Hendra Virus: It’s Evolving

Fruit Bats and Hendra

The fruit bat, Hendra virus’ natural host.
Picture: FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Will deadly Hendra virus become our next pandemic? With the way the virus is evolving it cannot be ruled out. History shows us that about 70% of pandemics originate in animals.

The Spanish flu that decimated the world at the end of World War I originated in pigs in a Spanish village. In its first go round in 1917 it was relatively mild. But the next bout in 1918-19 killed more people than had died during the entire war. And anyone who has made the most cursory study of WWI knows that it was absolute and utter carnage. On a scale to take the breath away. Unimaginable! And the Spanish Flu was worse!

Like every other horse owner, I don’t need any more expenses this year. Poor seasons, poor markets take a toll on all of us. But now that live Hendra virus has been found in dead fruit bats in Adelaide, I know that it is time– time to take a look at the big picture – time to vaccinate.

The fruit bat, or Flying Fox, Hendra virus’ natural host, ranges all over Australia, except for desert areas. All our horses are in danger, and by deduction, us and our dogs.

Lets take a brief overview: (more info here)

First found in 1994 in the racing stables of Vic Rail, where it killed him and 14 of his horses. Since then there have been several outbreaks:

In 1995 the virus took the life of a Mackay farmer and in 2008 and 2009 two Qld vets.

Between 1994 and 2010 there were 14 clusters of Hendra virus.

In 2011 in Qld and NSW there were 18 outbreaks with 24 cases in horses and 1 dog. 2011 also chalked up another sinister first. The first case of Hendra in Chinchilla blowing the myth that Hendra virus would not come west of the divide and that our inland horses are safe. No horse is safe!

Now in 2013, the horrifying thing is not only that there have so far been 9 outbreaks in horses ranging from the North coast and tableland of Qld to Kempsey and Macksville in NSW, including another dreadful first, NSW’s first dog, but the virus has changed its clinical signs. Where once the signs were:

  • High temperature

  • Neurological

  • Respiratory

    The latest signs have included:

  • No rise in temperature

  • Founder or shifting lameness of the feet

  • Colic

    This means that none of us will know if our horses have contracted this deadly virus until it is too late. Over 50% of humans catching the virus have died.

    I cannot believe that any of us would put a value of less than $100 (the price of the vaccine at our local vet clinic) on our children, ourselves, our vets, horses and dogs.

    Please, take this warning from history and vaccinate your horses. The potential of this virus is too horrifying to contemplate.

Drunk and Ugly? Not Australia

Drunk Penguin

Drunk and Ugly? Not Australia. Picture from FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The phenomenon that is social media. I came to it late. It still gives me a thrill to send messages to friends and get replies within seconds. I feel their warm presences on the internet and I love it. We can share, chat, keep in touch, advertise. It has a multiplicity of purposes. How easy to drop a quick hello to a friend, letting them know you are there and you care.

The Prime Minister is using it to the hilt. And why not? In the same spirit, I would urge him to stop prancing about, issuing challenges to debate the Opposition leader.

We don’t want to hear your clever phraseology, Mr Rudd. We want you to get on with governing the country. We want to know if we can trust you with it. And we don’t need to see your shaving cuts either. It’s not a good look. I know Norman Gunston made a mint out of it, but …

Recent and recurrent personal attacks on celebrities show this wonderful tool has a dark side. I am amazed at the extent of the venom against Julia Gillard, for example, when she was PM. Again the personal attack. Does the office of Prime Minister of Australia hold no inherent respect?

Could the disrespect shown to her by her own colleagues have more to do with the way she shafted Kevin Rudd than the fact that she is a woman? Who disrespects Aung Sung Su-Kyi: the ultimate female politician?

Whatever the reason, personal vilification on social media must not be tolerated.

The Windsor and Oakeshott families called it ‘ugly Australia’, having at great personal cost borne the vilification of the political decisions of Tony and Rob.

We can all get up on social media and vent our spleens. Does anyone listen? Does anybody care?

Well, under certain circumstances they might. Print laws have not caught up with digital media. But they will. And your words will be up there forever, haunting your future. A snare to bring you down when you’ve reached the top.

Maybe we should have a breathalyser on the mouse or the on-button of a tablet to stop disgruntled ramblings after a night at the pub. Young people also need to be protected from using the internet as a photo diary to bare all. Remember, it is up there forever.

There is the much-publicised tweet by a disgusted viewer of the appalling spectacle that is now Question Time in Federal Parliament, telling Australia to ‘go home.’ How embarrassing!

I can remember (just) when politicians were hysterically funny. Question time in the House was high entertainment. They beat each other with fine wit and humour. We admired their clever use of words, enjoyed their ‘duels’.

Then we got ‘scumbags’ etc. The days of gentlemen (and women) in politics were over, with personal vilification entering the lists. Back then, they played the ball. Now they play the ‘man’. Has it filtered down into all our lives?

Just lately, I’ve heard too many criticisms of our beautiful Australia. Drunk, childish, irresponsible, whatever … And all because a few frustrated, incontinent people cannot control their verbiage. Trolls on the internet. Spite and malice are ugly, not Australia. Individuals are drunk, not Australia.

Let’s not forget the doctors, nurses, carers, vets and all the kind people who don’t get on social media and shout their prowess or their complaints to the world. They don’t have time. Like the farmers, they are too busy doing what they have to do for those in their care.

Twitter (Oxford Dictionary) – a succession of light tremulous sounds. I would add: pleasing to the ear.

Let’s not have to rename it.

Cancer of the Mind

Light in the darkness of depression. Photo by Gualberto 107

Light in the darkness of depression. Photo by Gualberto 107/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Cancer of the mind. This is how I view depression. And what with the recent amazing events in parliament it will be wonderful if there aren’t a few of us suffering from it. Add to that the possibility that you’ve just had surgery, given birth or happen to be undergoing anti-cancer treatment and it becomes even more likely.

The latest research shows that the brain can continue to change throughout life; that our very thoughts can change it. Continual negative thinking can change the brain structure so that we spiral downward into depression. In contrast, thinking positive thoughts can rewire our brains to make us happy people. I thought I would share with you my tried and true formula to fight depression: cancer of the mind. I wrote this recipe for a very beautiful person who had come to feel that she was of no worth. She has a generous spirit and I know she won’t mind sharing.

Anne’s Recipe for Happiness

Requires large cupfuls of all ingredients.

  1. This ingredient is sealed and unavailable until the others have been perfected.

  2. Classical Music. Listen as much as possible. Beautiful music fills your head, leaving no room for negative thoughts. Combine with reading inspirational writings for a soothing, uplifting marinade.

  3. Time is precious. Spend it with Good Friends – people with happy, positive spirits. Ditch the negative ones. Time has a full-bodied flavour.

  4. Allow only positive thoughts so as not to attract dark entities. Think of those you love. Remember: Love thinks no evil. A powerful ingredient.

  5. Healthy nutrition for mind and body. Pursue a goal or interest. Start small and persevere. You will be amazed at what you can achieve. Find out if you have food allergies or intolerances. The gain far outweighs the loss of what you give up.

  6. A good dash of Sense of Humour – essential for lightness. You will find it everywhere if you look for it.

  7. Everywhere God shows his hand in the Beauty he has created. Recognise and appreciate this fabulous ingredient in the world around us. It will lift your spirits every time, adding texture to the mix.

  8. Count your blessings. You do have them and it is good to remind yourself of these positives. Equivalent to mixing the other ingredients – so mix well!

  9. Now the first ingredient has matured and you can add a precious commodity – the delicate flavour of Patience.

  10. Bake this recipe by meditating. Each time, tell yourself one positive thing, over and over.

  11. Finally, to remove from the oven, perfectly done: Pray whenever you think of it, anywhere, any time because miracles do happen. You are a child of God. You were bought with a Price. Recognise your Worth.

    Prepared with love by Anne Rouen.

The Enigma of Crows

Anne Rouen's puppy, Tiffy.

Tiffy. Saved by Crows? Who’d have thought it.
Image courtesy of dan / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I hate crows, loathe them with a Passion, having all my life had to deal with the consequences of their handiwork or perhaps I should say beakwork. It inflames me when they sit around in trees at their annual crow conclave, swapping yarns and boasting of their devilish exploits. I used to think there were two sorts of crows: wicked ones with creepy white eyes and more benign, smaller red-eyed ones, rather sweet, really. But no, the red-eyed ones are the young. They haven’t yet learned all the fiendish tools of their trade.

Could there be a more devious or evil bird than a crow? I don’t think so.

In fact, you could tell me any story you like about the diabolical cunning of crows and I would believe it. There is only one delicacy a crow cannot resist a living, breathing sheep’s eye and it will do anything to get one.

I have seen four of them in line along the back of a sheep, claws hooked into the wool, all flapping madly while leaning to the same side to bring it down; and an enterprising pair on the head of another, pecking at its eyes as it ran blindly, blood running down its face fortunately into the door of my stopped car.

But that’s crows for you: Team work.

Crows: It is here that I have to remind myself that they are just birds. Not evil, not supernatural: just birds! But I digress: That speck in the paddock was not my dog who had gone missing yet again, but, you guessed it, a large, black bird.

Contemplating the crow pecking in the table drain and its mate perched on the fence beside it, I was surprised and relieved to see my dog come round the bend in the road, towards me. Generally, seeing me sets her going faster — the other way. “You’re coming too? Great, let’s go!”

My relief turned to horror as I saw why. Planing in on top of her at about two feet, and closing rapidly, was a huge, wedge-tailed eagle, wingspan as wide as the vehicle track, completely dwarfing this little bobbing mouse.

I was flabbergasted. They never come down out of the hills. I started running towards it, arms waving, yelling like one demented. But the great eagle ignored me. Intent on its prey, it lowered, stretching its talons for the death-grip.

My poor little dog. She looked so tiny there, overshadowed by that enormous wingspan, bobbing along like a fuzzy little metronome; the crow still pecking, oblivious, on the ground beside her. I was too far away to save her from a horrible death; and that damned Rhett Butler of a crow just didn’t seem to notice.

In a matter of seconds it was all over. The eagle dropped onto her, its wings shrouding her from my sight.

But even in the instant that I despaired for her life, at the exact millisecond the eagle struck;  with all the precision of a jet fighter unit, the crows went into action. The one on the ground leapt for the eagle’s right eye, its mate on the fence honed in on the
left; and another I had not seen dropped out of the sky to attack from the rear. Perfect timing.

But that’s crows for you: Finesse.

The eagle flinched, drew back, began to wheel away; and miraculously, out from under the battle zone, still bobbing with the same unchanging rhythm she’d maintained all along, came my dog. I scooped up her trembling form and, still in shock, watched the crows bombing the fearsome intruder, harrying it back to its proper dominions.

But that’s crows for you. As my Nana would have said: ‘More Front than the Queen Mary.’

Perhaps you may have guessed that I have spent a lot of time thinking about crows, but never would I have believed that I would one day be grateful to them.

But that’s life for you. Just full of little ironies …

Vaccination: A Historical View

To vaccinate or not? This has been in the forefront of the news this week, with campaigns urging parents to vaccinate; and proclamations issued about child care centres and unvaccinated children.

To those of my parents’ generation, it would be unthinkable to have this debate. They all knew people who had tragically lost four, five, even all nine of their children, often within days of each other. They knew exactly what to do when each new vaccine came along.

In my own family history, an ancestor lost her husband, son and daughter from diphtheria. They all died within the space of two days. This happened in 1896.

As a farmer, I follow general animal husbandry practice to routinely vaccinate my livestock so as not to lose them from dreadful diseases such as tetanus, Black disease, blackleg and pulpy kidney. A simple vaccine, two injections given four to six weeks apart, prevents the early death of otherwise healthy young animals.

We do our best not to lose our animals from preventable disease.

How much worse if it is our children?

The anti-vaccination lobby can present frightening scenarios to parents. Unfortunately, they only reveal a very small part of the picture. They seem to have forgotten what it was that drove scientists like Pasteur and Jenner to produce vaccines: Human suffering and death!

For various reasons, lately, some parents have not been vaccinating their children. The only reason they have gotten away with it if they have! is because most people, since vaccines have become available, do vaccinate their children.

If you are considering not vaccinating because of a very natural fear for the safety of your child, I would say this:

  • You are making this decision on behalf of another human being.

  • It could literally mean his/her life or death.

  • You must be aware of the consequences: i.e. Are you prepared to play Russian Roulette with the life of your child?

Please, read the research. Don’t be put off by conspiracy theory claims. There are legitimate studies available through medical journals such as The Lancet. Weigh up the risks of vaccination and compare them to the risks of a fatal disease like diphtheria, whooping cough, tetanus or smallpox.

Remember, the only reason they are now rare is because of rigorous vaccination programs. And, sadly, whooping cough is making a big comeback. If it can do it, so can others.

Let’s do a spot-check on Diphtheria, one of the worst killers of children:

  • An acute infectious bacterial disease usually affecting children under ten.

  • Primary lesion is in upper respiratory tract where the bacteria produce a toxin.

  • General symptoms are sore throat, fever, fatigue.

  • If it affects the larynx, the child may die of suffocation without a tracheotomy.

  • Worst case scenario: toxins cause heart failure and paralysis leading to death.

Before the 1940s this frightful disease was on top of every parent’s anxiety list. But, hey, the good news is: they found a vaccine.

Can anybody seriously tell me they would contemplate this risk for their child? If they didn’t have to?

Here are some stats from the Encyclopaedia Britannica: In 1940-44 the average annual death rate from Diphtheria in England and Wales was 1,830, dramatically reducing with immunisation, until in 1969 the figure was zero. This adds up to many thousands of families not having to grieve the loss of a child; many thousands of children who grew up to be adults and not statistics. Maybe you were one of them …

Finally, if you are still undecided, I suggest you visit any old cemetery (1880 – 1920 should do the trick) and check out the ages and heart-wrenching inscriptions on the headstones. And/or go to the death and funeral notices in the digitised old newspapers in Trove. 1896 perhaps?

You will then be able to make an informed decision.

Farm Dogs

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 …