Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  Knowing we needed to stop the bleeding, I tried to phone Manuel but there was no answer. So I decided to dash back to the town, and look for him. In any case I would have had to go and collect him to bring him back.

  When I got to the surgery, there was no sign of Manuel, and I again tried to phone. Still no answer. I tried another vet in town but he was not there either. I was now in panic mode and decided that it was more important to get back home so we could try to stop the bleeding, and hopefully get the baby up and feeding in those crucial first hours.

  When I returned, Lorna was a bit distressed to see that Manuel was not with me, but I explained that I had looked for both vets, there was no sign, so I had made the decision to get back and try to stop the bleeding.

  After looking online again, there were instances cited of people pegging the wound closed. So I found a plastic bag clip, sterilised it in hot water and iodine, and used that to seal the wound. Thankfully it did manage to stop the bleeding although we were unclear how much blood she had lost.

  Our next job was to get some colostrum into her if she was going to have any chance of surviving. We got hold of Lily, checked her for milk and there was some there. Slowly we managed to milk her into a plastic jug and then used a syringe to feed it to the baby, millilitre by millilitre. Every half hour or so we did this until it started to get dark, then we tended to them every hour during the night.

  At one stage in the night, Lily’s mothering instincts seemed to kick in and she was nudging at the baby, trying to help it find the ‘milk bar’, as it tends to get called. We looked at each other and smiled, hoping that mother nature would kick in for us, and things would be okay. It was 5 am and I was exhausted, knowing that I was probably going to have to drive and get Manuel later that morning so decided to have a couple of hours sleep.

  Lorna couldn’t bring herself to sleep; she didn’t want me to go out and find the baby dead and have to come back and tell her, so she stayed up and checked on them. At about 7 am, Lorna came down and woke me up.

  “I don’t think she is going to last much longer,” she said. “She’s gone very weak, and her breathing has changed. I think we just need to try and make her as comfortable as possible until she goes.”

  I got dressed and went outside to be with Lorna, not wanting her to go through it on her own. When I saw how the baby was breathing and unable to lift her head, I realised Lorna was right, and we sat with her and Lily, waiting for the end. Lily just sat next to us, looking forlorn. I think she probably knew; she was just waiting too.

  Hours passed, and every so often the little one’s eyes would close and the breathing would stop, only for it to kick in again a few seconds later. She certainly was a fighter. After a few hours, I managed to speak to Manuel and Lorna and I decided that it would be best if I went to collect him, and at least we could put the baby to sleep: it was going on too long now, and it wasn’t fair.

  As I was driving home with Manuel and was explaining that all we really wanted was for him to give her an injection to put her to sleep, Lorna phoned to say that she had died. I could hear the tears in Lorna’s voice, but was glad the decision was taken out of our hands.

  On our return, Lorna explained that she had been sitting on the floor with Lily and the baby, and the baby had taken one last breath, and a cough, and that was it, she was gone. Lily seemed to know immediately and let out a distraught cry - that was enough to make Lorna cry.

  Manuel had a look at the baby and tried to explain to us that because she was so premature she had very little chance, she would not have been fully developed. We decided to give Lily some antibiotics, more as a precaution than anything else. As Lorna was holding her, I said, “Look, she’s crying.” Lily had a single tear rolling down each cheek. I have never seen or heard of that before in an animal, and it was particularly heart-wrenching, as it was the second time it had happened to Lily.

  I took the body of the baby away and buried it out on our land, away from the house. This time, Lily knew what had happened; we didn’t have the horrible humming and crying every time we went into the paddock. Although she was quiet for a few days, she seemed to recover well. After further research we decided that it might have helped, although there is no guarantee, if we had been able to give her some blood plasma from the blood of another alpaca. One of the other farms in Andalucía had a small supply so we decided to get a batch, just in case, knowing that soon Bermuda could soon be giving birth.

  One day, we hope very much that Lily will be able to go full-term and have a healthy cria with us. She so deserves it.

  39 Santa’s Christmas Delivery

  It was the run-up to Christmas and our nerves, by now, were shot to pieces. We spent our days doing almost hourly checks on Bermuda, our paranoia taking over as we awaited the next birth. We had decided that if we were at all worried about Bermuda’s new baby, we would ask Manuel to give her the plasma we had acquired, a belts and braces approach that we felt necessary after everything that had happened.

  It was the second Christmas since Kaci had been born and Lorna was excited, as Frankie and Chris had been able to get time off work to come over and spend Christmas with us here. That meant Christmas Day with Kaci, so Lorna had something to be excited about.

  Yet again, in December, the rain started, but thankfully it lasted only a couple of weeks, finishing on Christmas Day and staying bright and dry for the rest of Frankie’s visit, However, given our luck, I’m sure you’re aware that not everything would go smoothly…

  On Christmas Eve we awoke to foul weather, rain coming down and the paddocks thoroughly soaked, and we were covered in mud from just feeding the alpacas. Our morning check of Bermuda had shown up nothing to be concerned about, so we lit a log fire, and were sitting around, enjoying some quiet family time.

  At about 5 pm, I went out on the terrace to check Bermuda, and could immediately see that things had changed. She was at the poo pile, straining, and I thought to myself, ‘Right this is it.’

  Lorna and I put on our pack-a-macs and went out in the rain. From start to finish Bermuda gave birth, unassisted, in around ten minutes and the birth was, as they say, textbook. We scooped up the little boy, sprayed his navel, and moved him in to the stable. How very apt, on Christmas Eve!

  Bermuda of course followed, and we put Cassandra and Lily in too. We gave them all fresh bedding and a good supply of food and water and settled in to watch. It was starting to get dark now.

  Although it can take a few hours for the baby to get strong enough to find the right place to feed, our nerves had gone and, after only about two hours, we felt Bermuda wasn’t very interested. So we phoned Manuel to ask if he would come and give the new baby the plasma we had. After a couple of attempts to get him, he called back to say he was at a party and couldn’t help us, we would have to go to Cordoba University to see the emergency vet there. We decided to phone Peter, to ask if he could call ahead for us, as he speaks better Spanish than both of us, and warn them we were coming. We loaded the baby into the car and started on the journey.

  Peter phoned about ten minutes later.

  “Alan, they said there is no one there who can do it. They said under no circumstances go to the university.”

  “You’re joking? What do we do now?”

  “They gave me the number of an emergency horse vet who is on call tonight. I have spoken to him, explained the situation, and he is going to meet you in the car park of the Cordoba football stadium in 30 minutes.”

  “Okay, thanks Peter, that’s great. Does he speak English?”

  “No, well only a little. Good luck, we are crossing everything for you.” I hung up the phone.

  “Would you believe it? We have to go and meet a horse vet, in the car park of the football stadium, and I guess we will follow him to his surgery from there,” I explained to Lorna.

  “Doesn’t get any easier living here, does it?”

  “Nope,” I replied.

  So off we went, eventually getting to t
he car park, and driving around looking for another car. After a few minutes a car pulled up, but by now it was totally dark, and raining and there was no one around. As the vet stepped out of the car and shook hands with us, we tried to explain, with broken Spanish, pointing and gesturing that we wanted to get the plasma into the baby, by IV drip. That was all we wanted. He seemed to understand. Then, he started to pull on a green surgical vest top and, to our astonishment, proceeded to put on a type of headband with a spotlight attached, and manoeuvre the baby into the best light in the back of the car. We suddenly realised that this emergency horse vet didn’t have a surgery; he was used to dealing with things in the countryside. We looked at each other. We could both tell neither of us was happy with the situation, but we were so scared of losing the baby we went with it.

  The vet or course, had never seen an alpaca before, so finding a vein in the leg in which to put the IV was difficult to say the least. Having seen Manuel struggle when ours had been ill, I knew this was crucial, so we were patient and eventually the vet managed to strike lucky and got into the vein. He attached the bag of plasma, but it wouldn’t flow. The last needle set he had wasn’t working, so he taped the catheter to the baby’s leg, hoping it would stay there, and asked us to follow him to where he kept his stock.

  We followed for five minutes, and eventually pulled into a small underground car park, where there was an ambulance parked up.

  While we were driving Lorna said to me, “If he doesn’t get it going in a few more minutes, I think we should go back. Put him back with Bermuda, and hope mother nature does her bit.”

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  He got a needle set but, when we looked at the catheter, it had come out of the vein. We had to make a decision: we didn’t want to cause unnecessary pain and discomfort to the cria. So we asked the emergency vet to stop working and said we would take him home. It was late now, and would be gone 10 pm by the time we got to the Olive Mill.

  On the journey the cria was strong and moving about so we had high hopes that things might be okay, but of course at the back of our minds were all the other losses that had occurred.

  “We’ll put him back in with Bermuda, leave them penned in together for the night and hope that her instinct kicks in, and he finds the milk.”

  “I think that’s all we can do,” Lorna said sadly.

  We shot back as quickly as possible and introduced the cria back to Bermuda. Although she hadn’t seemed interested before, it was as if taking the baby away had kicked in her instinct and she recognised him immediately. He went straight up to her and looked for food. After a few minutes, he found the teats and seemed to be suckling. We were happy to leave them to it for the night, and kept our fingers crossed that he had got the colostrum in time - and that he would still be alive in the morning.

  We got back in to find Frankie and Chris with dinner on the table, and very welcome it was too.

  After a terrible night’s sleep, I was awake at first light and out to see how the baby was doing. I was so pleased to see him, up and about, bright as a button and feeding from Bermuda as though nothing had happened the day before.

  Of course Lorna was excited to hear the news, and was able to get up and enjoy Christmas morning with her family for the first time in two years, and with Kaci there as well, everything was more exciting.

  We had to name the new arrival, and to be honest there was only two contenders: Santa and Jesus (pronounced hey-zoos as the Spanish do). Jesus would have worked with the stable and everything but in the end we decided Santa was more appropriate and easy for people to remember.

  That Christmas day was probably one of Lorna’s best, and most memorable, and it could only have been bettered if Mark had been able to be here with little Maisie.

  With everything we had been through, this felt like a new beginning. Yes, things had been hard, and things had gone wrong, but we had dealt with it and come out the other side stronger and better people. We love our life here, and we love breeding alpacas, even though sometimes it feels like the most heartbreaking job in the world.

  Hopefully, one day soon, things will pick up in the world: people will have money to spend and maybe, just maybe, our plan to make a living at breeding these amazing animals will come to fruition. In the meantime, we just have to enjoy our back-to-basics lifestyle, living off-grid and trying to understand this crazy country we now call home. Who knows what the next few years will bring or where we will be in two years time, but you can be sure of one thing, our lives have changed once and for all.

  Final animal count: Five dogs (Geri, Carlos, Blue, Arthur and Miliko), five feral cats (Barb, R Denise, Andres, Fernando and Sergio), eight chickens (Beyonce and J-lo, Audrey, Eileen, Mabel, Jess, Marge and Jean) and nine alpacas (Cassandra, Lily, Bermuda, Rafa, Galaxy, Eduardo, Marcus, Alejandro and of course little Santa!)

  If you enjoyed Seriously Mum, What’s an Alpaca?

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  Also by Alan Parks, the sequel,

  Seriously Mum, Where’s that Donkey?

  Available in paperback and e-book editions

  So, what happened next?

  Turn to the page to find out...

  An excerpt from the sequel

  Seriously, Mum Where’s that Donkey?

  Have you ever licked a toad?

  On the ground was the biggest toad I have ever seen; he was about the size of a dinner plate. His fat body glistened in the sun and our dog Geri, who had travelled over from Brighton with us was becoming very interested. We decided to leave the toad to it, took Geri and went and had lunch. When we returned, Mr Toad had gone.

  Frogs and toads are a fact of life here: our little stream seems to be a breeding ground for them in springtime and, as dusk falls, you can hear the croaks and ribbits of the night-time mating sessions. We have a water deposit outside the part of the Olive Mill in which we live and there is also an overflow drain to prevent the water from becoming stagnant. Even in summer this drain is a damp haven, and every year we have had a toad ‘move in’ for the long, hot months. Maybe he is even that same toad. We occasionally get a glimpse of His Toadness - he is, as I said, rather big - and over the autumn months when it is time to clean out the deposit, we always find the odd tadpole (maybe Mr Toad is female then!) which we turf out to be washed back downstream.

  During the rare occasions when we have terrible weather here in Andalucia, it can be a bit grim and depressing, but thankfully it doesn’t happen too often. It was, however, on one such day that we had the toad experience from hell.

  The day started like most. I was woken at about 8.15 by a cacophony of dogs’ howling to be let out. I got up and opened the door for them and went back to bed. Fifteen minutes later, I woke to find Lorna getting up as Geri could be heard mooching about. We are pretty sure Geri is deaf as she doesn’t join in the barking sessions unless she is awake and can see the others doing it. We have to get to Geri quickly: she is 15 now and once she is up she is liable to poo and wee all over the living room. The alarm was due to go off anytime so we thought we might as well get up. Outside the weather was damp and grey, as it had been for a few days. I flicked a light switch.

  “Great,” I said. “No electrics!”

  Living off-grid, we depend on solar panels for our electricity. We have a bank of batteries to store what we generate, but if it is cloudy for a few days in a row, our stores start to deplete. Sometimes we can go for days with the fridge turned off to save power.

  I fumbled around for some clothes that were not wet or damp, and got dressed. First job of the morning is to walk the dogs. We have to do this in two shifts: Blue and Arthur first, as they are so big, and then the little ones. I always walk Blue as she is strong and built like an ox, while Lorna takes Arthur. We have to be on guard in case any horses have been around and have done their business. For some reason, this is of great attraction to the dogs and if Blue and Arthur want to charge off and roll in it, we can’t sto
p them!

  Half an hour later we returned for the second stint. Miliko was crazily excited, running round in small circles and jumping up while Carlos was whipping everybody into a frenzy with his barking. Geri was oblivious. “In your own time, Geri!”

  We returned at about 10am to find that although still cloudy, the electricity had come back on. Although the fridge had been off for two days, we could at least get online. When the weather is inclement, we can’t do any washing as the washing machine uses a lot of power so we have to recycle clothes once we run out of clean things. However, if there’s no sunshine, it’s not hot, so they don’t get sweaty. We try and do outside tasks in between the heavy showers and storms.

  By mid-afternoon on this particular day, however, it was so cold and horrible that we decided the best place to be was under the duvet, so we retired for a siesta for a couple of hours with a mug of hot chocolate and a book. At about 6pm, just as it was getting dark, we treated ourselves to the generator for the evening. We can’t afford the petrol to run it all day, but at least it meant we could watch a little TV, turn the fridge on and for a few hours have a bit of comfort.

  We were in our living room watching TV, turned up loud over the din of the generator and Miliko (now affectionately known as ‘Shit Face’ because he likes to eat, well you know…) started going mad. Now, this in itself is nothing unusual. If the chickens come too close, he barks at them; if the kittens are in sight, he barks at them; if the young alpacas fight, he barks at them. You get the idea. But after a few minutes of constant barking, he wasn’t stopping. So I picked up a torch and went out to investigate. It was a dank, wet night and because of the clouds there was no moonlight. We were in total darkness. I finally located Miliko and could see him barking at the ground in front of him...