Badgers versus farmers

The debate about badgers and bovine TB has revived now that the Government has decided against a nationnwide cull.

You never hear a sensible debate on the matter - farmers hate badgers and badger-lovers won't hear a word said against them.

I wonder if this farmer has the answer:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/environment/2007/nov/14/guardiansocietysupplement.wildlife

Driftwood, a robin and an aching back

Here are a couple of examples of driftwood. On the left is a mirror, decorated with specially selected sticks. The other is a piece artfully photographed to resemble Durdle's Door or some such geological feature.

http://www.getmydrift.info/

Hetty and Pixie

Leafing through an old issue of Computer Active, the only computer magazine that I have a hope of understanding, I came across an article recommending 50 useful websites. The article might still be there, although I can’t find it easily myself.

A lot of them I’d already found for myself. Cinema sites such as IMDb; a pub guide; cricket; Google Earth; Delia Smith on food; etc, etc.

* * *

But one site I would never have thought to seek out is Cat of the Day.

It’s twee, it’s cute, it’s what it says on the tin: a daily picture of someone’s moggy. But cats are not cute. They are the tiger in your living room.

Over the last twenty years two of the creatures have added my home to their territory.

HETTY was the first. Hetty, because we didn’t realise at first that he was a tom. We never had him neutered, or castrated as I prefer to call it. There were various reasons for this anti-social omission.

First, he was a fine cat and deserved to have his genes preserved. Second, the tabby cat in general is in danger, with people wanting to show off their wealth with pedigrees and other designer cats. In any case, it’s the female’s job to worry about contraception, isn’t it? (Only joking). Third, as a fellow male, I felt a kinship with him and couldn’t bear the thought of mutilating him in that horrendous way. I did consider a vasectomy for him, after he’d had a busy year or two impregnating the local queens, but that brought me up against the fourth reason: sheer bloody stinginess.

I did have to take him to the vet once. Playing cricket with one of my children in the back garden, I tossed the ball towards the bat, and as the child swung to hit it, Hetty appeared out of nowhere to try and catch the ball.

He was laid out cold and remained so for an hour or two.

The vet hummed and haahed, prescribed some tablets and suggested tests. By the time of the test results, three days later, by which time Hetty was bounding around like a kitten, the vet informed us there was nothing wrong and presented a large bill.

Hetty would be away for days on end, and we learned not to worry, but then came the time when we knew he would never return. Perhaps he had hopped onto a lorry that was often parked nearby and ended up in Grimsby. Perhaps that neighbour had carried out his threat to shoot him if he trespassed on his garden again. Perhaps he found a better place to stay.

For he never belonged to us. And that’s why I loved him.

* * *

PIXIE, who replaced Hetty, was a female. Like Hetty she was black and white, and beautiful. (The pictured cat is very like her).

I always assumed it was a sexual thing that Hetty took to my wife more than me, but with Pixie mine was her lap of preference. Every day, when I returned home from work, she would be waiting for me and as I pulled the car into the drive she would trot towards it in greeting. But when I got out of the car and walked towards her she would turn her back and ignore me. At all costs she must remain cool and keep her distance. Our relationship was strictly on her terms.

Two things I found she had difficulty in resisting. Being groomed with a comb. I envied the sensual pleasure she seemed to derive from the stroke of the comb under her chin. The other was marmite. I discovered that the greatest treat for her was licking a dollop of the spread from the tip of my finger. So rough was her tongue that my finger was left totally unsticky. A genuinely shared pleasure.

Desmond Morris once called a domestic cat ‘the tiger in your living room’, and he was quite right. The last time I saw a tiger, in a zoo, I was struck by the way it walked or rather slunk along, head down but wary, ears flicking, hind quarters low-slung and ready to pounce.

Pixie always hunted. I used to watch her in the back garden, sitting under a buddleia eyeing the butterflies and occasionally grabbing one out of the air. I’ve seen her stalking through flowers and emerging with something furry in her teeth, a tail dangling from her mouth. Once she took this victim and placed in what I would swear was the geometric centre of the lawn and lay it down. Then she moved several yards away and watched. The prey – vole, shrew – scuttled towards the safety of the bushes. But in vain, because Pixie would wait until it was inches from shelter before bounding over and catching it. The process began again. Eventually, either through boredom or as a reward for passing her own test, she ate it.

Let’s not apply anthropomorphic sentimentality to a wild animal. Let’s admire the perfection of its predatory instincts and skill.


PIXIE’S KITTENS were born in the middle of the night on my daughter’s bed. One fell to the floor and it was its scream for help – a scream so shrill and piercing that it was difficult to believe so tiny a creature could utter it – that woke me. I picked it up and placed it with the others, which were already suckling.

I believe I saved that little cat’s life. So much for not interfering with nature!

While the four kittens were chasing balls of rolled up newspaper, fighting with each other and flattening the flowerbeds, Pixie was driven to a hunting frenzy. At least once a day we would hear her summoning yowl at the kitchen window and she leapt in with some dead creature. There followed a scramble for the prize, and I noticed that the kitten I prided myself for saving usually missed out. He remained the runt, even in a small litter of four.

I’d found homes for them all, but heard that I should wait twelve weeks before parting them from their mother. I needn’t have been told, because Pixie knew. For at that time, to the day, she rejected them. She was lying on the floor, and when the kittens approached to nuzzle at her belly she snarled and spat and clawed them away. They sat back, expressions of shock on their faces – or was that me transferring my own reaction to them? But if cats can shrug their shoulders that’s what they did next.

A few days later they departed for their new homes.

Pixie is old now, bad-tempered and weak, but she still enjoys being groomed and still has her own personal jar of Marmite. She may have grown old but she retains the desire for certain pleasures. I know how she feels.

Birds, Biltong and Batsmen

I’m pleased to report that last year’s song thrush is back. At least he looks similar. I also saw a heron the other day, and a pied wagtail. (I was with someone who knows about these things).

* * *
Morning

553 for 5. That’s how it ended last night. Not bad at all.

A day of records – only the second time four England players have scored a century in one innings, and Prior the first England wicket-keeper to score one on debut.

Pity we couldn’t have had a bowl at them before stumps, but as someone said, get the runs now, while it’s easier than it will be on the last day. And it might be best to grind them into the dust until, say, lunch today and take away all hope.

I’ve read the West Indies’ attack described as being less than world standard. But they’re not Zimbabwe. This is not going to be a pushover.

I hear there’s a football match going on at the same time today.

Later

I said the Windies would give us a run for our money. Beautiful aggressive batting from Ramdin and Bravo, showing others how to deal with Panesar, who himself demonstrated the nerve, not to mention stamina, needed by a spin bowler. Great bat-bowl contest.

Prior showed that he’s a pretty competent keeper. A pity that he had had to show it by reducing the runs Steve Harmison would otherwise have given away in wides. And it's worrying about Hoggard. I hear he missed the birth of his son in order to play for England. That's the kind of man we need in the team.

It’s shaping up nicely, as they say in tabloid-land.

* * *

And now, with acknowledgements and apologies to Stanley Holloway, Marriot Edgar and the PC police, here’s a monologue based on an incident I’m told is true.

‘T’were a few year ago, one September,
In this tale that I’m going to relate,
When t’king of some African country
Came to London on visit o’ state.

He were due to 'ave dinner with H.M. the Queen
Which didn’t quite please the old dear.
‘I’ll bet the blighter eats peas off his knife
and doesn’t drink nowt but beer.’

The Prime Minister told her, all smarmy-like,
‘Don’t fret thi'sen, ma’am, said he.
‘For after he’d finished at spear-throwing school,
He studied at L.S.E.’

Besides, said PM, all ‘aughty and grand,
In ‘is white tie and tails and ‘is topper.
The ‘ole thing’s in aid of good will and peace.
And we're after ‘is diamonds and copper.

All right, said Queen, but gave him the look
That folk get when they’re sent to the Tower,
‘For England, our realm, we will do this deed,
But the man’s still an absolute shower.’

His Majesty brought dozen wives with ‘im,
Just enough, but not the ‘ole set.
They came in the baggage compartment
Of an 'Elephant Air' jumbo jet.

He were just a bit peeved by the Customs -
Kept waiting he were for a while -
As they checked out his sackfuls of ganja
And examined his pet crocodile.

They ‘ung onto his assegai, then let ‘im go,
To be greeted by Prince Phil and Queen.
The pageant and pomp and the circumstance
Were grandest old lad had yet seen.

Guardsmen marched by wearing busby ‘ats;
There were flags of bright red, white and blue;
There was biltong, and bush tea, and coconuts.
Aye, an’ old ale and sandwiches too.

The Queen gave king a couple of jars
Of honey from Prince of Wales’ hives
The queen got some cheese made from lioness milk
And Philip got one of the wives.

The Queen took king on to Buckingham House
In a carriage all way up the Mall.
Crowds, they were deep, and folk cheered like mad
They tret lad just like an old pal.

He waved to the crowds, all the way, did king,
With a big grin that showed he were pleased,
While Philip were whispering in new wife’s ear
And queen were nibbling on t’cheese

Four milky white horses, all thoroughbreds,
Were pulling the plush regal cart,
When a silly old mare at back let go
Wi’ a right royal, thunderous fart.

An un’oly ‘ush settled down on the crowd.
T’king were too non-plussed to speak,
And when t’orse repeated her lez-majesty
Prince Phil started swearing in Greek.

But Queen, dear old soul, is allus cool.
She ‘andles such gaffes wi’ great skill.
Australians, Frenchmen and Flatulence -
Such things are mere grist to ‘er mill.

So with lady-like handkerchief over her nose,
She said, ‘What a nasty mishap.
We are sorry, Your Majesty, that this transpired.
O do please forgive us, old chap.’

‘Indeed, lass,' said king, all gentleman-like,
'Forgive thee I will, but of course.
Though between me and thee, if I may speak so free
I thought at the time it were ’orse.’

Cricket and Crows

I don’t mind being up at 5.30 in the morning, at least not at this time of year. It’s quiet and peaceful, bright and clear. Despite a slight ache at the back of my eyes, so am I.

Dozens of invisible birds are singing, although I think I’ve missed the dawn chorus by a couple of hours. I often wish I could identify them, but I think that’s a yet another skill I will have to forgo. I see that one of our local nature parks has a ‘dawn chorus walk’, which involves turning out at four in the morning to wander the woods round being told what you’re listening to. I wonder if you can combine it with the ‘bat walk’ at dusk and some sort of nocturnal creatures walk in between. You could call it ‘Bats, badgers and birdsong’.

* * *

England’s cricket team created what the press described as a sound platform yesterday and ‘are in a strong position, going into the second day.’ Cook – and I’m pleased to see him doing well, because he’s a class batsman and has had trouble establishing himself – is ‘well set’. Let’s see. He and Collingwood, ‘Mr Reliable’, have to start again this morning. Cook has just got his century and that often seems to have a negative psychological effect on a batsman, as if they’re thinking the job’s done and they can stop concentrating. I often think it would be a good idea to scrap all the records of century-makers and make 150 the score that was commemorated.

What’s happening to umpires? Another shambles over bad light yesterday. It seems that ever since Darrel Hare was hounded out last year they’ve totally lost their grip.

Just a mention of football. Lincoln City lost in the play-offs and it’s for the best. They are not a Division One team. And Lincoln won’t have to endure visitations by Leeds after all.

* * *

I received some feedback from the RSPB the other day about the Big Garden Birdwatch for which I spent an hour staring out of the window in January.

I was surprised at how few birds I actually saw, but apparently that was a common report. The experts attribute that to the mildness of the weather, which meant that birds were not so dependent on domestic gardens to find food. That’s looking on the bright side.

It still seems to be a fact that the most common birds, sparrows and starlings, are declining. Finches and tits are doing well, but for me the most worrying trend is the decline of the song thrush (or the mavis as it was once called). The last thrush I saw was some time last year. It was a friendly creature, not exactly tame but quite happy to look up from pecking at the ground only a couple of yards from me and exchange greetings as I walked by.

We have plenty of crows, who strut along the middle of the road, arrogant and scruffy. I was watching a couple of them stalking a cat the other day. I noticed a cat ambling across a field behind my flat and realised that two crows were following it, one to the left, one to the right. The cat was attempting an air of nonchalance, but its tail was wagging. Each time it slowed down the crows would hop forward to urge it on, occasionally flapping into the air. They must have pursued it for 50 yards before they decided that it had left their territory and learned its lesson.

* * *

Men can get into trouble these days when attempting to tell a woman how attractive she is. Might a modern phrase be more politically correct? How about ‘fit for purpose’.

The Creature

A friend of mine, Ken, likes to take a long walk each morning, usually round a local nature reserve. It's his habit to stop off in one the hides, where he can smoke a cigarette and watch kingfishers on the lake and observe a friendly hedgehog who lives nearby. He doesn't seem to be bothering to hibernate this year. He seems to like bananas, by the way. The hedgehog, that is, not just my friend.

Sometime before Christmas, Ken heard a rustling in the hide. It came from above his head, where there is some sort of shelf. He thought a bird might be nesting there, but when managed to see it, it appeared to have fur and so might be a bat.

However, are they any bats which don't hang upside down when at rest?

Rather bravely, I think, Ken reached out to touch it. Sure enough, it felt furry, but it immediately started hisssing and spitting. It even squirted piss at him.

The thing was there the next day and for the next three months. Various conversations took place and various suggestions were made, the most popular being that it was a Tasmanian devil, or simply that Ken was hallucinating after a heavy night. Eventually Ken managed to take a photograph of it. (And I have just managed to download it and add it to this post. It's in the wrong place, but I'm definitely not trying to move it.)

It looks like a blue tit's tail sticking out of a spherical nest, but the 'nest' is the creature's body, which is about the size of a man's fist.

The photo was passed around and eventually someone recognised it, we think. If true, this has to be the coincidence of the decade. A regular drinking companion of ours had managed to miss all conversations on this topic for weeks, but as soon as he saw the photo he said, 'That's my kakariki. It flew off last year.'

The kakariki is a New Zealand parakeet. It's name means 'small (or green) parrot in Maori. I have to confess that I'd never heard of it, though it is a popular pet.

So maybe the mystery is solved.

My Goldfish

I've had my fish for nigh on 9 years. I believe that's a pretty good age for a goldfish.

I like to think it's a female, although I've no idea how I'm supposed to confirm that. Her name is supposed to be Dolly but somehow 'the fish' is her only appellation. It's difficult to have a very personal relationship with a fish.

This is not to say she doesn't have a personality of sorts.

I have been dipping into The Book of General Ignorance, one of my Christmas presents. Fascinating stuff, packed with 'interesting facts' with which to impress and irritate others in conversation.

For example, Sir Walter Raleigh appears to most famous for things he did not do. Such as introduce tobacco and potatoes to England and spread out his cloak over a puddle for the queen. That's according to my book. It doesn't mention the story of a servant throwing a bucket of water over Raleigh when he found him smoking.

That's just reminded me. Turkeys. I don't suppose Raleigh introduce them either, but I must check whether their price has plummeted. this might be a good time to stock up.

But Dolly. She is a beautiful little fish, with long flowing fins which trail behind her as she glides effortlessly round her bowl. Her eyes are impressive too, the kind that demand Disneyesque lashes around them. I have known for a long time that it is a myth that she has a memory of 3 seconds. Not Dolly. She knows me and always seems to get excited when I enter the room, especially in the morning when she has come to expect food.

I'm convinced, from her body language, she likes company. It must be a boring life after all.

According to the book goldfish have a memory of at least 3 months and can distinguish between different shapes and colours. They can also learn to operate levers to release food.

Disappointingly, it appears to be a myth that a pregnant goldfish is called a 'twat'. So That's another 'interesting fact' to be consigned to the rubbish bin, along with Herr Titzling, Alfred's cakes and Robert the Bruce's spider.

The Big Garden Birdwatch

I thought it would be interesting to take part in ‘The Big Garden Birdwatch’. Another of my bright ideas.

I downloaded a recording sheet with its pictures of the 20 most common British birds. It was a little discouraging that I hadn’t realised that a pigeon isn’t just a pigeon; it can be a collared dove, a woodpigeon or a feral pigeon.

I decided to split my hour’s observation into two, half an hour looking out of the back window, across the council’s lawns, where feeding birds is FORBIDDEN, and over a school playing field. And then out of the front to look across the road towards houses where people actually have gardens.

For 10 minutes I saw nothing at all, and then a flock of small birds flashed past. What the hell were they? I quickly consulted the pictures. Sparrows? But I thought their tails were a bitty stubby. So, coal tits? I hoped to God they weren’t dunnocks.

I saw a couple of crows. That was easy enough. Then I saw something hovering high in the sky. Maybe a hawk of some kind. That would be a treat. But no, it was a seagull coasting around and caught by the wind.

Then a pair of magpies flew past. Two for joy. I wished them good morrow, as is the custom. There was a lot of avian activity on the other side of the playing field, where the houses are more affluent. We have to eat our own crumbs where I live.

I move to the front of the flat and drew the blinds back. Immediately I felt like a peeping Tom and it didn’t help that I’d only got a dressing-gown on. I closed the blinds again and peeked through. Oh Christ, that’s worse. I moved to the bedroom where there are net curtains and looked down. It was the first time I’d noticed that the old woman downstairs has got a bird-table, WHICH IS AGAINST THE RULES.

But it meant I got to see a few more birds. Sometimes the low hedge down there is buzzing with birds and there were half a dozen little fellows hopping about. I’d always thought they were chaffinches, but I noticed they’d got streaks on their back. Sparrows then.

One little chap was struggling with a large piece of bread, until a couple of blackbirds relieved him of it. Bastards!

And that was about it. A bit disappointing really. I wasn’t expecting golden eagles or peregrine falcons, but a few sparrows are hardly something you’d sell tickets for.

But I can see the fascination of birdwatching. They can be so graceful floating around in the sky, just the occasional stroke of the wings propelling them along. Or flapping furiously directly to some unknown destination. I love those swirling patterns of starlings, the deadly dives of hawks, and the evil courage of magpies. To see a kingfisher, or a woodpecker, or an owl is a privilege I’m rarely granted.

But I think that will do for one year. And I still don’t know whether those gulls were common or herring.

Pigs

Pigs are popular. I like pigs. After Eeyore, Piglet was my favourite character in Winnie the Pooh. I was always fond of piglets, with their big floppy ears too big for their bodies.

When I was at primary school I used to take buckets of left-overs from school dinners to the house next door, where a man kept a couple of pigs. It wouldn't be allowed today, of course. My father had a couple once.

Some pigs are not lovable. Those creatures in Hannibal, for example. And Richard III made a propaganda mistake in choosing the wild boar as his emblem.

Winston Churchill liked pigs. What was it he said? 'A dog looks up to you. A cat looks down on you. But a pig looks you in the eye and treats you as an equal'.

And they don't half taste nice.

Here are a few links:

http://pigofknowledge.blogspot.com/

http://sniff.numachi.com/pages/tiPIGINEB4.html

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pig/

Care of pets: code of conduct

An open letter to the Prime Minister

Dear Sir,

I attach below the thoughts of my friend Mr Cat on your government's proposed Animal Welfare Act, as dictated to me. I must emphasize that these views are his alone. I have, however, taken the liberty of replacing some his vocabulary with words more suitable for publication. Mr Cat lacks a formal education and is unused to polite society.

Old Bolingbroke.

My name is Michael Cat, and I am a cold-blooded killer. Have I got your attention? Now then. My old mate OB has told about this 'pet owners code of conduct' balderdash and I think it's a diabolical liberty. Oh yes.

A little bit about me. My old Mum, God bless her, had about 46 kittens. Good to me, she was, my old Mum. Till she threw me out, that is. Talk about shocked. There I am, snuggling up for a snack from the old mammary gland, when - Bang! - she gives me a clip round the ear so sharp I'm laid flat out with my paws in the air. Take yourself off,' she says, snarling like, 'and don't come back. It's time you stood on your own four feet, you idle little kitten. Tough old cat, my Ma. Made me what I am today.

Now, as rule, I'm a pretty cool geezer. Until I'm crossed, that is. And I'm fairly cheesed off by that Margaret Beckett who dreamed this baloney up. I'm not surprised you told her to push off to the Foreign Office where she can't do no harm. OB callled her and interfering old curmudgeon. He banged on something chronic when he read about it and threw the paper down on the kitchen floor. At least I'll have something to sit on if I don't feel like going out tonight. Mind you OB does go on a bit. Poor old beggar. I bet I'm the only one who'll listen to the boring old fellow.

Anyway, it appears that so-called pet owners are told to follow a load of rules about looking after the animals that live with them. If not, the old Bill will be round. If you're not feeding the parrot the right seed you'll be doing bird before you can say 'Pretty Polly'. It's all a lot of blessed mollycoddling - 0r should I say moggycoddling? Get it? Good that.

Now then, let's get a few things clear. I ain't no furry pet and I ain't got no beloved owner neither. I spend time with OB, I grant you, and he usually has a bit of food for me, but that's just friendship. Know what I mean? I ask you, if I kill a rat, he's welcome to a chunk of it, ain't he?

Anyway, I'm often round at an old girl's called Queenie. Big bird, very cuddly. What you might call 'tactile'. Always squeezing me against her upper torso. Gets a bit boring like, but I put up with it because she stocks a better class of cat food than OB. He just gets that cheap stuff in bent tins from Tesco's.

Now, I've noticed something funny about you human males. You're idea of mating is to find some female who don't like you and then live in the same house fighting like - well, like cat and dog - until the female kicks you out. That's where old Queenie is different. She's got lots of mates. And they don't mind that squeezing caper neither.

So, what am I going on about? I'll tell you. It's this. OB ain't got no pets. He did have a goldfish, but he poured that down the kasi when he was trying to clean it out, the daft clown. And he let the budgie fly out the window. He had a hamster as well, but I ate that.

Now, sex. No, hang about. I'll talk about that later. Keep you in suspenders, won't it? So what's this diet thing you go on about in your fatuous rules. Grub, right. Now, I don't mind the food old Bolly gives me, but as a rule I like to start the day with a light breakfast, like a shrew. Later on, maybe a mouse. But what tickles my taste buds is a plump young fledgeling. Handsome. and those feathers keep me nice and regular. I'll you something else. In season, butterflies make a very tasty nibble. Not a lot of people know that.

Ah, but them bleeding hearts in Hampstead don't like that, do they? They want to protect the little birdies from big bad me. So I'm supposed to wear a collar with a blinking bell on. and my address. What's that then? No formal fixed abode? I'll tell you, if they think I'm walking around an ID card, playing blooming 'Jingle Bells', they've got another blasted think coming. Stroll on!

And another thing, I'm supposed to be locked up at night. For my protection. For my protection! Do me a favour. Don't surprise me a bit, not with this foolish government. I mean, any bloke with a suntan and a towel round his head can be whisked off to Belmarsh just for saying 'Umshallah' and banged up for months while the bogies think up a charge.

Protection, my eye. Let me tell you, I can handle myself. kids don't bother me, not twice anyway. And dogs? Don't make me laugh. I could eat a Pekingese for breakfast. And those bully-boy Rottweillers don't sound so tough when I get on their back and start digging my claws in. They're big dogs, but they're out of condition. With me it's a full-time job. I hate soppy dogs, slobbering, servile things. So eager to please and be loved. It's pathetic.

The trouble with your dog is that it's overbred. All this pedigree cobblers. It's happening to us cats too. Do you know, I saw a couple of Siamese cats the other day. They were being taken for a walk. On a lead! Stone me, what a life! Have you seen those Yank ragdoll things. Should be drowned at birth. Genocide, I call it. They want to kill off all the decent cats in the country. And any that do get born are supposed to have their favourite organs cut off. Take it from me, any vet gets near me with a knife is going to lose a lot more than his eyeballs.

What is it about sex with you humans. I mean, you're all at it like rabbits, aren't you? Well, not OB, of course, poor old soul. So why do you want to stop me? I've got a right to raise a family. I know I don't actually raise them personally. That's female work. Delegation, like. But that's my culture, and you have to respect other cultures, don't you?

So, Tony, me old chuna, don't fret your little napper about 'enshrining my rights.' I'll look after them. You see, I've got freedom. I'm fancy free. I'm a feline cat, for God's sake. And you silly human beings should be worried about your freedom. I've heard all about your ID cards, your DNA registers, security cameras, on the spot fines and trials without juries, imprisonment without charge. Not to mention your jobs and wives and kids and bosses and mortgages. Breaks my bleeding heart, it does, you poor fools.

Anyway, OB tells me I've got to stop because he's fed up with being insulted and he's off down the pub. On the pull, more like. Some hope. As a mater of fact, I think I'll go out for a stroll myself. See if I can't find some nice pussy. Oh, come on, OB, I can say that, can't I? I'm a cat.

Michael Cat (signed on his behalf by Old Bolingbroke)

PS Humphrey was a friend of mine. Take care.