Category Archives: Farm Life

Anne Rouen’s blog about living and working on the land.

The Enigma of Crows

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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 …

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 …

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.

PS They Weren’t Joking!

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Last Monday’s Country Leader showed a member of Animal Liberation holding a very strange contraption, a helicopter drone. It looked like something out of Doctor Who. And guess what? The date wasn’t April 1.

One of the reasons this man gave for flying these things over farms was that if they saw sheep dying of flies they could report it to the proper authorities.

I have a suggestion for you: report it to the farmers. Being on the spot they’ll be able to save them. Isn’t that better than reporting dead and dying animals to whoever the authorities are? Too late and after the fact!

I’d like to quote an 85yo retired farmer: When told of the drones he said, “Oh good. They should give them to the farmers. Then they’ll be able to take care of the animals themselves.”

Sadly, it is often very hard to detect flies on a sheep before it is too late. (Maggots release a toxin into the blood.) I doubt whether a person not trained in sheep behaviour would notice all but the most extensive instances of fly-strike. Sometimes, it only takes a tiny patch (5cmx5cm) to be toxic. If it is under the sheep’s belly it can be impossible to detect without upending the sheep.

The only real help is prevention, but chemicals are expensive and dangerous. I have always used long-acting chemicals that stay in the wool for a number of weeks and have sometimes wondered whether my stoush with breast cancer can be partly attributed to all the Diazinon showers I’ve taken over the years while putting sheep through the jetting race before we knew it was a carcinogen.

As mentioned, I don’t think drones would be very helpful in the matter of fly-strike in sheep, but calving heifers, now, that’s another story! I think longingly of sending out a drone to check my calving heifers instead of crunching over frost-embroidered hills, teeth chattering. Sneaking around so I don’t disturb them, close enough to see if they’re in trouble, far enough away to be safe if they get up and charge me. Heifers can become very upset when they’re calving and act completely out of character.

The farmers are reported to be unimpressed by the idea of drones, but when they think about it I’m sure they’ll see all the advantages of this new technology, just as the retired one did. The problem is that it is beyond the financial reach of most of us. The only one who seems to be able to afford it is Animal Liberation – thanks to the generous donations of its members.

But wait! Have we done an environmental impact study on this little gadget? Made sure it won’t terrify the birds? And is not noisy or  intrusive enough to spook our horses, stampede our sheep and cattle or put our hens off the lay? Yes? Excellent!

So how about it, Animal Libbers? Are you prepared to help the farmers help their livestock? Then, they’ll be able to save any poor animal they may have missed on their daily rounds.

I see this as a win-win situation all round: for the animals, the farmers and the activists.

Bring it on! Let’s do it!

 

Truth or Injustice?

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Listening to the local news at breakfast on Easter Monday, I almost choked on my toast when I heard something about drones being sent over farms at a height of less than ten metres to make sure that farmers were not being cruel to their animals. In the same professional tone the newsreader said that a Farmers’ Representative had stated that if they did that then some farmers would shoot them down.

Farmers – a put-upon minority group – accused of wholesale cruelty unless someone was watching? I spent about two hours churning before I realised the date: April 1.

But it set me thinking, wondering why this news item, though outrageous, didn’t seem out of the realm. Animal activists have been picking on the farmers lately. And they go for us at really bad times like droughts and GFCs. They say they want animals to be happy.

“So?” say the farmers. “What’s new? We spend our lives doing everything in our power to keep our animals happy.”

Personally, I think the answer lies in the understanding of what does or doesn’t make an animal happy.

Now, I don’t have particular insight into the minds of my animals (I only wish I did), but I can tell you what any farmer knows: If animals are under stress of any kind, their health and production decline dramatically with death the bottom line.

Conversely, an ideal environment is one with no physical or psychological stresses, in which the animals can happily thrive and perform to their genetic potential.

In other words, farmers have a vested interest in keeping their animals happy, not only from an ethical point of view (which most of us do have), but because unhappy animals do not produce.

Having said that: there are good and bad farmers. I only speak for the good ones.

So: how do we tell if animals are happy?

Not by putting ourselves in their places and thinking how we would feel! (What does a dog like to do best? And how about the expression: ‘happy as a pig in mud’?)

I believe that, in animals, happiness equates with well-being. Farmers gauge this by the health, behaviour and general brightness and demeanour of their animals.

As a race, we are fond of ‘humanising’ animals but the truth is that it is a mistake. They have not the brain structure to allow reasoning or imagination. Grave injustices have been perpetrated on animals due to forcing human expectations upon them.

From the scapegoats of the ancient world, cats burned as witches’ familiars, pigs put on trial for stealing and other crimes in the middle-ages, to the cute monkeys adopted by misguided animal lovers (because they look like babies they are treated as such); history attests to the injustice of human imagination having endowed these hapless creatures with qualities they cannot possibly possess.

The weird, intense eyes of a goat, cat or owl are not evil or supernatural, it is human imagination that sees them so. Despite an uncanny resemblance, those tiny monkeys are not babies, and their sadness and frustration will remain with me forever. Injustice stacked upon injustice! Humanising: A great wrong.

Sadly, history abounds with incidents of animal abuse, yet in some cases they received better treatment than humans. The parable of the prodigal son, for instance, or a great 19th century racehorse and his jockey. (I am not excusing it – on the contrary – just reporting with a heavy heart.)

We must be aware that what an animal may consider an acceptable environment need not necessarily coincide with the human perspective. (That varies also: Take a walk through an inner city park at 7 o’clock on a Saturday morning.)

Is this bandying of accusations pots calling kettles? A case of ‘pull the log out of your own eye …’? Or just another illustration of human injustice?