Girl goat

After a series of vicious incidents in the 1970s bush war, the few surviving smallholders in an area near Umtali were forced to leave their homes.  The evacuation of livestock had just been completed when a rather fine-looking goat appeared up on a mountain, above a sheer cutting overlooking the road.  Surmising, of course, that she had been left behind, I made inquiries, only to find that no one in the area owned goats, nor had she been seen before.

Well, she couldn’t stay there.  Apart from the fact that she could be killed for food or caught in cross-fire, goats need company and protection from predators.  Moving her to a place of safety, however, was easier said than done.

For a start she was in a military no-go area.  Civilians were not allowed to go up there, even to have a few words with a goat.

A greater problem was that she proved to be extremely wild.  Sometimes she came down to browse near the roadside, but at the appearance of a vehicle she was off up the mountainside, not to be seen again for a day or so.  For several days I studied her movements with binoculars.

The weather was dry and often hot.  There was a stream at the foot of the mountain, below the road which was a busy one.  Heavy timber trucks, road construction and military vehicles passed every few minutes.  Widely, she seemed unwilling to cross.  Instead, she went over the far side of the mountain, I think into a deep donga where there was reputed to be permanent water.  Somewhere on that side she spent her nights.

All this time I thought she was a billy.  I arranged for Wanda, the SPCA’s pretty little she-goat, to be brought along in their van.  The idea was that she would be led about in a casual way near the road within sight of the wild goat, talk sweet sexy talk to “him”, whereupon he, enchanted out of his mind by her outrageous beauty and provocative simperings, would overcome his nervousness and follow her to a place of safety.

Wanda wasn’t very co-operative.  While being led about she ate too much.  When she did say something it was with her mouth full, which, as you know, is not a good way to get a conversation going.  The wild goat, after an initial distant stare, walked off in disdain.  Only later, when I happened to get a closer look and discovered that “he” was a she, did I understand that scornful sneer.

Armed with a pistol I did some more tracking on the mountain until I found a reasonably accessible place that she appeared to pass fairly frequently.  To this place I scrambled with a container of water, an old bucket, a tin of grain, bran and molasses, and a block of rock salt.  When I slowed my car the goat, who had been within sight, bolted.  I hoped the smell of the molasses would guide her to my offerings.  Next day I was delighted to find that she had eaten all the food.

I did this every day.  Each time, as I left the parked car, I called out gaily, “Come on, girl!” hoping I wouldn’t be attracting undesirable elements as well as the goat, and kept it up all the way to the feeding place.  Once there I rattled tins, splashed water, sat a few minutes and came on down.

My friend Carol, a devoted worker for the welfare of animals, had a month’s leave and took over some of these daily visits, which was a great help, with petrol as well as time.  It would have been better had we been able to take food at the same time each day, but as terrorists were known to be in the area we varied our times as much as possible.

In time the goat waited until we actually parked before running off.  Later she stood at a safe distance and watched us with her head on one side and her long ears forwards.  I talked to her in her own language, which I spoke quite fluently at one time but was now a trifle rusty, and this helped to gain her confidence.  Carol, too, tried a few basic goat words, although once or twice, lacking a suitable phrase book, she said the wrong thing and drew a snort of alarm from our Girl Goat.

 With water now always available, the goat no longer made the long and dangerous journey to the far side of the mountain.  Three-quarters of the way up the sheer face of the cutting was a narrow ledge, only a couple of inches wide.  This was eroded in one spot, making a slightly wider shelf, and here she took to lying, her legs over the edge, while she placidly chewed the cud and watched the traffic far below.

She was often there in the morning when people drove to work, and in the evening when they returned.  Children on their way to school watched eagerly for her.  Several people worried about her safety.  One evening we received a desperate phone call from a stranger to the area who had driven by, to say there was a goat stuck high up on a cliff and that there was no way she could get up or down.  A block and tackle would be needed to rescue her.  The caller was assured that there was nothing to worry about – that two-inch ledge was Girl Goat’s highway!

Among those who noticed her was one of the men who had been forced to leave the area.  He slammed on brakes, got out of his car for a second look and exclaimed, “That’s my goat!”  About eighteen months previously, he explained, he had bought this goat and several others from a distant farm.  Two weeks later they were stolen.  Girl Goat, it seemed, had found her way back this far, and here remained.  Had she come out on the next hill she would have looked down on her former brief home, although by now she may have forgotten it, and there were no goats left there to entice her back.  When he tried to approach her she ran away, as she did from everyone.  He was leaving for Salisbury the next day and so left her legally in our hands.

 We persevered in our efforts to tame her.  We stayed by our cars while she moved, way up the mountain,  towards the food, keeping a wary eye on us.  When she was used to that we stayed on the mountain, each time a little nearer.

One day, when I thought  she was ready for it, I called her to the feeding place, put the grain out for her and sat down beside the salt block.  After about twenty minutes of watching me from a distance, she plucked up the courage to tip-toe nervously over and quickly lip up some of the grain.  Then she fled.

I sat there many times before I could so much as turn my head or move a finger without her bolting.  Carol took turns with me and found the same response.  Up until then we had been putting the grain down on a smooth patch of earth.  Now we decided to keep it in the half-tin so that we could gradually place it nearer to where we sat, and eventually hold it.

It took a while for Girl Goat to get used to the sound of the tin under her chin as she lipped and licked up the food.  When it no longer worried her we placed it a little closer.  The first time I put it down near my foot she studied me for a long, long time.  Then she reached out a forefoot, put it in the tin and hooked it back to a safe distance.

However, by now she firmly associated the tin with the food and soon allowed me to hold it while she ate.  Then Carol tried holding it with her fingers in over the edge, so the goat had to almost nuzzle her hand as she fed.  One would have thought that the next step, to slowly lift a forefinger an inch or two and touch her soft muzzle, would have been a small one.  But it took many, many attempts before she accepted this and stopped jerking back in fear.

There was speculation among the local people that perhaps this goat possessed a spirit, taken from some troubled person by a witchdoctor and placed on her.  Whereupon, they explained, she would shun the company of other goats (not mentioning that she would probably be chased from the herd with sticks and stones, which would account for her nervousness) and remain apart for the rest of her days.  If anyone killed such a goat, the spirit would settle on someone else, perhaps the person responsible for her death, who would come to great harm.

Certainly she was a strange goat.  Before making any move at all she would look sharply over her shoulder as if receiving instructions.  She would stare up the mountain for long, intense moments, giving Carol and I the creeps wondering what she could see up there, our constant fear being of terrorists.  She had a deep, knowing look in her eyes, as if she had seen it all and wasn’t to be fooled.

On several occasions she tried to communicate with us.  Once, while I was sitting at the feeding place, she looked intensely at my face with her head on one side.  Then, slowly and deliberately, she extended her forefoot and drew it back, making a long line in the earth with her hoof.  For a moment she admired her handiwork, then looked hard at me again, nodding, as if to say, “You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.  “I don’t understand.”

Twice she gave Carol her demanding stare, then reared up on her hind legs, presenting her flank to Carol.  Sometimes she spoke to me softly in goat language – which I did understand.

Because of her fear of the least flicker of movement when we were with her, I included a branch of bridelia leaves in my offerings.  She had no need of extra leaves but bridelia micrantha is a favourite with goats.  Leaves, I reasoned, move and swish.  If  I could combine movements of the leaves with movements of my hands she might come to realise that my hands were friends.  As I sat motionless she ate the grain, drank some water, licked the salt block, her eyes all the while on the leaves I held.  To encourage her I nibbled a leaf myself and after a moment she joined me.  We browsed together for a while.  Then I moved my hand to bend a leaf towards her, plucked another and offered it to her and turned the branches this way and that.

It worked surprisingly well and the very next day I was able to stand up and move around without her bolting off.  I went to some fig suckers growing nearby, called her in goat language and bent branches down within her reach.  She came quite fearlessly and ate them.  Sometimes she stood on her hind legs, reached up high with her forefeet and hooked branches down.

Carol and I, who had always visited her separately, now thought we should go together, for at the end of the exercise, neither of us would be able to catch her on our own.  Girl Goat, after some thought and counting of heads, seemed pleased enough to see her two friends at once.

The militia were getting more and more angry with us for going up there day after day, and it wasn’t a good feeling for us either.  But our plans were going so well we dared not jeopardise them by moving too hastily.  “Just keep the war off our backs,” we said, “while we get this job done!”

“Why all this trouble,” they once asked me, “just for a goat?”

“Because she’s alive,” I replied, “and she’s in need.  She’s in danger.”  Undoubtedly they thought I was bats.

We could now work on details for Girl Goat’s capture.  I knew we would have to get a collar on her.  To this end I began holding the food tin at shoulder level as I sat, so that she couldn’t see my hand moving up to scratch under her chin, along her jaw, and later, between her horns and along her neck.

It would have been so easy to dart her, but that equipment is reserved for larger animals than a half-breed Boer goat, and the mountain was far too steep to use game nets with safety.  We obtained a tranquilliser to put in her food, hoping the molasses would disguise it.  When the time was right, soon now, we would tranquillise her, get her off the mountain and return her to the flock where she was born.

We had now been working with her for two months and she had become an institution in the district.  the rains had come, the browse was lush and she was in fine condition.  Everyone delighted in her, our queen of the road.

Then a certain cruel, moronic individual, unworthy of the gift of life, shot her.

I passed her that morning and she was up there on her ledge watching for me.  An hour and a half later, when I came back to feed her, she was standing under a bush at the top of the cutting, her head hanging low.  I knew immediately that something terrible was wrong – and then I saw the 9mm cartridge case on the road.

With difficulty I climbed up until I could see the gaping wound on her foreleg, bleeding profusely, which she was licking.  She grew distressed when I tried to get nearer so I moved her food and water to a place that she could reach, put leaves for her and went to make a report.  We prayed that in her weakened state we might be able to catch her at last, but her trust in us was shattered; this was the hardest part to take.  She hid herself away and we could get nowhere near her.

The next day, to our relief, we could see the bleeding had stopped and she could move the badly swollen leg in a way that showed it wasn’t broken.  On the third day, after much searching, we found her in a very inaccessible place pressed against some rocks where she had sought shelter from a storm.  She looked terrible.  Her flanks heaved as she tried a small answer to my greeting.

We placed food and water as near to her as we could and she perked up a bit, licked her lips and made a move to come down.  Then she looked once, sharply over her shoulder in the old way – a habit she had given up as she had come trust us – and hobbled painfully off up the steep mountainside.  We could not find her again.  It was as if her spirit had said, “No, don’t trust them any more.  Come away – come away!”

Carol and I were heartbroken.  The Umtali Post reported the shooting and we had hundreds of calls, even from people who had never seen Girl Goat, expressing their anger and disgust.

For days we searched for her and watched the mountain through binoculars from every vantage point.  Where I wanted to look, in the donga on the far side, we could not go due to military activity.  I asked if the army patrols might report any sighting of her but we heard nothing.

Late one evening, fourteen days later, a neighbour phoned to say that she thought she had seen a goat above the old place on the mountain.  I didn’t dare believe her.  At six o’clock next morning a stranger rang.

“Is that Mrs Wylie?” he asked, laughter in his voice.  “You don’t know me but I just had to tell you I’ve seen the goat.  She’s back!”

My phone went wild for the rest of the morning.  I think every person who passed that way called me with the joyful news.  In the evening a man whose children were in hospital after a very bad car accident phoned to say he had seen her; he would call the hospital right away and tell the children.

“They’ll be thrilled!” he crowed.  “It’s the best news I could give them!”

For me, this alone was worth all the trouble and the danger.

Carol and I thought it would take a t least a month to regain Girl Goat’s trust in us.  This time I put the food, water and salt in another place. hidden from the road, easier to reach  and where we had some level ground to work on.  If Girl Goat wanted it, she would just have to come and get it.  She watched me with interest from a distance.  I was on my way down when I met her coming up so I returned with her and sat a while, greatly encouraged by her friendliness.

Her wound had healed well but for the first time I saw a big, raw scar on her side immediately behind the wounded leg.  She had come closer to losing her life than we knew.  Nine days later, as we held the tin of food for her and stroked her, with creeping fingers we buckled a strong yellow collar around her neck.  Over the next few days I accustomed her to small tugs on her collar, to the sight and smell of the nylon lead with which I would secure her, and the jingle of its metal clip.

Although still very shy she came when called, but took her time about it, nibbling at this and that and rubbing up and down on one of her precarious ledges.  There is a certain sense of insecurity when you sit in a no-go area singing loudly, “Come on, girl!” for twenty minutes at a stretch.  Warnings for us to get clear of that position become more intense.

On a Saturday morning, seventeen days after she had come back to us, we were ready.  Carol and I went up with the heavily tranquillised food, the lead, a blindfold and stockings to tie her legs.  Carol’s husband Arthur stayed in the car below as Girl Goat would still not allow anyone else near her.  She came to our call in her own sweet time, to our alarm leaving her ledge and walking along the middle of the road as if she was the chief engineer, before climbing up to us.

I couldn’t detect the tranquilliser in the food – but she could.  It took a long time and much encouragement before she had taken enough to feel drowsy.  I clipped the lead on her collar and tied the other end firmly to a tree.  The great danger was that she would stumble and fall down the mountain, perhaps taking us with her.

It took an hour for the tranquilliser to work.  We engaged her in conversation, offered her leaves and tried to calm her when she grew alarmed.  It was a long hour.  Eventually she grew drowsy enough for us to blindfold her and tie her legs with the stockings. Stalwart Arthur then joined us and with some difficulty we got her across his shoulders.  Girl Goat was no lightweight!

Step by precarious step, bracing Arthur against falling and holding the goat’s head, we inched down the mountain to the safety of the station-wagon where we laid her on a deep bed of hay.  Carol and Arthur got in with her and I drove us out to the farm.

There, as prearranged, we put her in a recovery pen, in a position where she could see her parent flock.  Next day she was reintroduced to her old billygoat friend and could talk to the others through the security fence.  Two days later she joined them, safe at last, her adventures over, and settled down as if she had never been away.

G.D.

I LIKE A DANE Because – he uses good judgement in what he does... doesn’t bark needlessly ... has a special understanding of children...  has very little doggy odour...  his coat  can be kept in condition with a few whirls of the brush daily...  learns easily... is big, but in proportion... his figure is a delight to the artist...  everything fits into the picture of animal beauty... is among the most graceful  of dogs in his movements... always has a regal appearance and bearing...  has been the companion of kings through the centuries but will give his life  to defend the poorest man if that man be his master.              “I like a Great Dane” Editor, Rhodesian Animal News

Dear Editor,

I really don’t know why you like Great Danes.  Mine is as thick as a fog in a blackout.

She wakes me at night to find out if I’m sleeping OK.  Then she rests her head on my chest and thinks my heart is floundering for her instead of for not enough space.

She’s had to learn to walk backwards because in some parts of the house she can’t turn around without knocking furniture over.

When I tell her to “Stay” she Stays moving.

You spend an hour stalking in the forest, quiet as mist.  Then when everyone stops to listen she shakes the mosquitoes off her ears with the sound of a tornado knocking wooden shingles off a roof.

She gallops down the mountain with unreliable brakes, counting heavily on passing trees to slow her down – so heavily that she looks like a turned-over truck with a rammed radiator.

To travel within the speed limit she comes down on her elbows and stomach – which does make a good firebreak if that’s where you want a firebreak.

When you take her out in the car you don’t see the P.O. behind you measuring your speed because your rear-view mirror is full of G.D.

She’s  not encouraged to help carry the shopping from the car because of this tendency to swallow things.  Like spaghetti hoops with the can still on.

She loves visitors and to make them feel at home she sits in their laps.  She weighs 130 lbs (or 58 ½ kilos).  Or both, seems like.

When she stands on the cat and he says “Ow!” in a trodden-on voice, she snuffles all over him like a vacuum cleaner instead of lifting her foot.

You can’t tie her up because there’s no place she can’t walk away with.

About the craziest thing you can do is run behind a bee, snapping at the sharp end.  She does.

Living with a Great Dane is like when you’ve just moved house and the crates are still in the middle of the rooms and in the passage and they’re too big to move so you have to fall over them and go around them except it’s more permanent than crates because you don’t get around to unpacking a Great Dane.

She’s a good guard.  She might even bite if she got mad enough.  Mostly she charges at intruders, bowls them over and buries them in the landslide in a single skilful move.

Packs of even four or five dogs find themselves heavily outnumbered by her.

When she barks, which is never at nothing, her voice rolls down into neighbouring territory like a cannon ball.

She’s polite and gentle.  She’ll take a bone from your hand with a mouth like foam rubber.  If she takes your hand too she always gives it back.

It’s easy to give her medicine.  You just open her mouth and post it.

The best thing about her is that she likes me and doesn’t mind saying so.  (At length.)  (At slobbery length.)

Otherwise I just don’t know how a person could like a Great Dane.

                                                                                    Sincerely

                                                                                    Jill Wylie

Kids and pups

“Ah, just look at them!” smiled the old lady patronisingly as she watched, from a safe, hygienic distance, my small son and his puppy playing in a mud wallow.  “Children and puppies just go together, don’t they?”

She was trite, but she was right.  In fact, during my brave efforts at rearing both these troublesome species I found a number of interesting resemblances in their upbringing.  For instance, they both need feeding one end, washing the other, and burping in the middle.

Puppies are usually born in a darkened place and only after their eyes are open in about ten days’ time do they gradually become accustomed to daylight.  It seems wrong that a human baby, born with eyes wide open, should be subjected to the harsh lights of the hospital theatre and nursery.

After their birth, I believe both babies and puppies miss, to some extent, the movement and pulse beat they were accustomed to as embryos – quite noticeable in the puppy orphaned at birth.  To some, however, the post-natal peace and quiet may come as a relief: I knew a litter of puppies that went hunting with their mother the day before they were born.  They were undoubtedly glad when the ride was over!

Puppies and babies twitch in their sleep.  Their tongues are set for sucking, even between meals.

At first they have only one way to say everything – they cry.  If it isn’t “time to pick him up”, some mothers leave the baby to cry himself out.  If a bitch does that she is accused of being a lousy mother.

When they can see clearly, both species become fascinated with your face.  One of the friendliest things you can do is bend down and let them touch your cheek.

I find that neither of them have a conscience when they are little.  “Wrong” is what gets them into trouble.  “Right” is everything  else.  “Guilt” is only fear of punishment, learned from experience.

It may not be such a good idea to try to force a kid or a pup to finish everything on the plate.  They seem to know how much they want and are perhaps better judges of what their systems find comfortable than we are.  Wanting to avoid the hassles some parents have of getting their youngsters to finish the first course before allowing them the tempting pudding, the only sweet I offered mine was fresh fruit. 

By the same theory, the puppies have raw meat.  Dogs don’t masticate.  They gulp their food, and raw meat slides down easily while cooked meat is hard and less digestible.  As they can develop a taste for cooked meat and refuse it raw, I offer them only raw meat until they are older.

Little females are easier to house/potty train than little males.

Kids and pups get up to every kind of mischief.  The brighter they are the more wicked the mischief.

I discovered that if you lower an infant or a puppy into a bath face up they stiffen with fear.  Turn them over, well supported so that their noses don’t get wet, and they hardly mind at all.  (This was by way of an experiment.  I would not normally let puppies get wet at such an early age.)  It proved to be kinder to bath the new baby this way until he got used to the water.

I am a great believer in giving kids and pups their own interesting toys.  Then if they are found with something valuable, breakable or dangerous, it can be quietly taken from them, with no fuss, and exchanged with a toy.  When they are older I get firm about, “No, don’t touch! – with “or else!” in my eyes.

It is great to be able to take the kid and the pup just about anywhere, but I do find they need some training.  When they have learned to walk to heel without pulling your arm off, to play quietly with a toy, touching nothing else unless offered to them, and, with allowances made for extreme youth, not to puddle on the floor, I can enjoy having them with me and I think this is good for them too.

            When I hear things like, “What a well behaved little dog/little boy” and “Of course, bring him along, he is never any trouble!” I feel it is worth the training.

Sometimes, kids and pups both need de-worming.  You can explain that to the mamma dog but it is quite unnecessary to mention it to your mother-in-law.

Puppies and kids will happily splash around in pools and puddles from dawn to dark.  But show them the bath tub and you’d think you were coming after them with a wire brush and caustic soda.

I think it is good for them to get used to each other, as well as to others of their own species, at an early stage.  Loyalty can grow between a child and a dog of a quality that is richer, more intense, generous and lasting than either are able to give to members of their own kind.

I admire plucky puppies and kids that stand up for themselves, but I’d hate mine to be the ones to start a fight.

Looking back on it, I see three bright milestones: when they are reliably house-trained, when they have finished teething, and when they get some road sense.

With relief you see them through one difficult “phase” after another and suddenly they are grown.  The kids kiss you goodbye and stride away to their own lives’ beckonings, and dogs grow old too soon – too soon.  And then you could wish them back again, for all their puddles and boisterous games, their teething, teasing, tears and squabbling; the hours and the objects left scattered in their wake; their little muddy footprints all over the house and all over your heart.

Some kids never grow up...

For all the similarities, no two children, no two puppies, are quite the same, even in the one family.  The guide-lines to their upbringing need to be tuned to suit the individual.  But I believe that all of them – the strong, the weak, the bold, the nervous, the difficult and the amenable – grow best if they have a stable, thoughtful home, discipline and consideration, good food, and good fun, and most of all, love.

            Love is the food and the warmth of their little lives, the security, the companionship and the caring, without which they are impoverished, no matter how balanced the diet, how modern the housing.

            Love is a soft collar, a bright necklace, clasped upon itself.  they who are loved will be loving; and to be loving is to be loved.

When the cat won't eat

What are you THINKING???

 Some animals are extremely fussy about their food, showing individual preferences that, not being sanctioned in any book available, must be worked out and catered for by the exasperated and often worried owner.

Cats are amongst the most annoying in this respect.  (There were those lions up Tsavo way in Kenya, for instance, who would only eat people – and that was very annoying.)

Of course, we should know our domestic animals well enough to spot immediately when they really are ill.  The puzzling thing is when the Cat of the House comes in when expected, looking perfectly well, turns his back on the company, puts his nose in the air, and refuses to look at his supper.  Or he comes waltzing in, tail up and smiling, takes one look at his dish and marches out.

Before rushing him to the vet, there are a few points that might first be checked out.  He could, of course, have eaten a dirty great mouse earlier, and only wandered in at supper-time out of habit.  In that case, by the time you’ve given up coaxing him, put his food back in the fridge, washed the dish and switched out the lights, he’ll probably be hungry again and demand his dinner – at room temperature.

Maybe he’s found fault with the meat. If it is mince, it may be too sticky, or too slushy, or have too much fat in it – a point to watch in summer especially.  Perhaps it is slightly sour.  Mince goes off pretty quickly, but even fresh mince may have a faint smell of boerewors or sausage to it.  (Change to a butcher who has a separate mincer for steak.)  This taint is often unacceptable to a cat, but may not be noticed sufficiently until the meat has been kept a day or so in the fridge.

If the meat was chopped, maybe the knife still smells vaguely of onion, or the blade is tarnished.  Perhaps the board it was chopped on wasn’t absolutely clean or properly rinsed after being washed.  Letting it drain off in the sun warps the board eventually but keeps it smelling fresh.  Perhaps the hands that prepared the food smelled too strongly of soap or hand-cream.

Can you believe this DISH?

It could be that the dish is at fault.  It may not be quite clean, or smell of detergent or dishcloth.  Or the new dish - but it has such pretty flowers! - may be too deep, so that the cat has to touch the last of his food with his nose and chin to get it off the bottom.  In this case he may only eat the top half.  Perhaps the dish has warped, and moves or rattles as he eats, or it was unintentionally sort-of slapped down in front of him – and if that’s how you feel about it, he will go and eat elsewhere – so there!

An unfamiliar noise or disturbance, even at a distance, can put a cat off his food.  He will probably come and ask for it later when the atmosphere is more conducive.

Or it could be that today, just because you are in a hurry, he wants to be fed by the fingers, morsel by morsel.  This is one of our cat Bounce’s things, but he is twenty years old so we humour him.  Or, when you’ve got everything so clean you hardly know your way around, he wants to eat off the floor.

When the food is not to her liking, our foundling Siamese, Yes-I-Am, shakes her paws at it, one-two-three-four, as if to rid herself of all possible contamination.  Bounce turns aside, sits with his paws sternly together, sinks into his several chins and waits for someone to act upon his disapproval.  Old Boycott slowly, deliberately, and symbolically, covers it up.  That’s what he thinks of that.

Perhaps your problem cat has a secret source of supply, of a class he would not deign to sniff at if you offered it to him – or he’s playing the Beautiful Cat Abandoned routine to the soft-touch lady down the road who feeds him fillet.

A more serious consideration is the possibility of hairball.  Chemists or vets sell excellent preparations for this.  Or he is eating lizards to which he could become addicted: lizard addiction can put a cat right off his food, or cause him to eat with gusto but remain thin, or to eat and promptly bring it back up.

This vomiting, incidentally, can occur merely because the cat eats too quickly, in which case chop his meat into bigger chunks to slow him down; or because of worms.  If it is some time since you de-wormed him, consider dosing him for tape, round and hook worm.

In the end, when you have thought of everything and done everything, and the vet says there is nothing wrong with him, and he still won’t eat, it’s maybe time to tell that cat, “Chum, you either take it or leave it.”

He’ll leave it.  He’ll walk out on you.  He’ll stalk out on you and won’t come back for a day and a half; but don’t worry, he’ll pitch up again.  After all, he employs you as housekeeper, and you probably do your best, and honest help isn’t that easy to find these days.  Well, you are honest, aren’t you?  Has he ever caught you stealing his dinner?

Who needs humans for food anyway?

And you know that a cat

will eat this and not that

and this today

tomorrow may

be that.

A cat

‘s like that.

***

Nervousness in dogs

Nervous puppy?

It is often said that “nervous dogs are made by nervous people,” which rather makes it sound as if the owner is entirely responsible for any nervousness in his or her animal.  This, of course, is not strictly true.  Certainly if an owner is nervous, either by nature or on a specific occasion, his dog may well be jittery too.  On the other hand, highly nervous animals can be found among the most stable of families.

It would be more accurate to say that bad-tempered people make nervous dogs.  If an owner is cross with any member of the family, the dog will often become terribly worried that anything he may do, or may not do, might add to his owner’s displeasure.  And if the owner is constantly upset, perhaps at the world in general, the dog will be constantly on edge.

In a great many cases nervousness in dogs is the result of inbreeding and hereditary traits, in which case you really are up against something.  It is wise to avoid such animals.

Some nervousness in little puppies is to be expected.  If the adult dog barks and the puppy dives under the bed, that is just what he should be doing.  With encouragement and experience and size the puppy will grow in confidence, until he feels big enough to stand with the adults.

It must be realised that a degree of nervousness is necessary in a dog to make a guard of him.  This is easier to understand if we can understand why he barks in the first place.  Except for the occasional loner, a dog thinks in terms of his or her pack, to which there is often intense loyalty.  You and your family are, or should be, the “pack”.  (If the dog doesn’t think you are worthy she may form a pack with neighbouring dogs instead.)  You, as owner and trainer, are the pack leader.

When something worries the dog, he barks a warning to his pack.  The pack reacts.  It is up to the leader to show the members what is considered worth such a warning, and what to do about it.  If this principle is ignored the dog may quickly get into the habit of barking at anything and everything, just for the heck of it.  He is then of no more value as a reliable guard than an alarm system that is activated by every passing breeze.

The dog who is not worried about anything – the friendly one who loves everyone and imagines everyone feels the same, or the placid one who won’t bother to rouse himself unless personally threatened – will not be much good as a guard.  Against this is the highly nervous dog who, instead of barking, whines and hides away.  This is not much good from our point of view but an alert pack leader would take it as a warning anyway.

In all cases of nervousness there are several things one can do:

Trust is everything: Leroy and Sam

 1.  If possible, delve into the dog’s past and find out what she has been through.  There may have been some accident, some mishandling, some thoughtless action or abuse that could be the root cause of her nervousness and which can be overcome with care and thoughtfulness.

2.  Deworm him.  Round and hook worm yield to one type of medicine, tapeworm to another.  Your vet will advise you.

3.  See that his diet is right.  In simple terms, a growing dog must have muscle meat (which includes heart) as the major portion of the diet.  Proprietary pet foods, sadza (mealie meal), vegetables, scraps etc, form the lesser portion.  Once he has finished growing these portions can be reversed, with meat being the lesser.  After the puppy stage, extra milk, beaten raw egg, vitamin and mineral additives are beneficial but not absolutely necessary if the main diet is sound.

4.  Do not give the dog white bread.  White flour in any quantity causes hysteria in dogs.

5.  Add a bit more fat to the diet.  Do this gradually, experimenting, and don’t overdo it.  Sometimes this is all that is needed to overcome mild nervousness.

6.  Administer calcium.  In a readily absorbed form calcium is a nerve food as well as possessing the better-known properties benefiting bones, teeth, gums, and the circulatory and digestive systems.  All these dietary attentions simply build up the dog’s sense of strength and well-being, and therefore a feeling of self-confidence in the face of possible threats.

7.  Build up the dog’s confidence generally.  While it may not always prove possible to overcome long-standing nervousness in a mature dog, with a younger animal love and thoughtful handling can achieve wonders.  Calmly reassure him and encourage him as you would a frightened child.  In short, trust is crucial.  Be predictable and consistent in your commands and discipline at all times, and much nervousness will melt away.

8.  Try to isolate at least one of his fears.  Then subject him to small, gradually increasing "doses" of it until he gains an “immunity”.  If, for instance, he is afraid of loud bangs, such as gunfire or fireworks, subject him to small bangs far away.  Gradually, over a period of time, increase the intensity of the noise, remaining at each level until he is comfortable with it.  When a reasonable intensity has been reached, the next step is to gradually bring him closer.

            It helps if he is allowed to examine the source of the noise immediately afterwards – the unloaded gun, the popped paper bag or balloon – while you give a muted imitation of the bang.  This is the same principle used by a mother when her toddler is startled by a loud noise; she picks him up to reassure him, points out the source if she can and exclaims lightly, “Bang!  Big bang!”  Only with a dog your imitation would have to be better – less verbal – than that!

Perhaps the dog is afraid of other dogs.  If so, take him to where he can see and hear others, at a safe distance so that he doesn’t feel threatened.  When he feels all right about that, take him closer.  Eventually select nice-natured individuals of the opposite sex to meet, and go on from there.  Local kennels are ideal for this kind of training.

How do you get him to the kennels when he is afraid of the car?  Let’s tackle that one.

            Park the car near the house, put his regular blanket on the seat, toss in a book for you and a handful of biscuits for him and briskly, without fuss or pleading, pop him in the car before he knows what is happening.  Get in with him, leaving a door or two open, give him the biscuits, reassure him and sit with him a while.  Relax.  Read your book, as if lounging in the car is a normal, pleasant thing to do.

            When you have done this several times and he is quite happy about it, start the engine but don’t go anywhere.  The next step is to drive to your gate and back, just a few yards.  Next, drive to somewhere nearby where he can get out for a romp.  Give him a tidbit when you get home again.

            If, in the middle of all this, you have to get him to the vet, try to use someone else’s car while you hold and reassure him, so that he isn’t, at this delicate stage, put off getting into your own car again.  Take up the lesson in your car without delay.

Storm coming - try knitting...

 Fear of thunder is a common problem and you can’t always rely on storms to keep their distance until your dog gets used to them.  Every young animal, wild or domestic, experiencing his first noisy thunderstorms, is afraid.  The attitude of the mother will show him that she too has heard the noise but that it is nothing to worry about.  This is his only guidance until he finds out for himself that the mother was right.  A sensitive puppy without this guidance may grow up afraid.

            About the only hope we have of overcoming this fear, even in a grown dog, is to try to duplicate this attitude of the mother.  You can hold a puppy in your arms, comfort and calm him, play with him.  A grown dog is more difficult.  If he dives under the bed don’t haul him out.  Rather sit down near him on the floor, do your nails, knit, smoke a pipe, chat to him, hum a tune – anything casual.  And when it is all over, sit on a moment longer, then get up lazily and let him come out in is own sweet time.

If you acquire a puppy, why wait to see if he will be nervous or not?  During those first few noisy storms I sit with all my young animals – kitten, puppy, jackal, civet, fawn, mongoose, bushbaby, whatever, and have no problems later.  In fact, with a new puppy I implement all the ideas I have suggested here, and others on similar lines, as a routine part of bringing her up.  It is well worth it.  We try to prepare our children to meet and manage life’s inevitable problems.  Why not our animals too?

To analyze a bark

Almost every day there are letters in the Press complaining about the nuisance of dogs barking at night, a matter that never seems to be resolved.  With a little understanding the answer is simple.  Everyone groans about the sleepless nights and the dog fights, seen from the human point of view.  But has anyone thought of the dog’s point of view, except to surmise that he is having a roaring great time out there at everyone’s expense?

To understand his angle we have to analyze a bark.

First: The Guarding Bark

            A dog barks to warn his pack of possible trouble.  It is then up to the pack leaders to decide if they should fight or flee.

            The dog, in spite of being messed around by humans for generations, is still basically a dog.  And our family – the other dogs, the cats, the kids, the cook, the lot – are his pack.  You and I are the pack leaders, so it is up to us to decide if our dog is barking necessarily or unnecessarily.

            It is totally unfair to expect a young pup to take up guarding duties.  If he hears a dog bark he will like as not dive under the bed.  This is exactly as it should be.  If there is trouble the last thing a pack wants is a load of puppies underfoot.

            Later, as he grows in size and confidence, he will take up his position on the defence line.  You can encourage him by holding him in your arms and taking him out to the scene of activity and making soft woofing noises yourself.  In this way he understands that it is good to bark, while the safety of your arms tells him there is nothing to be afraid of.

            Then he will start to bark at many things.  But make no mistake about it, a young puppy never barks at absolutely nothing.  This is a habit picked up later.  At his age it is always something.  Now you must go to him each time and see what he is barking at.

            If it is something important you encourage him by going forward with him, making woofing noises yourself and growling under your breath.  This need only be loud enough for him to hear and not your neighbour who might think you are around the twist.  At this stage, believe me, it is much easier for us to talk dog-talk than to expect an uneducated puppy to understand English.

If it is nothing important you slouch away, ultra-relaxed, rubbing up his fur: “Ahh, c’mon, it’s nothing!”  Okay, maybe you do feel like someone overacting the tramp in a coat two sizes too big, but he will get the message quicker that way than if you call him off sharply or walk away smartly, movements which will keep him on the alert.

In this way, and it doesn’t take long, I have taught my dogs that while they should wuff and gruff at anything that might need my attention, they must only bark hard at other dogs and people – our chief problem in our wildlife sanctuary.

Thus, if they wake me at night, my options are reduced to a minimum.  For instance, if there’s a python or a pigeon-toed porcupine nosing around the house, I want to know about it, but only up as far as my elbow.  I don’t want to go leaping out with the gun and take up maximum defence measures just for that.  On the other hand, if it’s a bandit I don’t want to be caught leaning on my elbow thinking it’s only a p. or a p-t p.  The level of the bark’s intensity will let you know which is which.

Like so many aspects of dog-training, once you have got one animal trained the others tend to follow suit, and puppies, like all kids, try to copy the older ones.  It is often even easier to teach all this to an adult dog if he or she is a good pal of yours.

I am astounded when I hear people maintain that a pack of dogs constantly barking round the house at night is a deterrent to thieves.  All too often this just is not so.  You can bet that the average urban thief does quite a bit of reconnaissance before tackling a job and he is quick to see which people pay no attention to the barking of their dogs.  Then, especially if he has worked there at some stage and feels fairly sure the dogs will not actually bite him, the noise they make is a good cover for his own.

It is my firm belief that the urban dog should be in the house at night, for several reasons.  Until he is thoroughly reliable all exits should be closed to him and all interior doors open, if possible including your bedroom.  Then, when someone reaches through the fanlight the dog’s jaws are right there where needed to welcome the unwelcome, instead of him raging helplessly outside while the thief has free run of the house.

A second reason is that it is common practice for a member of a gang to climb a suitable tree and make cat-like noises, attracting all the free-running hounds for streets around, and who is going to get up to stop them barking at a cat?  Hence a lot of houses are left unguarded.

Another ruse, and a reason why we find homes more readily these days for female than for male dogs, is to trot a bitch in season quietly down the street, leading all the males off like a pied piper; again, unless you own a bitch, the house is left unguarded.

Another reason is that a dog left out all night in the yard is going to get bored and be tempted to bark at all manner of things just for diversion.

Nor is it so easy to poison your dog if he is in rather than out.

Any adult dog, unless very old or sick, should be able to last from say, 10 pm to 6 or 6.30 am without having to go out.  The first few nights, if this is a new routine, might be restless but if the dog is reassured and not snarled at he will soon settle down.  And dogs actually like being with us at night.  Given absolute freedom of the entire establishment we find most dogs elect to spent much of the night in our bedroom.

All things considered, keeping your guard dog in at night is surely a far superior system than having him outside, bored and bawling, one moment racing down the avenue yipping, “Bushbabies! Bushbabies!” the next minute roaring at the back fence yelling, “Pigs! Pigs!” then raging at the door shouting, “Thief!  Thief!” and finding that no one is listening to him any more.  Except your neighbour who finally yells at you across the street, “Why the hell don’t you keep your dogs quiet?”  And you snarl back, “Not my dogs – I never hear ‘em.”  See what I mean?

Farm dogs with outbuildings to guard must, of course, have access to them.  But by the same token, if they bark at nothing and everything they are not being much help to the farmer.

The bottom line is this: as pack-leader you are expected to respond and to guide, to teach what is appropriate to your needs and situation, and to be consistent yourself in your attentions.

"Well, are you coming to help or not?"

 Second: The Troubled Bark.

This is usually a hard bark-bark-bark, unvaried in tone or texture unless it develops into a howl, and nearly always means a dog is in trouble.  (Spaniels, however, tend to bark this way naturally.)  Someone nearby should check this bark out, or call the authorities to do so.  It should not be confused with the excited, constant barking when dogs have something up a tree.  When a dog barks with his head as far back as it will go – meant to carry the distress signal as far as possible – a rather different effect is heard.

Third: The Party-line Bark

We all know this one.  The dog sings out gaily, “Woof! Woof-woof-woof-woof! Woof?” up and down the scale.  Further up the road his pal, or pals, reply.  This can go on all night.   It is often a result of boredom, and boredom at night is usually because of lack of regular, thorough exercise and attention by day.  I do not believe a dog should be allowed to hog the night like that any more than our kids should be allowed to hog the phone all day.  By all means allow him to say his little piece, but by 10 pm it’s time say, “Okay chum.  Lights out!”

There are, of course, many other kinds of bark but these are the main disturbing ones.

Some people are shocked to hear me say my dogs are my servants but it is true.  They are my servants and my very dearest friends.  As my servants they are expected to submit to discipline, turn out for the job when needed, do as they are told, work enthusiastically, keep the place clean, keep noise down to a reasonable level, not over-use the party-line and not beg overtime (in tidbits) for every little thing.

            As my dearest friends they are lavished with love and laughter, good food, good grooming and good exercise.  And I think I get more in return from my dogs than most people I know get from theirs.  So many folk miss out on the rich, nuanced, companionable relationships that are possible – as well as the most truly useful.

Wanting only to participate and to please...