At its peak the rabbit fibre was worth $120 a kilogram. Will actually did very well out of selling the fibre as well as breeding animals for other budding rabbit farmers. The first doe he sold fetched $600. However, rabbits are extensively farmed in China and the Chinese quickly saw an opportunity to increase their Angora rabbit population. Within a year the return from the fibre started to fall and it was then that Will decided to get out. Luckily Robert Muldoon’s livestock incentive scheme meant that Will did not lose too much when he sold, despite the value of fibre being a fraction of what it was when he bought in.
I was also involved with a fitch farm. These animals, ferrets, were bred for very high-quality pelts or skins and the group involved really went into it properly with a well-built house, cages and skin-processing equipment on top of very good management. Again success of this enterprise was determined by the value of the pelt and in their case the whims of fashion and the market. Within a couple of years the industry had collapsed. On the farm I was involved with, things were not helped by ringworm, a fungal skin disease, getting into the population. This disease ruined the pelts and was very difficult to control.
While I drew the line at ostriches and emus, Noel McGirr, our friend from North Canterbury, ‘upskilled’ in all matters related to ratite health and management. He went to several courses in New Zealand and overseas to learn about these birds so he would be in a position to help locals who wanted to get into the industry. I’m rather glad I left the ostriches to Noel.
The ostrich, native to Africa, had proved resilient in and adaptable to new environments and had been previously farmed in New Zealand on a small scale when ostrich feathers were a ladies fashion necessity. Emus are native to and farmed in Australia. A big new future was expected for these huge birds in the healthy red meat market, and for medicinal and cosmetic oils. Ostrich feathers, with their antistatic properties, were touted as the thing to dust your computer with. The unique eggs also had some novelty value. But I could never understand why anyone thought these birds would be an economic proposition in New Zealand if they were not flourishing industries in their native countries.
The ostrich is the largest living bird in the world with adults reaching 2 metres in height and weighing up to 150 kilograms. It is an extremely inquisitive bird and while quite intimidating when aroused, and capable of killing a lion with its big toe, it becomes reasonably docile when a bag is placed over its head. The emu on the other hand, while a smaller bird, is a real Aussie, being more fiery and difficult to subdue.
With the value of a breeding pair fetching $20,000–$30,000, investment in the business was stimulated and opportunities were there for veterinarians. Fertile eggs were imported and sophisticated incubation technology implemented. Tricky surgical procedures involving risky anaesthesia became viable options, for example, to save valuable newly hatched chicks with retained yolk sacs, and to correct rotated and bent legs in older chicks using bone plates. Dealing with impacted intestines, the end result of their inquisitive nature, meaning they pecked at and swallowed anything shiny, was also not uncommon. Noel was kept busy with ostriches and emus for nearly 10 years, into the 1990s, but eventually the realisation that they were not going to live up to expectations forced most ratite farmers to cut their losses. However, Noel did learn a lot about a totally different type of animal, had some wonderful new experiences and also made many new friends.
We also worked with Peter Yealands, a well-known local entrepreneur now famous for his achievements in the wine industry. Among his numerous earlier ventures was deer farming, where Pete J and I were involved in carrying out embryo transfer work, and an attempt at possum farming. Peter felt that possum farming could be a viable option given, at the time, the value of the skins of wild-caught animals. However, success did depend on the skins being high-quality ones and that was influenced by time of year and the incidence of fighting wounds and skin damage. Peter felt that castrating the male possums would solve the fighting issues, so I had some interesting times sorting out an easy and economical way to anaesthetise and castrate them.
Again, as for fitches and rabbits, the market collapse spelled the end of that little venture. In Peter’s case it was also not helped by a mass breakout from the enclosure where the possums were being held. Many of these beasts ended their lives shortly afterwards while mesmerised by the bright lights from fast approaching vehicles on the main trunkline and main road nearby.
Around about this time salmon farming had started in the Marlborough Sounds and I thought helping with the production and disease side of things would be an interesting sideline to get into. I was also advised that anyone with a veterinary background would be a useful addition to the local industry. As a result I spent a couple of weeks in Tasmania doing a course in marine farming at the aquaculture college in Launceston and returned an ‘instant expert’. Unfortunately my credentials, to my surprise, didn’t seem to impress either of the two local salmon farming companies. At the time both companies were desperate to identify the cause of a condition called ‘bloat’ but despite my numerous requests to look at sick salmon and past laboratory results I never heard back. Even though I had only done a crash course in fish farming I am sure with my veterinary training I could have helped get to the bottom of the problem. In hindsight I suspect they didn’t want someone from outside being involved.
It is rather ironic that some time after this my daughter Caroline, who as a child had always been interested in veterinary things and often enjoyed watching me at work, ended up doing an aquaculture degree at Launceston after finishing high school. She returned to get a job with one of the salmon farming companies in the Sounds and became very involved in the work which finally identified the cause of bloat as being a nutritional imbalance.
This period in the 1980s was a wonderfully exciting era. We rapidly learned about all the various features and behaviours of a number of very diverse species, as well as different diseases, and how best to manage their populations. We became really competent at using new anaesthetics and often performing very intricate surgical techniques. We also made contact with a much wider and interesting element of society from where many new friendships developed.
In the end we learned that for a species to become established as a viably farmed production animal in New Zealand it has to provide a product, usually food, that is in constant demand elsewhere in the world. Hoping to successfully farm an introduced species that is not successfully farmed overseas or whose success depends on the whims of fashion is most unlikely to be a winner.
But for now the sun has just gone down and the cooler evening air is drawing in. I’ve done enough for the day and shut down the computer. After giving the screen a dusting with my ostrich feather, I’ll don my ferret-skin jacket and then sit down for an ostrich steak dinner — washed down with a Dog Point pinot.
THE BENCH CLASS — PJ
I’ve always envied dog triallists. As a young man I worked on hill and high country farms, but only long enough to get a great love for those places. I had my own dogs, but only a couple at a time. I did train two as pups, a handy dog and a huntaway, and they both became pretty useful, but dog trialling is the sharp end of this. You have to be skilled and patient, you must know the character and temperament of each dog, and you have to understand and be able to read on the day the sheep’s behaviour.
In short, you must be a good stockman, and most dog triallists I know would be in that category. My time on farms was too short to become part of that elite group but I still enjoyed running a dog. They’re a proud lot, these folks, and to be called a ‘good dog man’ by one of them is a privilege and a compliment.
My friend Tony Sheild was one of the biggest farmers in Marlborough when I arrived in the region. That is not to say he was a big man. He wasn’t, topping five foot six if he really tried, but he did farm a very large enterprise at Bankhouse, on the west of the Waihopai River, shortly before it joins the Wairau. It is, or was, a very large property, with almost 4
000 hectares of flat land, and Tony ran his substantial Corriedale flock and his 200 Angus cows in a dedicated, efficient and productive manner, on extensive but dry river terrace country. He was pretty gruff, and in those days didn’t suffer fools; I realised early on that you had to have your wits about you when you were dealing with Tony Sheild.
One gentleman who sailed with me for a while was the grain agent for stock firm Pyne Gould Guinness in Blenheim, a man by the name of George. Tony had rung George with a very large grass seed order one evening. Unfortunately George, who might have had a few that night, completely forgot the order. Its value was several thousand dollars, and I don’t think George had a lot to do with Bankhouse after that.
That was Tony. But Tony was fair and very straight, and once you had his confidence, you had it for life.
Both Pete A and I were fortunate enough to be in that category, and Tony was not only a very significant client, he was a good friend to us both. We attended his children’s weddings and socialised and sailed with Tony and his lovely wife, Puddy.
Tony called me one day. ‘I want to see you. Are you in today?’ I was, and we arranged a time.
When he arrived, he came into the consulting room and I waited the customary five minutes while he told me his latest yarn, usually one he’d learned from his dog trial mates. Tony was a very eminent dog triallist. I don’t think he ever won a National title, but he qualified for the Island and National finals many times, mostly with heading dogs I think. At the time he came to see me he was national president of the New Zealand Sheep Dog Trial Association and he remained in that position for some years.
The hugely popular TV programme A Dog’s Show was once held at Bankhouse, and it was highly interesting sitting in the director’s bus while the show was being filmed, watching how the picture was moved from screen to screen by a very intense small staff as they edited the show live.
I digress. When Tony had finished his story he came to the point. ‘I want you to judge the Bench Class at the Nationals next month.’
I gulped. ‘What the hell is the Bench Class, Tony?’
‘It’s the pretty dogs, the best-looking dogs. The owners parade them round, you have to select the best one. It’s a piece of weasel’s to a dog man like you.’
I wasn’t sure. How on earth was I, a rural vet, going to pick the best-looking dog in front of a couple of hundred grizzled dog triallists? But Tony, being Tony, didn’t take no for an answer, and when he left he knew I’d be there.
I have to admit I sweated on this one for a month. There was a real chance of making a fool of myself, and as I was just breaking through in the field of frozen dog semen, I would have quite a few clients and potential clients in the crowd. I needed to have some mana. Making a clown of myself wouldn’t help that.
I rang Tony several times to find out a bit more and also Ken White, a cricketing friend who had won a national title, and had represented New Zealand in the UK, and in a test match versus Australia. A dog test, not a cricket one. Ken had a few words of advice. ‘Go on gut instinct,’ he said sagely.
But when the day came, I was still a bit anxious. The trials that year, doubling as both the South Island and National finals, were at Meadowbank, a large hill country property belonging to the Grigg family. It was only 5 kilometres out of Blenheim, easy to access for the many competitors and their families.
The South Island champs were held first, and after three days of that, a select group ran off for the National finals on the last day. On finals day at lunchtime, the Bench Class was held. A large crowd gathered to watch.
There were about 20 entrants: those triallists who reckoned they had the best-looking dog. The first problem was that there was only one class, so heading dogs and huntaways, very different physical specimens, were all together.
As instructed by Tony, I first asked all the contestants to form a circle around the perimeter of the ring. I had a nervous look around. There were black and white dogs, black and tan dogs, ginger dogs, tan and white dogs, black dogs, a white dog with a black patch on one eye. There were heavy dogs and very fine slim dogs. There were smooth-coated dogs and beardie dogs. How on earth was I going to make a reasoned judgement on who had the best-looking dog?
And then there were the owners. There were burly youngish men with cowboy hats, old grizzled men with cloth caps and walking sticks, men with pork pie hats. There was my friend Ken White with his prized heading dog. And there was Wes.
Wes was and is the beloved wife of my friend Mick Ensor, a delightful man, whose wonderful way of dealing with his stutter has endeared him to many. Mick’s way of dealing with his affliction is to laugh uproariously at himself. It is one of his many traits which have made him a much-loved character. He and Wes farmed in Marlborough, and shifted in the 1980s to Wairarapa for a more reliable rainfall to farm with. There were many stories about Mick and his stutter, but the best was told to me by another farmer.
Once when trying to introduce Steve Satterthwaite to another farmer, Mick began: ‘This is S-S-S-S-S-Steve … Sa-Sa-Sa — Sa — Sa — Saaa — Saatter … fucking prick of a name!’
Wes is a beautiful, graceful woman, tall and slim, calm and smiling. Mick was probably the more serious dog triallist, but in Wes he had a very able accomplice, and for the Bench Class you could only say he had an unfair advantage.
Hand on heart, readers, I did my best to be impartial. I asked the entrants to walk quietly around the ring in a circle, and then quickly settled on the best six, by pointing to each of them in turn. I didn’t see what happened to those who missed out, but in the beer tent afterwards no one attacked me.
So I was left with six fine-looking dogs, and two of them were led by friends of mine. I’d reckon that’s a very tough call, in what can only be described as a subjective competition. I was aware of the large crowd watching, and I was aware of the keen scrutiny of Tony Sheild, prominent in the front row. He would be a harsh critic if I got it wrong.
I asked the remaining six to parade again. Then I stopped, and looked closely over each dog in turn, examining the conformation, the head carriage, the alertness of eye, and the general impression. It really was very difficult.
I deliberated for only a short while as the crowd murmured in anticipation, or possibly in amusement. Then I made my decision. I pointed to the fine huntaway, standing quietly beside its proud owner. The owner was Wes. She was delighted of course, and was more than happy to take home the trophy.
I received a lot of ribbing for that decision. One of the finalists was even a little sour. He reckoned he had the best-looking dog. And in the beer tent, more than one friendly triallist reckoned it was Wes who’d won, not the dog.
I’m still not sure myself, but I do know what Tony told me a few days later: ‘You got it right. You’re a good dog man.’
I took that compliment. It’s good to have loyal friends. But Wes is very lovely.
FOOTNOTE
Tony Sheild died in 2008 after a long battle with prostate cancer. Marlborough is the worse for his absence. Ten years earlier, when he was first diagnosed with the condition, he came to tell me about his problem at our clinic. He didn’t know then how long he had.
‘You know what, Pete?’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry about all the people I’ve pissed off.’
There may have been a few he’d upset (who hasn’t?), but it was a gracious touch from a gruff man.
DAMAGE AND DUNG — PA
There are a few facts about faeces that you no doubt already appreciate. The first is they have an odour, frequently unpleasant, the second is they have significant sticking power, and third, the more liquid versions have an uncanny capacity to ooze into all handy cracks and crevices and to remain there forever. As rural vets we tend to live in the presence and smell of the stuff, but sometimes even we find that we have had enough and wish for a less odoriferous lifestyle.
I was reminded of this when I was asked to drop off a young black and white heading dog pup, inappropriately named Rock,
at a property I was flying to one afternoon. He had been in the clinic for several days recovering from a parvovirus infection. Rock was one of the lucky ones that had survived this horrible infection and had supposedly recovered. Unfortunately in my car on the way to the aerodrome I was suddenly assaulted with the obnoxious odour of parvo diarrhoea. The poor little fellow had had a bad accident which was now flowing off the edges of the paper lining the bottom of the cage and all over the rear seat. The dysentery resulting from a parvovirus infection has a very distinctive odour to it — a strong objectionable and sickly one that permeates the environment. The smell is almost diagnostic of the disease. Despite a good scrub of the seat next day that odour took months to disappear from the car. Oh how I craved the old familiar smell of my car back again, the one that all vets’ cars have, unpleasant to many but not us.
But that wasn’t the end of the saga. After I had placed the cleaned-up Rock on the back seat of the plane I was using that day, the Marlborough Aero Club’s Piper Cub BPG, and had taken off for Graham Black’s property in the Awatere Valley, I got the pong again. Looking behind me I could see him heaving and squirting all at the same time. The force of his vomiting was also inducing projectile diarrhoea, both emissions paying no attention to the paper carefully placed in the cage under him. There was nothing I could do but fly on.
As BPG was frequently used by a number of aero club pilots I was not a popular person around there for some time until the smell finally disappeared. I was even less popular when, a few months later, and probably just after the odour had finally disappeared, the much-loved aircraft blew over and was written off after a flight into the Sounds (see page 62).
One of the few negative aspects of flying to the job is landing on an airstrip or paddock where cows have just been grazing. This often happened when I flew to outback yards to pregnancy test cows. Flying, instead of driving for hours, saved a huge amount of time and invariably allowed me to visit two or three properties in the same day. Frequently the herds would have been mustered in the previous day and had spent the night camped and defecating in the paddocks where I was expected to land. So when the wheels ploughed through the piles of dung on landing, as well as taking off, they would flick up the offending material to cake the underside of the wings and fuselage. As it might be days, and I confess to weeks sometimes, before I got around to washing it off, the dung would be seriously caked on and take some shifting. It was not easy for a not-so-supple back to get under a low-wing plane. I hate to think how much drag the thick layer of faecal cake was also causing.
Old Dogs New Tricks Page 8
