"Can you not roll in sheep poo?" and other tales

Are sheep colour blind? Seriously are they? I imagine as country type I should Know stuff like that, I don't though, so I ponder and ask. So if anyone knows, let me know, even Google doesn't seem to know and Google knows like totally everything.

The reason for my question? It's OK don't worry it's not like I've become some crazed sheep stalker just wondered based on recent sheep activity. Picture the scene, me and scruffy dog out for our prosaic lunch time wander, approaching the top field and saw, oh joy electric fence, no sign of animals though so that's fine. So we continue our rather prosaic wander or rather I Do. It took a few minutes before I wondered where's the damn dog. A quick look over the shoulder showed me where she was, having a roll, in , oh yes you guessed it, sheep poo. What's a girl to do? Well I approached it in the highly sane way of reading the dog the riot act. "Seriously, do you have to do it, do you, rolling in sheep poo, ffs Lucy I mean, rolling in sheep poo, wtf". It went on for some time. It went on until I became aware that the dog, who was happily wagging her tail was looking past me. She was doing this because some bored working from home village bloke was approaching from behind. He was chortling, he presumably had heard my full sheep poo related rantings. Oh dear.

Decided to confine contact with village bloke to a vague grimace and plodded on, with a very happy scruff dog in tow, after all in her mind she smells damn fine. Trust me you only realise how pongy sheep poo is when your dog has rolled in it.

And what of the sheep? Ah well they had been sheltering behind the hedge at the top end of the field but emerged when they saw me and scruff bag and decided to follow us, yep all of them, sheep like following stuff, other sheep mainly bu tin this case scruff bag. Not sure if it was because she was exuding "aura de sheep poo" but it seemed they'd decided she was their spiritual sheep leader, even though she's ginger. Which is the reason for the are sheep colour blind question. Problem is now, every time we cross the field it's the same, followed by sheep, all of them. Will have to buy a Bo Peep hat at this rate.

Run Rabbit Run

Country girl has always had a fondness for rabbits, possibly as her first pet was a rather chunky black bunny.

Some thoughts on rabbits

Living in the country its problematic to like them, particularly given the veritable hatred that farmers have for them (those holes can be problems for the cows apparently). There are the regulars who like to kill them of course, generally accountants and stockbroker types with a bloodlust or weird yokels. Quite why sending a terrier down a warren is something that grown men should consider acceptable is quite beyond me.

In view of my quaint opinions, Pappa Country Boy tends to warn me now when neighbouring farmer typee has consented to a kill so that I can avoid the area.

Initially I thought this was rather sweet. That he was mindful of my animal hugging sensibilities. It transpired however, one sherry fuelled Sunday that he was worried about

a)the fact that Scruffbag slightly resembles a fox and one gun happy local loon may apply bullet to dog and/or

b)that Scruffbag being some percentage terrier may herself feel the need to join in some rabbit hunting, in which case I would at the very least withdraw her Bonio privileges and possible cart her straight back to the sanctuary and/or

c)having heard about an "incident" after the kill my first year living here, Pappa was concerned about protecting the local gun toting loons from little moi.

"How come?" I here you cry. Well in summary, Country girl and Scruffbag walking past the pub, rabbit killers sitting outside having pints, (knew they were rabbit killers from presence of rabbits(dead), terriers (a bit bloodied and hyper), guns (yes indeed) and combat wear (no idea perhaps they think it looks good on them?).

Anyway, bunny killers clearly wanted female attention and attempted to attract passing Country Girl's, who promptly ignored them - well I would, my name isn't babe and I'm not a dog so don't respond to whistling. Sadly Scruffbag does and at least gave them a wag and pulled towards them.

At this point, me dragging her away, still ignoring bunny killing blokes a particularly gross ginger one said something along the lines of "what sort of fucking dog is that, I might shoot that thing".

The wrong thing to say? Yes indeedy and he was treated to a rather Mancunian version of my thoughts on his bunny murdering and general inbred lack of intellect before I stomped off.

Anyway an acquaintance of Poppa Country Boy's relayed the deeply amusing tale to him and he off course guessed that mad girl with scruffy dog was little me. End result those bunny killers now not allowed anywhere near Poppa's land and neighbouring farmer typee not impressed by their lack of courtesy to a young lady has also told them to desist. (he gets his son and mates to sort it now - don't even get me started on my views on this one as he took his four year old to a kill).

Anyway that's that bit explained.Right where were we? Oh yes and /or

d) despite being a true country born and bred type Pappa Country Boy is a tad cuddly and really doesn't like bunny killing himself.

As much as I disapprove of the sport, or the cruelty increasingly I do understand that they can be a problem if numbers aren't kept down. A true dilemma for me.

The other side however of the bunny death debate is that similarly it is sadly not unusual for Country girl to stumble across a bunny with myxamotosis (its on Wiki if you really want to know but its truly horrid) and the dilemma is then of course that the kindest thing is to put them out of their misery. Country boy has done this in the past but would never do it in front of me of course. But for the record despite my initial horror I actually applaud him for having the courage to do it , a true act of kindness rather than leaving them to die an agonising death over days if not weeks.

This weekend (and the point of this tale which has rather deviated was an occurrence this weekend).

Sunday of course, so off for Sunday dinner. I was dawdling rather, taking snaps of the orchard and blackberries - yes I do need to get out more), partly to delay the impending enforced sherry fest.

Rabbit Rescue

Then it happened, I heard a frenzied squeaking, looked up and saw a whirling ball of fur speeding down the orchard. The squeaking was quite ear piercing and definitely a sign of something being hurt. Scruff bag had heard it too and was running in the direction of the fur ball. What could I do? something had to be done, I shrieked at Scruffbag and the as yet unidentified fur ball and ran after it. Country boy came running too and beat me to the fur bundle. My shrieks continued (loud enough it transpires to move Mamma Country boy to leave the car racing on TV and come see what was happening).

I had Scruffbag back under control, though she was still hyped having seen fur which let's face it she wanted to chase. My screams and the presence of Scruffbag and Country boy meant the fur ball split in two. One half ran off, a blur of brown, identified by country boy as a stoat (should have guessed that they were the nasty ones in Wind of the Willows weren't they??). The other half just lay there on the ground. I rushed over still shouting at Scruffbag to leave while Country boy checked it was OK, standing rather pointedly to obstruct my view just in case it wasn't). But the second half of the fur ball was fine, a bit dazed and confused but otherwise fine. He was duly picked up by Country Boy to check over and confirmed as just fine.

With camera still in hand I took a snap, (no flash of course can't scare bunny), and here he is below:



We parked him back on the grass and after a little rest and a chomp of grass he scampered off. And we scampered off too, mainly to reassure Momma Country Boy that we weren't having a domestic in her orchard.


TTFN.

Digger,Digger,Digger!!

Country girl had a naughty glint in her eye on rising this morning. Thankfully the builder recognised that look and realised that she wasn't giving him the glad eye but gazing longingly at his shiny little friend, the digger.

(actual Digger shown below)



"Digger's arrived princess" - yes indeed it had. The P word again (noted by country girl of course. Mental note made and one less choccy digestive she thinks). I ventured a "Can I ...?" but like some warp speed mind reading genius his retort was "No love, can't have a go, not allowed, specialist equipment this".

Humph, well, country girl not best pleased and did what she does when she can't threaten disciplinary action or make someone redundant or even worse make them attend six sigma training for the 9 billionth time. What was it? Pout, a big pout. A full bottom lip jobby, just like she used to try on her dad to get her own way (he got wise and laughed eventually, think I was about 21).

And as that clearly didn't work started the charm offensive "Tea?", "Cracking love".

Country girl seems to say that a lot these days. So off I went "Tea time is me time" merrily dancing in my head (yeah right). Still looking lovingly through the window at the digger, if only.

It was then that country girl spied Cooper (camp psycho cat for those of limited attention span). Cooper had decided to play stalk the digger, not quite sure what he was planning to do with it. Certainly couldn't lop its head off and hide it in the coal shed as is his usual modus operandi. So he had to be rescued, or rather grappled to safety much to the amusement of the builders (I was actually tying to protect them) and much to the annoyance of Cooper. Who has thankfully now ended his campaign to get let out again and joined me on the sofa for a sulk.

So here we are, a petulent princess, pouty psycho cat and a love struck scruff bag (she makes eyes at the builders).

Word of the digger has spread we are expecting a visit from Ginger Dave who wants me to look at his cv, yeah right, I know its my digger he's after. They better not let him have a go or well I'll set the cat on em.

TTFN