The lady who called me had been up all night sitting in the waiting room of a vet clinic, while nurses and vets worked on her new puppy as it seizured and drifted in and out of consciousness. The vets diagnosed that the tiny little Chihuahua puppy was underage and not robust enough to be away from her mum. They said that the fitting through the night had been triggered when the puppy’s blood sugar had fallen so dangerously low that she had become hypoglycaemic. She survived the night but the little pup would need constant care and attention to ensure she was eating enough calories, little and often.
As I pulled up to the parking lot she was ready and waiting with the puppy swaddled in a pretty pink and white fleecy blanket.
‘Hi, Joan! Aww, gosh she is absolutely tiny.’ I couldn’t help but smile at the miniature bundle in front of me. She was so little and delicate, and her soft brown eyes were struggling to stay open as she nestled safely in Joan’s arms.
‘Thank you for coming.’ Joan was already emotional. ‘I just didn’t know what else to do.’
Joan is a businesswoman, very driven, intelligent and busy, and I had helped her once before by taking in a stray cat from her neighbourhood, then desexing and rehoming it. She explained that when she had visited the pet store for cat food just days ago she had been completely taken by the little puppy sitting alone in the cabinet. The staff had been quick to tell her that it didn’t matter that she worked full-time, a lovely home like hers was just what the puppy needed, and the sale was made.
‘Can you please take her? I just don’t think I can do this.’ Joan was a mess; this lovely woman was facing a huge and unfair dilemma. She hadn’t been shopping for a puppy that day, but those little soft brown eyes had drawn her in. The staff at the store had told Joan that the puppy was eight weeks old. I frowned, and felt vexed. There is no law about the minimum age that puppies can be sold from a pet store, however there is a code of welfare recommendation that states that selling a puppy at eight weeks is acceptable. But this sort of thing makes me so angry; sure, eight weeks may be okay for a Labrador pup at a pinch, but this tiny little girl was only just a few hundred grams and clearly not robust or advanced enough to cope away from her mum, and especially not her litter mates.
As Joan passed the puppy over, she explained that she was within her rights to ask for a refund but that she just couldn’t stomach returning the dog to the store. She had also realised that she wasn’t equipped to care for the pup and all its needs and demands. While her impulse purchase had seemed like a nice idea at the time, she had been romanced into the idea that the pup and her cat would be smiling and waiting for her when she got home from work each night, and truly hadn’t realised the implications of buying the puppy.
Jim’s reaction to our new charge was quite entertaining. He was totally entranced by the fragile little pup. It was the weekend and instead of catching up on farm chores, he sat on the couch with the tiny Chihuahua snuggled up inside his jumper. As I wandered past Jim throughout the day, I’d catch him grinning at her little face and her little paws and babbling baby talk as he gently cradled her. On one walkby I caught him holding her up in the air with both hands singing the Lion King theme tune. And then he proudly announced that he was calling her Lily. I only just managed to drag her away from him to feed her in between sleeps. And when Jim headed off to work on Monday it was with a very long face.
As Lily grew stronger and more robust we realised she had small but unimportant faults, like two rows of incisor teeth, which were an indication of the sort of breeding facility she had possibly come from.
After Joan had passed Lily over that day I had set about getting more information on the pet store, and as luck would have it I actually knew someone who worked there, and she was prepared to pass on information. Stacey and I had crossed paths at a workplace several years earlier. We didn’t know each other well, but she, too, was concerned about the age of the puppies for sale and decided that she couldn’t stomach turning a blind eye and was ready to speak out.
I called the SPCA inspectors straight away and relayed all of the information I had been given. Stacey had told me there was a constant flow of puppies coming into the store. She said that as well as the old store, they also had a small room out the back where they held the pups in quarantine for a few weeks until they were old enough to put in the display cabinets. She said it was not uncommon for the pups to fade and die, and they would just replace them with new ones. I was so relieved when the inspectors told me that there was enough information to warrant a visit to the store. I waited anxiously for their call.
‘Well, you’re right, there are a lot of puppies,’ said the inspector. He then went on to explain that aside from asking them to address some airflow issues there was not much he could do. The sick pups out the back were getting veterinary care and the underage ones, while being too young morally, were of legal age. New Zealand’s Animal Welfare Act did not protect them from being sold. It was a frustrating situation and both the SPCA and I agreed it was one we should keep a very close eye on.
Back home Lily and Jim were a firm team. As I watched Jim diligently teach Lily the art of riding on the front of the quad bike as he went about feeding all the farm animals, I smiled and accepted the fact that we had a new permanent member of the family.
CHAPTER 27
Good Morning
I couldn’t quite believe it when one of the writers for the Good Morning TV chat show asked if I would like a regular slot presenting an animal corner.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I could best describe what I was feeling as pretty much a mixture of horror and excitement with a healthy dollop of doubt thrown in. With some more convincing, I gingerly agreed and set about writing scripts for my up-and-coming slots.
I wasn’t long at all before I absolutely loved this job. Every other Wednesday I would be present and correct with animals in tow for the live filming of my six- to eight-minute segment. I loved to mix things up and offer the viewers a visual variety of animals and topics. From chocolate toxicity to keeping your dogs cool when travelling in cars, an array of animal training tips to alpaca awareness, the slots were varied. But mostly I really loved the interactive segments, things like making home-made concoctions for bad breath, and enrichment toys. But when I put my serious hat on, it was the opportunity to educate that was so completely invaluable, allowing me to teach New Zealanders sensible tips to keep them and their pets safe.
My first appearance was pretty awful. My mouth was so dry from stage fright that speaking was hard, and with a camera pointed at my face, there just seemed to be no escaping the terror. But they invited me back and I started to relax and grow in confidence. The trick I learnt was to just ignore the camera and chat to the presenter the way I would chat to anyone picking my brain about an animal. Animals were what I knew about so there was no memorising tricky facts and figures; it all came down to talking from experience about my passion.
I’d have to rise at 4 a.m. to feed and settle the animals for the day and then package up whichever animal was to be my model for the day and off we’d head to the studio. It was live television, so I’d be plonked into the hair and make-up chair and they would work their wonders . . . then off to the green room and ready for action.
The animals I took with me were carefully chosen. I didn’t want them to stress so I cast them as I would have done for a movie. Pixie and Punga came to demonstrate hoof care and laminitis. Tracey and Steve next door loaned me their alpaca and Tracey for an alpaca care segment. And Haggis, Ned and Lily, Norm and Tucker took turns, helping me cover every dog topic I could come up with.
Norm had come to our family at just sixteen weeks old, a year or so after Murphy had died. We had chosen him from an ethical breeder who only allowed Norm’s mum to have the one litter before desexing her. Although we are surrounded by rescues and would never usually go out and buy a dog, Jim and I felt one exception could be justified because we so absolutely love pure-bred bull mastiffs, their nature and
their classic mastiffy traits. We also feel it’s important that ethical breeding of pure breeds is continued and encouraged—it’s the irresponsible backyard breeders that get our blood boiling, as you will come to learn loud and clear.
Norm was the dog version of Drum; big, slow and squishy, and everyone who met the impressive beast that was Norm instantly fell in love with his calm and gentle manner. I learned quickly that he was a show stealer. As I diligently explained important topics to the New Zealand viewers, the camera would roam away from me and whatever I was doing and rest on Norm, usually so relaxed that he would be upside down, legs in the air and either snoring or farting. He was a hit and the crew always looked disappointed if I didn’t bring Norm along for at least a visit.
We joked that Tucker was Norm’s puppy. We had found him at a farm, where Tucker’s mum had fallen pregnant to the wrong dog and as a result his litter was not wanted. We called this baby tri-coloured heading dog crossed with a huntaway Tucker because he threw up his tucker as we drove him home over the Rimutakas. To Norm, he was the best apprentice a dog could ever have, and in our view the benefits worked both ways. With Ned and Haggis more invested in me and what I was up to, the two youngsters merged their alliances and became as one. Eight years later they still jam in one dog bed together.
Tucker’s role on Good Morning was an important one. He was to be trained and raised under the watchful eyes of New Zealand. It was my dream come true to be able to explain important values and techniques in such an interactive way. I was assigned a wonderful presenter, who would play the role of a clueless dog owner who needed to be taught the ropes and he was perfect . . . mostly because he was clueless on the subject of dogs! He’d ask typical new-owner questions which I would answer, expelling myths or by demonstrating with Tucker to give a wonderfully visual explanation.
My other favourite Good Morning star was Agnes the cat. I would often get praised for how well behaved Agnes was; before, during and after filming Agnes would just sit, happily relaxed, with her tongue hanging out in an adorable way, and dribble. The crew would tell me that they had never seen a cat trained so well. She was quite the hit and I was quite the legend . . . that is until I fessed up that my loved and treasured Agnes had come into my care at the sanctuary with muscular dystrophy. She was, and is, disabled, and thoroughly enjoyed the outing, but was not able to walk well or fast. So she would just opt to sit and enjoy the heat of the studio lights and all the wonderful attention, deliriously happy.
After my third year of Good Morning, the show relocated to Auckland so I ultimately lost that job. But I will always be grateful to the researcher who found me and gave me the opportunity to teach and be heard.
CHAPTER 28
Henry the heron
Isn’t it funny how there is no rhyme or reason to falling in love? Well, the same applies to rescuers and the animals they care for.
Dealing with hundreds of animals in need every year, you invest your love and time into all of them. You work hard to find each and every one a positive outcome. It’s not cool to have favourites or even to be species-ist, because they all rely on you to help them survive and find a safe future. But every once in a while you meet an animal that digs just a little deeper into your heart. For me, one of my great loves was a wonky little bird named Henry the heron.
We had been rehabilitating native wildlife for several years. In fact, I first got Department of Conservation approval when I was back on my bus. Becoming an approved rehabber had essentially involved proving to the department that I was serious and that I was capable. Serious enough to understand the importance of native wildlife and serious enough to understand the importance of not imprinting the wildlife in my charge—meaning that wherever possible they were to remain wild and would be released when fit, not conditioned or kept as pets. I also had to show that I was capable enough to learn and grow my skills. Over the years we have rehabbed a huge variety of native wildlife, from ruru to kakas and everything in between. Despite the very strong opinion of one very publicly outspoken Mr Gareth Morgan, most injuries are not from ‘pesky cats’ but from weather blasts leading to exhaustion, hitting power lines which injure their wings, or flying into windows, fracturing their shoulder blades and causing head injuries. Or they’re just from simple viruses and infection.
Working with nature is such a rewarding thing to do. The hard yards with rehabilitating domestic or farm animals is that you have to rehome them, to entrust the rest of their lives to other people, which, no matter how thorough you are, can be scary. Even after myriad checks and procedures, how do you truly know that the new adoptive parents really do have the capability and follow-through to protect that animal and keep it happy and out of harm’s way?
Although animals in captivity and animals in the wild are both very vulnerable, in captivity they are essentially always controlled by and reliant on humans. The margin for error is huge; I can’t forget all the mistakes I have been personally accountable for on my own journey of animal ownership—and I’d like to think I was one of the good ones! Although the wild is ultimately affected by humans too, releasing a living being into an environment with no cages and no direct human contact, interference or manipulation somehow seems to sit easier; just fly, be free and cross your fingers that they stay well away from danger.
Henry, however, was not one of the lucky ones. He had been born with a deformity that meant cages and humans were his only hope of survival. Henry’s condition was something called ‘scissor beak’, which is the misalignment of the top and bottom parts of his beak. Instead of closing flush, his beak permanently stayed splayed. He could open and shut his beak but being a heron with a long thin elegant bill, the top portion curved out to the left and the bottom out to the right and never the twain did meet. This meant Henry had to be hand-fed every day for the rest of his life.
We were honoured to be chosen as Henry’s caregivers. He had lived with a local bird rehabilitating legend for nine years, but when this bird man was tragically diagnosed with cancer we had been chosen by his wife to continue caring for their much-loved Henry.
We decided that the best place to house him was in the monkey’s old circus enclosure, which we had permanently erected around a turtle pond. It was in constant use as a flight run for recovering kereru and other injured wildlife.
Henry was in heaven. His long stilt-like legs would stalk around the pond as he looked for bugs and creatures. He’d peck with full gusto at the little tasty-looking morsels, but his wonky beak meant that even the most accurately timed swipe would come up empty. Jim and I often grimaced at our dedication to these creatures. We both had been staunch vegans for several years now and yet every morning while preparing the feeds we would defrost one-day-old chicks (sent to us by the zoo) for the ruru, and once a week divvy out cannon bones for the dogs—there was no avoiding it. And with the arrival of Henry came the age of the ox-heart strips, carefully sliced into thin worm-like slithers and dangled in front of Henry so he could hook them in his beak, swing them back like a pendulum into his mouth and swallow them whole.
The reason I loved Henry so was because his grumpy façade was just that, a façade. He was a proud bird and worked the pond with the confidence of a movie star. Every morning he’d honk at me in a bossy fashion then stand poised and awaiting service. But what I really admired about Henry was his ability to accept and make friends. The first was Bubble 07, a rescued terrapin with whom he shared the pond, and most recently Charlie, the just as grumpy on the outside and squishy in the middle old monkey. The three spent hours upon hours together in the tranquillity of the flight run. As the days heated up Charlie would lie stretched out sunning himself, with his arthritic old legs spread for optimum exposure. Bubble 07 would park up next to Charlie with a right-side-up turtle version of the pose alongside the water’s edge. And Henry waded with the determination of a dedicated fisherman in the water. Their friendship warmed our souls like nothing else.
Each of these unusual animals had lost t
heir families somewhere along the way, but together they seemed content. There was no hugging or grooming each other, just a content mutual acceptance and companionship that brought a little bit of magic to their lives.
CHAPTER 29
A different way of thinking
We couldn’t believe our ears when we were told that there was a petition circulating throughout the community listing all the reasons we should be closed down.
We knew the ringleaders, our scary neighbours, had been stirring things up, but this was seriously taking things too far. They had even got one neighbour in such a spin that she believed we were getting a circus elephant and had already called her insurance provider to enquire about stampede insurance!
Back then, Steve and Tracey were really the only ones who truly knew us. We had one other set of direct neighbours but they moved out soon after the dispute. Steve and Tracey didn’t share the contentious driveway with us, but they did share several hundred metres of boundary and our children played together as they grew up. We had also rehomed a number of farm animals to them over the years, and respected and appreciated the care they gave them. Steve and Tracey would sit on the sidelines and, intrigued, watch the drama that we managed to cause in the community unfold without us doing anything except keep to ourselves. So as the news of the latest hot gossip rolled in we would be invited for a cup of tea and a laugh. It is easy to fob it all off and joke about it on the outside, but if we were to be honest, Jim and I were completely crushed by the attitude of the neighbours. We were vegan and we had monkeys; I think we sounded pretty cool. But in a community that farmed animals clearly we weren’t.
Animal Magic Page 14
