feral chickens. They are at the mercy of predators such as foxes, dogs, feral cats, hawks, eagles, snakes and goannas; and subject to diseases carried by birds, rats and mice.

Pigs need shelter, climate control; they must be kept warm in winter, cool in summer. Sudden changes in temperature make them susceptible to pneumonia and other respiratory diseases. There are deadly pathogens out there for pigs. To protect them, they must be housed in a biologically secure environment, with enormous costs. Unauthorised visitors to these places can bring untold suffering to the very animals they wish to help.

So, how have we come so far from protection to what is often seen as little more than a production line?

Back in the middle of last century, in the fifties, sixties and seventies, farmers actually made money. Everyone was into production lines, town and country. Farmers were anxious to have the latest in housing for their animals; to be seen as stream-lined and efficient; hospital clean and hygienic in their husbandry. Doing the best that they could for their animals.

Workers on production lines, realising how soul-destroying it was, soon objected; and were replaced by robots. It wasn’t that easy for the farmers. (And I am not saying it was easy for the workers!)

Farmers wishing to upgrade their housing are faced with a harsh reality. Changing infrastructure involves 5-6 figure sums. Whenever prices approach a level to allow it, cheap imports flood the market, forcing down farm gate prices. (Does anyone ask how these animals have been treated?) With escalating costs and returns of 10-20years ago, farmers can do no more than hang in there. (If they are lucky!) They cannot afford to upgrade.

So, how can farmers make these changes that they themselves would wish for? It sounds impossible, doesn’t it?

The people with movable hen-houses allowing their chooks to scratch daily on fresh ground have all my admiration, but their infrastructure and time investment is huge.

Some friends of mine, passionate animal lovers, toured the world to find the ideal environment for their chickens, finally settling on a concept from Israel. Their investment is also massive.

Do we, as consumers, reward these caring souls for their time and dedication? Or do we buy the cheapest supermarket specials, thus forcing them out of business?

We consumers do have the power to change the lives of our animals: not by spending money on emotional ads that promote negative feelings (despite being presented by kind and well-meaning celebrities like Pat Rafter); but by doing something positive; something we can all do.

Negatives divide, destroy, achieve nothing; only adding tension to an already impossible situation.

Positives unite, simplify, show us the way. Positives make the difficult easy; the impossible, possible.

And now we see: how simple is the answer!

Here is a positive that I guarantee will work: Ignore the cheap supermarket specials and pay a premium for food produced from livestock raised in a proven animal-friendly environment.

The farmers will be only too happy and relieved to have the funds to comply.