Jim and I both have the most wonderful supportive families so that doesn’t resonate with us, but if you put a twist on the saying, to ‘you can choose your friends but you can’t pick your neighbours’ then, boom, there it was, the bane of our otherwise very happy lives.
‘It only takes one bad apple to spoil the bunch’ is another saying that aptly described our reality. Jim and I kept to ourselves, we worked hard and tried to do this as selflessly as possible. Maybe it’s true that people are afraid of what they don’t understand, and for whatever reason one set of neighbours on our shared Kaitoke driveway hated us.
Hate is a pretty strong word, but as the years have gone by, yip, hate is pretty accurate. The story started off badly enough but it got dramatically worse. In fact, fast forward fourteen years to just a few weeks ago and you will see seven armed officers, pretty much the entire Upper Hutt police force, with rifles and tasers, asking our neighbour to come out of his house with his hands up, then to take his shirt off and lie face down on the ground. All because of his undying fixation on and resentment towards us.
Now let’s rewind back to the beginning and look at the basic facts. It was silly of us to buy on a shared driveway and we have to take responsibility for that. And maybe our original plans to save the animal world were a little ambitious for some locals to understand or cope with. But, having said that, the difficult neighbours had not yet built a house on their plot of land up the shared driveway and our other two neighbours who also share the driveway are warm and caring folk. They often say that having a sanctuary close by is something that delights them. But the bad apples did build a home below our little hill, and it seemed that the bigger we grew and the more support we attracted, the nastier and more destructive they became. We just completely underestimated how nasty they would be.
It’s an awful feeling to be under attack. It’s an even worse feeling when you just can’t understand why.
My very wise mum said to me as I was rocking in a corner one day, ‘There are people in the world who see things very black and white. To them, they are either winning or they are losing. And when these folk see you win, they assume that that means they are losing, so they armour up and start to attack.’
Our very scary neighbours had become more agitated with us and I just couldn’t understand why. If we were to pinpoint the exact moment they turned feral on us it would be the time we gave their son an old car. It had been sitting parked and unused on our driveway for a while, so when their son was released from prison and they sent him to ask us if he could have it, we said yes. We knew he was looking for work and commended his attitude. The deal was that he could have the car if he helped us pick up some fresh cut hay from the paddock, which he did. It was the weekend and we also said it would pay not to drive the car until the ownership papers were submitted, which he didn’t . . . didn’t listen or didn’t care, we are not sure which.
Then a few hundred dollars worth of speeding and parking tickets promptly arrived in our postbox addressed to me. I wasn’t too worried about the tickets as it was clearly just a muddle up, and we popped down the hill to pass them over to our neighbours. And that’s when it happened. Apparently it was our fault for giving their son the car and if we were gullible enough to give it away then the tickets were our problem. We clearly weren’t going to get anywhere with the neighbours, so I rang the enforcement agencies and had the tickets transferred into their name and we went about our business.
While we were getting on with our lives it would seem they were getting on with campaigning to get rid of us from the neighbourhood. Geese by the river a kilometre away, lambs popping through farm fencing, bulls running up the road, cows and horses on the state highway, seagulls in the sky, nomadic peacocks passing through the valley—it didn’t matter that none of these animals were ours nor that we weren’t involved in these situations at all, we always seemed to get the blame. We did our best to ignore the gossip and just got on with what we were doing.
But that wasn’t the end of it.
CHAPTER 17
Libby and co.
I love chooks. There is something truly delightful and comical about them.
My mother always said she loved how they hitched their britches up as they ran for their breakfast.
So when the production team for the Lord of the Rings called and asked if we could help out with some Hobbiton pick-ups, we were especially excited to hear they needed chickens, along with a goat and some sheep. Pick-ups are, as their name suggests, when the director goes back and picks up little bits and pieces of footage that may have been missed, overlooked or just didn’t work the first time round when filming. So with three of the pre-trained motley crew and some feathered-up and perky ex-battery hens on board we drove into the city to Peter Jackson’s studio.
When LOTR had begun production, I was still busy in my own world of training animals on the set of the children’s TV series. It wasn’t until a few years later that I was looking for more work. A friend of mine who was an assistant manager in the extras’ wardrobe department hired me as a on-set wardrobe assistant, so instead of wrangling animals I found myself wrangling sandals and boots and the blood-stained dirty rags that we carefully draped and tied around the orcs. It was so much fun dressing the orcs and attentively following them on set to keep them cool under the harsh summer sun. The job was very serious and rewarding, and as we moved around the different locations and worked on making all the different extra characters comfortable, my mind boggled at what a complete monster the LOTR beast was! As the Ringwraith riders galloped past, doing their seemingly dangerous and impossible stunts, I was secretly pleased that I wasn’t involved in the animal side of things.
Watching the chaos during the shooting and hearing the behind-the-scenes gossip was an eye and ear opener. As far as I could see, everything was kept as safe and as professional as possible, and the animals had undergone months of specialist training and were completely prepared for their roles. But some of the war scenes—with the pure adrenaline, the crashing and bashing, the pushing and shoving, and the whites of the horses’ eyes as they tossed their heads—looked a little too full-on for my comfort. This movie and its animal department was way out of my league.
But I’m not someone who can walk away from what I see in front of me, and I decided that I needed to know the facts. So I hunted down the animal welfare representatives, the people who make sure that everything is kosher and allow the ‘no animals were harmed in the making of this movie’ disclaimer to be displayed in the credits. They were great, well trained and very serious about their duties, though I wondered how they coped with the pressure. I certainly didn’t envy them during the violent simulated fight scenes, but they were confident that everything was acceptable and assured me that they spoke out if they were ever worried.
After my stint in wardrobe I decided to take a break and put myself through the Animal Welfare Inspectors course, the same one that qualifies the SPCA inspectors. I flew to and from Auckland three times to sit and learn. Animal welfare was essentially what made the blood pump through my veins and I nailed the course and was a star student. But in true dyslexic style, I never quite got around to handing in all of my homework.
About a month after the course had finished, I was called on to be one of the on-set welfare representatives for LOTR. The scene I was observing involved just the one horse. The character Aragon had been washed up on a river’s edge, and a horse called Brego finds the exhausted warrior and nudges him awake. The horse then lays down so that Aragon can drag himself onto its back and the two quietly amble away. Thank goodness it wasn’t a war scene; I quite possibly would have been a complete wreck.
As I finished inspecting the sand that the horse was to lay on, checking for rocks or any other uncomfortable or dangerous debris, I gave the first assistant director the nod. Everything seemed good to go and he had my approval. I sat in the long grass behind the cameras with the vet and we watched the scene smoothly play out in front of u
s. The trainer had been flown in from Australia and he certainly knew his job well. There was a sense of calm and the horse was well rehearsed and at peace with the action required. It was a good day.
But back to the pick-ups. Jim and I arrived at the studio with the ex-battery girls, Thistle the goat, Ernie the sheep and Arnold, another very special sheep I had hand-raised from an unwanted triplet lamb into a large, handsome and very social fellow.
We were shown by the director exactly what he needed from us. Ernie, Arnold and Thistle were essentially just very good-looking props, with the easy job of hanging with the hobbits in the background of the shot. But the chook action was going to be much more fun. They were front and centre with the main character of the scene and the director was after some pretty particular A to Bs.
‘Are you sure the chickens will do that?’ the assistant director, or AD, quietly asked us when the director was out of earshot. ‘There is no time to muck around here. Time is money.’
I looked at Jim and we both nodded.
Usually we would have had prep time to teach an action prior to filming, but because we were pulled in last minute and the person who had hired us didn’t have any idea what would be involved with the scene, we were just grateful to have our trusted motley crew, and beloved and thankfully clicker-trained chooks on hand.
Jim and I had both nursed Libby the battery hen back to life after we had rescued her and 24 others during our very first battery hen liberation. She had arrived at HUHA collapsed and weak. But as she regained her strength she blossomed into a hugely confident and forthright character. We named her Libby (short for liberation) and enjoyed her antics so much that we would never underestimate the wonder of a chicken again. Libby enjoyed being part of the action, any action. If something was going on then there she was right in the middle of it. Being such a smart cookie we decided it would be a fun project to clicker train her and she was a pro in just a few short sessions. But while Libby certainly stood out from the crowd, her feathered friends were no shrinking violets either and enjoyed the fun and games too. In fact, even today, after rescuing, rehabilitating and rehoming thousands and thousands of ex-commercial chooks they just never cease to amaze and delight us.
The scene was to be filmed on an elevated stage, about ten square metres and in front of a giant green screen. The chooks’ job was to enter from stage right, walk to the hobbit in the centre of the stage, stand with him for ten seconds or so, follow him as he moved around the stage, and then, at the director’s nod, he wanted the chooks to exit stage left.
Jim, clicker in hand, was poised and ready at stage left. We had already run Libby and her team of seven lady friends through their passes as a warm-up. When we were asked if they would like to rehearse with the talent we said no thank you. In situations like this it’s often the first take that’s the best, and we didn’t want the girls to lose their edge. We had sprinkled the centre stage mark with just enough grain to get the girls to pause at the hobbit’s feet and we had given the hobbit just enough grain to sprinkle as he walked around. Jim had the big guns, though: the clicker that, once clicked, triggered the girls to strut at a firm pace towards it.
‘Aaaaand action,’ the AD called.
Everything went quiet. All eyes were on us. I quickly kissed the girls on the forehead for luck and placed them at stage right. One by one they did their little Cleopatra walk to the centre of the stage where they hovered around the hobbit’s feet, pecking at the grain. As the hobbit moved to the back of the stage the girls happily followed seeing the light sprinkle of food falling from his pocket. Then with one click from stage left their beautiful heads turned and one by one they did their little Cleopatra walk off towards the edge of stage left.
‘Still rolling,’ hollered the AD as he bent to listen to the director’s instructions.
The hobbits were still acting beautifully, quietly going through the motions of smiling and nodding between themselves, interacting with and patting Arnold, Thistle and Ernie as they were slowly being led around as background action.
As the AD stood up straight he called, ‘And still rolling, can we have some more farmyard movement and if the chickens could walk back over to stage right, stopping at the hobbit for a few moments on the way.’
‘Oh crikey, where’s my clicker,’ I mumbled to myself.
Jim had just released the girls again and they were making their way back to the hobbit with perfect poise and style. They checked him out for a few seconds then started to look as if they might scatter off in different directions. Just at that moment I laid my desperately searching hand on a clicker in pocket number four of my cargo pants. I let out a click and the girls perked up their heads, turned and started to methodically walk to stage right. Phew! They were absolute stars.
‘And it’s a wrap. Thank you.’ The AD smiled at us and said, ‘They are very impressive chickens, who knew?’
Tee hee, I thought to myself . . . we knew.
CHAPTER 18
A wanted dog
Even at 22 years old Shaun still has a scar on his face where Murphy bit him.
I will never forgive myself for putting either of them in that situation, but it gave me a much better understanding of what it means to keep your pets safe.
Our big boy Murphy was now ten years old and had been suffering from joint pain for some time. We had him on various meds and potions, but he was sore and he was getting more and more cranky, and as a result he had started to guard himself. Shaun, now around twelve, was having a sleepover at our house with the young boys who lived on the farm next door. I seriously don’t know what I was thinking, or maybe I wasn’t thinking, as the boys, and Murphy, all headed into Shaun’s bedroom and into their sleeping bags.
It was another hour or so before Shaun came running out of his room with blood streaming down his face, his voice hoarse from screaming as he announced that Murphy had bitten him. We were all in tears in a matter of minutes and his friends were shuttled out the door back home. We were clueless as to what to do next. With pressure applied to his face, Shaun was bundled into the car. And with more pain meds on board, Murph was placed on the back seat next to him. Murphy was far from a vicious attacker, and had essentially been bombproof since he’d come to live with us.
The scenario probably went something like this: as the boys had started to quieten down the dozing Murphy had most likely fallen into a deep sleep. When Shaun had leant down to give his buddy a kiss goodnight, Murphy had woken with a start and bitten Shaun’s face. We wondered if maybe Shaun had leaned on Murph’s leg or somehow triggered some pain, because our gentle old boy loved Shaun and would never intentionally hurt him.
Oh hell, what to do next? We had never been in a situation like this.
As the doctor stitched Shaun’s cheek, he questioned Jim and me about what had happened. ‘I’m going to have to report this, you know. It could have been extremely serious; if the bite had been a few centimetres higher it could have been the lad’s eye.’
We sat numbly with our heads hung low. Oh God, we were thinking, we are terrible parents. Not just to Shaun, but to Murphy too. Why oh why didn’t we protect them both? We thought it was cute that the boys had wanted Murphy to be part of their sleepover but things were definitely far from cute now.
‘So you will be euthanising the dog, correct?’ the doctor continued.
Oh, how I just wanted to be back on my bus, far away from all the pressure and responsibility. The doctor took our details and said the authorities would be notified. Thank goodness Shaun would be just fine, but all we could think about was the damage control needed for such a highly reactive situation. Shaun’s mother was, as expected, a mixture of upset and angry, and we knew in the cold light of day that the authorities could be coming for our big boy.
Murphy had not aged well. His giant bones had not been nurtured at the all-important growth stage and he was now suffering for it. Sometimes he bounced around pain-free, but then there were times that the meds just didn’t se
em to work. The week before, he had bitten a baby goat that was skipping past him and had hopped too close to his legs. The signs were there that Murphy was struggling, and although he had been given all the vet care we could offer, we had to admit we had the blinkers on as to how serious his situation was becoming. Our predicament was just horrible, and we were not experienced enough to know what to do.
From my work at the SPCA I knew by their standards that Murph was not a good homing option. As a vet nurse I knew he was already on the best pain meds. As a step-mum I knew that the kids loved Murphy more than words could say but that their mother would not let this go. I also knew it was my fault, that I had been too cavalier and hadn’t protected my family. I was a responsible member of society and I knew that Murphy’s actions would not be tolerated, that he was about to become a wanted dog.
So we rang a vet who I worked closely with and he agreed to open the clinic for us. It had been such an alarming and unexpected night, and as we cuddled and held Murphy I knew that I was never ever going to forgive myself. He slipped into a deep sleep and I bent down and kissed my big friend on the cheek for the last time.
I can’t describe how terrible it all was. Things felt so hurried and so forced, but there was no way we would let the authorities take Murph away only to reach the same decision. Murphy was one of the great loves of our lives and we wanted to be the ones to hold him when he went. It may not have been on our terms, but at least we still had some sort of control.
Years later I am still haunted by Murphy’s death. But what is the point of living through such a great loss if I didn’t learn anything? I could put my guilt at ease and say it was the arthritis in his old age that killed our big boy. But that would not be true. The lesson I have taken from this situation is that it was my responsibility as a parent to supervise my children with my dog. Children should never ever be left alone with dogs, whether a puppy or an adult. It was my job to protect both Shaun and Murphy, and I failed on both counts.
Animal Magic Page 10
