SOUP DRAGON

Posted By Seren on March 19, 2009

It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ll be 48, and I feel very depressed. It’s not getting older, I don’t mind that. I really don’t care that I’m at this end of the 40’s rather than t’other end. No, it’s Zoe.

I took Zoe to the vet on tuesday. Sian, the vet, examined her, but couldn’t work out what is wrong. She’s not egg bound, she’s not crop bound as there’s nothing in her crop. She is just not eating and no one can say why. Sian gave her injections of calcium and antibiotics and some worming stuff just in case. Though she reckons that if Zoe had worms, Inara would have them too and would be ill. Since then I’ve tried, I really have. I’ve perservered with the antibiotics, even though Zoe won’t swallow the mixture when I squirt it into her mouth. I’ve tried giving her warmed milk in an oral syringe, I even mashed up some wholemeal bread in milk and water. I had noticed that she can drink, so I thought that if I mash the bread up into crumbs she can at least take some of that. But she only had a mouthfull.

I just don’t know what to do. Every morning I’m surprised to see her still alive, trotting behind Inara when I let them out into the garden. And I’m so grateful for each day with her, more than I can say. But I am having to accept that these are likely to be Zoe’s last days. I’m glad she’s got warm sunshine and gentle breezes.

It was the same last year; waiting for out cat Snookie to die. He had feline aids and it really got to him in the end, giving him mouth tumours and shutting his kidneys down. I remember that last week, with the sun shining and the lambs skipping about. It seemed so cruel that all life should be springing up and he was spending his last days of life. And now it’s Zoe.

I keep crying at odd moments of the day. I can’t stop it, just overwhelms me, when I see her walking slowly behind Inara, and then sitting in the sunshine with her wings outstretched. She’s doing everything a hen does, except eat. She touches the food, wanting to eat, but for some reason, she cannot bring herself to do it.

It’s at times like this that I wish I didn’t spend every weekday alone. P is only at the other end of the ‘phone in London, but he might as well be on Mars for all the good he can do. He doesn’t love the hens like I do. If it were the cats, it would cut him to the heart as much as it does me right now. But he’s never been able to love the hens the same way. Which is all right, I love them enough for both of us. And he is good to them, digging up some worms for them at the weekend and talking to them. He cares about them, he just doesn’t love them.

The days drag on. I try to get on with things. I even managed to finish my essay for the OU and posted it. But nothing seems to matter. Certainly not the fact that it’s my birthday tomorrow. What do I care about a birthday, if my little hen is dying?

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Posted By Seren on March 16, 2009

My nerves are shattered. I really could do with a large drink, right about now. One thing I am certain of; Inara is not going to be allowed out of the hen run until after lunch. I don’t care if she kicks up the biggest fuss going, she is staying in until she’s laid her egg.

So, I let the girls out this morning as usual, around half past 9. I saw that while Zoe was waiting patiently at the gate, Inara was sitting just inside the henhouse, by the pop hole, where she could keep a watch. I thought she must have laid an egg, but when I checked she hadn’t. Now that is not unusual. What happens is that when she feels she really must lay, she rushes back to the henhouse and does what she has to do there.

But not today, oh no. I’d gone back into the house, all innocent, thinking all would be well and went online. But after a good while, I decided to check on the girls while I put the next load of washing on. After all, there are buzzards and red kites around here who wouldn’t mind making a meal of a nice, little fat hen. They’re safe from the cats, who are scared of the ferocious beak and claws of Inara, and always keep a respectful distance. I saw Zoe, wandering aimlessly around. Yes, I am still worried about her, so i made a mental note to soak some wholemeal bread in milk and see if she eats any of that. But I couldn’t find Inara. I ran all round the garden, up and down. (The garden is about quarter of an acre, laid out in “steps” as it slopes quite steeply.) I know I’m daft, but I called her name as I scuttled about. I checked the bonfire from yesterday, but it’s completely out, not even smouldering.

I did see our fluffy white cat, Morgan, up behind the field in front of the Conrah hotel, but not a sign of a silly black hen. I was getting very worried by this time and a little tearful too. The ground is wet as it hasn’t been warm enough yet to dry the dew and I landed a very nice cropper, just by the compost bins. My left knee went under me, but thankfully, since I had the operation a few years ago, I did not then have to manage to get myself to the A&E. I had some cuts on my left hand and some thorns stuck in, but nothing too serious. (I have to be careful of cuts as I have diabetes and can get infections so fast.)

Simba came over, nuzzling at me. Probably wondering what kind of funny game I was playing, and could he join in too? I was in tears at this point, but cuddling a floofy black kitty always cheers me up. So I managed to scramble up and set off again, calling for Inara.

By now, Zoe was hanging around a patch of lawn, near the stream that runs through the garden. I called Inara again, and she answered! The silly *&^) had wedged herself under a prickly bush beside the stream. She chattered away to me, quite happily, but was obviously not going to come out until she was good and ready. I told her about the new arrangements I had just decided on and then went back into the house. A little later, I spotted her on the bottom lawn with Zoe. Right, I thought, time to go egg hunting! I did mention that the bush is prickly? It is also full of all kinds of insects, is in an awkward place and right beside the stream. Of course, Inara had laid an egg there: I finally managed to grab it after some shuffling about and just managing not to tread on the snowdrops. I couldn’t just leave it there or it would go bad, or attract rats; and we have enough of those to be going on with, thankyouverymuch.

On my way back to the house with the egg, Simba decided that life was far too quiet and he should liven things up a bit. He’d dozed off on the edge of the outhouse roof. Why right on the edge, I will never know. But Simba did what Simba does: fell out of bed. Or rather, fell off the roof. He was fine, but the clatter and din he made finished what was left of my nerves this morning. I’m battered, bruised, have sticking plasters decorating my left hand and a sore knee from where I landed with a bump.

Can I go home now? Oh yes, I am home.

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Posted By Seren on March 15, 2009

(Yes, I am trying to post a little more to make up for all the posts I lost when wordpress at my blog!)

“They” forcasted rain this weekend and “they” were wrong! P said he had planned to spend the weekend indoors, maybe even find the missing Monopoly set that he’s sure is hiding somewhere in the barn at the back of the garden. But it was lovely, really warm in the sunshine. So he managed to get a lot done. I leave the heavy stuff in the garden to him, and I busy myself with watering the grapes in the greenhouse, doing a little planting in pots, tying up the raspberrys and trimming last year’s canes. That sort of thing. Well, i can’t kneel with the arthritis and my dodgy left knee anyway.

He noticed that the swing was looking a bit rough so he gave it a coat of pain. Looks much better now, though Simba was miffed as he couldn’t sit on it. He and Morgan both love to sit in the sunshine and swing. They are the fluffyest cats in the family, so perhaps that has something to do with it! P was carefully supervised by Inara and Zoe. Oh, and some lambs in the field were interested, but they didn’t dare get too close.

Yes, the lambs are back! Or rather, there is another batch of lambs. At first, I just saw one, all by itself with no friends to play with. Then there were two, then three, and suddenly, a whole lot of them, jumping around the field. I was watching them yesterday and a couple of them saw Simba. Their little faces were so funny, they didn’t know what to make of him. The mothers watched me carefully, but after two and a half years here, they know us now.

I am a little worried about Zoe. Inara has started laying again and we get one egg from her, every other day. But Zoe hasn’t even bothered. She looks a bit, well, odd. She seems to fluff up her feathers so she looks as if she were twice the size. I don’t know if she’s just feeling the cold still, or there is something wrong. I’d take her to the vet, but I remember that the late and still missed Kaylee died after a visit to him. Not that it was the vet’s fault, he’s a good chap. But hens are prone to dying through shock and stress. Zoe is not the easiest hen to pick up and examine either. If it were Inara, I could just go up to her and grab her and she’d be fine. But Zoe doesn’t like being touched.

This is why, when we get the four new hens, that I am going to handle them as much as I can for a while, to get them used to it. It really doesn’t help when a hen is skittish about being touched. Unfortunately, as Inara and Zoe (and Kaylee and the also late and missed River) were owned by Trish and Jim, who owned our house originally. We “inherited” them when we bought the house. So by the time we got them, they were already a year or two old. I think I’ll just have to keep searching the ‘net and see if I can work out what Zoe’s problem is. One thing, with the experience I had with Kaylee, I know she isn’t egg-bound, thank goodness. Perhaps she’s just older than I thought; I don’t really know how old they are.

Anyway, this will have to be enough for today. Or I’ll be typing in gibberish. Nos da.

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Tags: garden, hens, home

Posted By Seren on March 15, 2009

I’ve been noticing lately, that a word has gone missing from the English language. Now, I don’t know who has stolen it and I don’t care, I just want it back. Please would the person responsible put it back in the dictionary where they found it, no questions asked.

It was a fairly inoffensive word, sixth. It couldn’t be mistaken for anything, I don’t know, smutty, or rude. It was not that difficult to say, just “six” with a “th” at the end. You know how to say it, right? You just put your tongue behind your teeth, and say “th”. I was watching tv today, as you do, and the announcer told us about some programme or other that is coming up on the 26th of march. And could that chap actually say “sixth”? Could he heck as like. What came out of his mouth was “twenty sic”. “Sic”, is that even a word? Other than some Latin thing that means something like, let that stupid great glaring mistake stand because I meant to make myself look like a right numpty? When did it become normal to by-pass the “xth” and pretend it didn’t exist? That it is was just some figment of our imaginations, because everyone everywhere has been saying “sic” for sixth and we were too thick to know it until now?

And while I’m on the subject, what happened to “s”? Why does it have to be pronounced “sh” now? Was there a memo that said we had to pretend that there was an “h” hiding after the “s”? It’s an emperor’s new clothes of a thing, this. Adding letters to words, taking them away from others. Madness!

Well, I’m not standing for it. Nor am I going to sit down, kneel or sit for it. I want my “sixth” back and I want the “h” taken away from the “s” unless it’s needed there. British people do not all speak with one bastardised “estuary” (sorry, eshtury) accent. So just stop it right now.

That is all. Go back to your dictionarys and read, mark and inwardly digest. Thank you.

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Posted By Seren on March 14, 2009

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Posted By Seren on April 26, 2008

That’s what I can hear outside this afternoon. Himself bought a new lawnmower as he’d managed to kill the other one. Correction: the garden killed it! He ran over a tree stump and the old mower broke. So when we were out in Aber today, he bought a new one and a strimmer to go with it. So he’s out there, doing what he loves to do! Is it a man-thing, enjoying cutting the grass. Left up to me, I’d, well, leave it. I love the daisies and dandilions and buttercups and speedwell that grow in the grass. So I’d just let them grow.

I tried to take my laptop outside, hoping to do some blogging al fresco. But the light was not good enough to see the screen by. Or the screen was too dark, or something. Anyway, Simba and Jack thought I should play with them instead of looking at that silly thing. They’re probably right! Anyway, it’s now much later and I’m back indoors working on the desktop. Yes, I have two computers. Their names are Sheldon (desktop) and Sands (laptop). No prizes for guessing where I got those names!

The garden is looking lovely right now and less and less like Tish’s garde. She’s the lady who actually planted everything and formed the garden. But I’m less of a keen gardener than she was. I’m of the school of let it alone and if it’s meant to be there, it will grow. I can’t be doing with constantly trimming this and weeding that. I like weeds, especially the kind with pretty flowers. I don’t like “hot house” plants or the kinds of plants that need attention. I like the slightly wild look. I’m happy to prune now and then, pull up those horrible clinging weeds that suck the life out of everything and cut back raspberry canes. But that’s all.

I’m still planning to change the old vegetable patch into a herb garden. But I realised that I’m not going to grow so many herbs that the whole patch would be covered. So we’re going to lay turf in the middle and leave a two foot deep border around the outside for cooking herbs, lavender etc. L and I are trying to persuade Himself to let us leave one bit of lawn to grow wild, for the sake of butterflies and bees. He is an enthusiastic mower though, so I think we’re onto an uphill battle with this one.

Well, hopefully the rain will stay off so we can get out into the garden again tomorrow. We like to let the hens out while we potter around, and they equally potter about on their own bits of gardening. They’re doing very well at clearing the back of leaves, by scratching up the ground in search of bugs and worms. We always get bigger eggs the day after they’ve been out!

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Posted By Seren on April 25, 2008

I’m still not happy with my blog’s layout. (This refers to the original style I had.) It’s nice, and fits the whole stone thing, but, meh. Which reminds me, I never said why stone-field. A long, long time ago (cue flashback sfx) I started writing a novel called “The Stone Field”. It was all about the reincarnation of the Goddess Rhiannon’s son, Pryderi. There were horses, standing stones, an evil old woman who was trying to use Pryderi to her own ends, and our brave heroine who was trying to stop her. Oh, and a mysterious man who may or may not have been the real Pryderi; the other one being an evil spirit who was impersonating him. Sounds okay, doesn’t it? Thing is, I am the world’s worst procrastinator. I am great at coming up with really good plots, but crap at actually finishing what I start. I should have a medal, I’m that good at procrastinating.

Anyway, that’s the why of that. It’s a cold, grey day in Chancery and mizerly. (That’s not miserly as in Scrooge, that’s mizely as in drizzly.) I’ve fed the hens; one egg. I promised them some dried mealworms for tea as they just adore them. They’re meant for wild birds, and I probably should be getting live mealworms. But I just, y’know, couldn’t bring myself to do that. They love the dried ones though. It’s like crack for hens! We have the cats munchie-trained, so that they’ll come running if I shake the box of dried kibble. And now the hens are mealworm trained. If they’re outside and I want them back in the run, I just shake the mealworm box and they come racing across the grass! I love the way that hens run. They look like they have their arms behind their backs and have this funny bob and weave run.

Oh great, the air force are on practice runs overhead again. They fly really low and make a heck of a din. Funny thing though, the sheep just take no notice whatsoever. They don’t get freaked and the lambs have learned not to notice either. Freaks me out when they come racing just a few feet overhead, but not the animals. I don’t know what it does to the red kites though. Sometimes they come over so low I can practically read the name labels on the pilots’ uniforms. Okay, slight exaggeration. Heh! If I’m outside, I wave to them though.

Well, I need a cup of coffee and I have to sort the washing out. So bore da and have a good day.

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Tags: garden, hens, home

Posted By Seren on April 23, 2008

I live in a tiny hamlet called Chancery; or to give it it’s Welsh name, Rhyd-Galed. Which means “hard ford”. Our cottage has a name that I don’t really like, as it was a combination of the names of the people who lived here at least, oh, three or four owners ago. Originally, it was “Glan Dwr”, which means by the water. We’re thinking of changing the name. But as we don’t have a house number, it’s a legal matter. So far we can’t decided between Glan Dwr and my daughter’s suggestion, Swn-y-Nant. Which means “sound of the stream”. I like that one, as we have a stream that runs along the left side of the garden and under the road, to run along the back of the cottages over the road and away. (The “w” in Swn should have a little hat on, but I don’t know how to make that character.)

I love this cottage. It’s at least 200 years old and probably older. The ceilings are low, so it’s a good thing that none of us are giants! Various owners have added bits onto it. Originally it was just three rooms: a living room, a kitchen and a bedroom. Which is a lot more than the other cottages have. At least three of them, out of four others, have only two or three rooms. And that’s after bathrooms were built onto them.

But anyway, the sun is shining in Chancery. It’s still chilly inside the cottage, though with two feet thick stone walls that’s not surprising. There are sheep with lambs in the field nextdoor. They really are adorable and they’re coming up to the age when they’ll be curious about us, and the cats. Last year’s batch were funny, wanting to get a closer look at the cats, but still trying to obey their Mums and not get too close to those strange creatures. And what they think of us two legged objects!

P was almost offered a contract that meant he would be working in Aber. I know, too good to be true. I got all excited, thinking how lovely it would be to have him at home, actually every day, for a change. But he had to turn it down as the money wasn’t good enough. Ah well. It was a nice idea, but we’re okay as we are really. And what would I do with him home every day? I’d never let him do any work!

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Posted By Seren on April 22, 2008

So, this is my second attempt at having myself a “proper” wordpress blog. Let’s see if we can actually make it work this time. I had one before at a different domain, but I got sick and tired of all the darned spam posts. I’ll see if I can find a way to get rid of them this time round. I have plenty of blogs at places like LiveJournal and it’s clones and even one at wordpress.com. I’ve always had a hankering for a blog of my own, at my own domain. So, okay, first post, with nothing much in it. As is traditional, I’m sure. (Hmmm, I wonder what dooce.com had in her first post?) Onwards and upwards!

This was a post I mae last year and managed to save before wordpress ate my blog. I have a few of last year’s post which I will also add.

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