The thing in the garden

There is a thing in my garden.

I say "thing" because I am not sure what it is. As a result we haven't been able to set the internal security alerts for the cottage for a number of days.

Finn and me, (Finn is the kitten for those who can't remember) were sitting on the stoep this morning discussing the latest developments. The "thing" arrives at night and is fond of making a funny screeching noise at around 4 am. It doesn't eat mushrooms as it can be seen sniffling around two huge mushrooms but hasn't tried to eat them. The thing also left strangely delicate footprints on the stoep and freakily the one window. It ate the mongoose's apples.

As we were having our discussion I was having coffee and Finn was trying to drape himself around my neck like those fake fox-furs worn by ladies in the 1920s.

Jean-Luc the mongoose came to see what the early morning discussion was about.

"Do you have an evil twin that we do not know about?" I asked. Jean-Luck shrugged in the manner of the French and looked longingly at his apple bowl.

"It ate your apples," I say with all the dramatic tone I can muster at 7 am in the morning. (Not so easy with a kitten pretending to be a fake fox fur around your neck.

Jean-Luc boxed the air in outrage.

I looked up to the tree where Christopher the Bat was settling in for his day-time snooze. "You are nocturnal," I say. "Didn't you see anything?" Christopher winked in a godfather-like manner that makes me fear that I will find a severed horsehead in the bed tonight.

Next the geese descended for their early morning bread. They saw nothing, they seemed to say but they looked like they were lying.

Resident tortoise Stanton saw nothing. Clive, the owl, just looked like he would advise that we embrace "the thing" instead of fighting it.

So as me and my fake fox fur kitten went to see Rambo, the frog. Who promised to protect us. Unless the thing eats it first.

Will be waiting with the flashlight tonight....

Otherwise I am phoning the neighbourhood watch.

What fresh hell is this?

Have been away for a few days. Returned to find small country street taken over by feral cattle.

Phoned municipality's helpline. Nobody answered. I guess it was because it was a public holiday. Resisted the urge to panic as they filled up space in front of gate to eat grass.

I am not a fan of cows, or cattle or bulls or, for that matter, anything in the bovine family really - unless presented as well matured steak on a plate.

So, honestly, I found myself repeating in my head: "What fresh hell is this?"

Shortly afterwards to my lovely kitten, Finn's great excitement it started raining with thunder and lightning to go with it.

This spooked the cows who tried to break open the gate. At this stage, for one second, I felt bad. I thought I might open the gate for them so that they can find some shelter under the trees. Then I checked my sympathy, looked at the spooky cow-shapes and thought: What fresh hell is this?

The cat, at this stage, was besides himself with excitement: Thunder, Lighting, Cows - everything a cat, like Finn, clearly wants in life. O yes and a big moth he found and proceeded to eat with relish.

I was thinking: "What fresh hell is this?"

Eventually I decided to leave the cattle out in the cold, so to speak.

Spent the evening with the moo-ing and generally messing up the lovely green grass on the sides of my driveway.

At 6h30 I was contemplating ways to get to work as I doubt the boss would take a note saying: Driveway blocked by feral cattle. Was too scared to leave house.

Then the geese, like ghostly security guards, descended onto the cattle - poor cows must have had the fright of their lives - but they trotted down the street and where they went to bother my paranoid neighbours-of-the-duck-stealing-and-the-roaming-security-light.

I almost saw the leader of the geese put on his sunglasses saying: "I love it when a plan comes together."

I am taking back everything rude I ever said about the geese.

The return of the geese

So the geese are back...

For those who do not know the geese, they are the six, formerly seven but Stanley-of-the-one-foot died, uncontrollable, troublemaking, champion avian wrestling, peaocock-chasing guardians of the cottage. Officially known as Egyptian Geese, Alopochen aegyptiaca in Latin and "O bloody hell not you again"in the vernacular of the cottage.

About six weeks ago, when Port Elizabeth was struck with particularly hot weather, the geese disappeared. Now I realise they must have stolen an old lady's Lotto money and used it to go on a luxury liner cruise where they ate lots of ice-cream and harassed the waiters.

This morning over morning coffee I thought it wise to catch them up.

"We have a bat now. His name is Christopher and apart from one unfortunate sojourn into the house he has since learned his place and now provides an elegant though slightly evil presence to the ambiance of the cottage by hanging in the tree, stealing the mongooses' apples and giving the "stare of doom" to all who do not belong at the cottage.

The geese seemed fairly impressed with Christopher although they seemed a bit worried about the grammar in the explanation.

"Yes, that is the plural of mongoose," I said and since when do you care so much about grammar?

"As you now figured out," I continued, "Jean-Luc has a new friend, so the amount of apples they get doubled, but that still does not mean that there are any for you."

As if on cue Jean-Luc who has been in a sulky mood of late made an appearance looking fairly happy to see the geese.

Then I realised why.

"Yes," I said. "We also have a cat now. His name is Finn. He can come in the house because there is no possibility that he has rabies," I said looking at the sulky mongoose. "And yes, Rambo, the frog, has disappeared but it has nothing to do with the kitten. Also the swallows have left for warmer climates with strict instructions that we mustn't destroy their house again," I said. "The owls, Clive and Mrs. Clive and baby Clive are still around as is Stanton the tortoise and the little brown morning-alarm bird and we are still visited occassionally by the peacock, the horse and the pig. All is well."

At this point he geese descended in what I can only assume was a lively discussion of the new arrival at the cottage.

"No you cannot eat the kitten or take it for flights or swims in the dams," I said. The geese looked disappointed.

"And you are not to laugh when I rescue him from the tree. And no Jean-Luc I am not taking you for blood-tests to confirm that you are not carrying rabies. You still cannot get into the house."

Then, with great noise, inelegant flapping of wings and terrible sqwaking, the hadeedahs landed on the lawn for their morning. The geese looked shocked.

"You see what happens when you just pack up and leave without notice?" I ask.

They looked shocked for a second but then set about their old energetic-hadeedah chasing ways.

All is again as it should be. (Am buying Finn some pepper spray to be on the safe side).

Meet Christopher

In the fashion of all proper fairy tales, the cottage now has its own villian.

It is a bat. His name is Christopher, resident narcissist, apple stealer and drama queen. He is not pleasant, but he looks a little like Mickey Mouse so it will be very difficult for me to put a hit out on him - even though I know a frog. He operates at night. Hangs upside down during the day and can play dead very effectively if the need arises. (The need arises quite often as I have now had a small array of charming, willing people at the cottage all wanting to remove him from the immediate vicinity of my favourite tree).

Christopher's presence makes me roll my eyes to the sky often wondering out loud why the universe would send me quite such a troublesome creature at a time that I stopped eating chocolate.

He arrived, quite unexpectedly, at the cottage right in the middle of a heatwave. He woke me up flapping about. I implemented my strange-creature-in-the-house-emergency-plan. Step 1: Do not switch on light as light might confirm that the situation is as bad as you think it is. Step 2: Convince self that flapping thing in house is small swallow that again missed the turn to nest and ended up in house. (This happens quite often). Step 3: Stop googling "do birds fly at night." Step 4: Consider calling father or some other form of help. Dismiss plan because of nice, considerate nature. Step 5: Check if all innoculations up to date. Don't switch on light as might confirm presence of bat. Rather read by light of cellphone which will make bat swoop around in fashion of crazy villian. Step 6: Close bedroom door as still is save from bat flapping and get some sleep. Step 7: Deal with problem in the morning if still cannot convince self that bat left on own accord.

The next day, while I had guests over for lunch, with impeccable dramatic timing, Christoper dropped from behind a painting onto the floor where he played dead. Lucky I had a glass of bubbly in hand as resusciation tool and a father on hand who heroically folded him up in a copy of the Weekend Post, like an evil package of fish and chips, and took him outside.

You might all think that I am overreacting now, but wait until you see a bat fly. They are just so damn evil. They sort of slither around in the air and in Christopher's case did not even have the decency to look upset about the whole embarrasing-falling-down-from-behind-the-painting-during-lunch thing.

I thought that after the swift justice dealt by my dad, he would have been too scared to come back. But noooo not Christopher. The next night as I was taking out some apples for Jean-Luc the mongoose, I saw something twinkle in the moonlight. There he was hanging on a branch of my favourite tree.

"You can't come in," I say. He twinkled his eyes at me. "And I want to suggest that you find another tree, the geese will drive you nuts. (The geese still haven't returned from their recent sojourn to the dam where they do make their presence known at all hours by clearly terrorising all water creatures in the vicinity.)

Unfortunately I also, in a moment of great bravery, evicted Rambo the frog from the garage, so we didn't even have any froggy firepower.

Jean-Luc and I looked at each other. We both rolled our eyes.

"We have owls," I said. "And a veritable neighbourhood watch of stealth ninja-swallows. I don't think you must stay, for your own safety."

Christopher twinkled his eyes at me.

I left it at that.

The next morning I phoned for assistance. Got a long sermon pointing out that bats "can be territorial." Bloody hell.

Joined Jean-Luc and Christopher for another chat on the stoep.

"Are you territorial?" I asked. Christopher twinkled his little eyes at me and scratched his ear in a way that makes me think he means more terrorist than territorial.

I roll my eyes again, looking at Jean-Luc. "Why do we always get the territorial ones?" I ask.

Jean -Luc look at me clearly asking: "I know!!!!!!!! They are all like Rambo." Jean-Luc pretended not to like Rambo, but like me he is a little sad that our friend now lives in the dam with the geese.

I proceeded to tell Christopher about the day the swallows evicted Awful-Noise-Bird from the cottage. He didn't look scared. In fact I am quite sure he waited until I was inside to eat the last of Jean-Luc's apples.

So yesterday Helpful-person-who-do-dirty-jobs-I-am-too-scared-to-do arrive at the cottage with a plastic bag, looked around tree, plucked Christopher from his little sleeping perch and left.

"You don't have a nest, only this one," he said walking away rather purposefully with Christopher in bag.

Of course I felt like a gangster who just paid someone to take someone else "out" in Godfather way not in dating way. Jean-Luc looked elated. I just felt bad until the evening when I realised that Christopher was back again cheerfully waving his evil little wings from the tree - making me regret the thought that a territorial, slightly evil twinkle in the eye is so damn hard to find.

Melting...

It has been incredibly hot in Port Elizabeth.

Melt the mascara off the eyes hot. Can't wear high heels hot.

Ice-cream for dinner hot. Except I have to make smoothies as I can't have ice-cream due to chocolate ban - 28 days and counting. Whoohoo.

I have forcibly evicted the frogs from the garage for their own survival.

Jean Luc, the mongoose, has been swimming in the bird bath. He must be very dirty or possibly peeing in the water as now all the birds refuse to bath there. Instead I have to turn the sprinkler on for them.

The peacock possibly died of heatstroke as I haven't seen him for days. Stanton only peek out of shell every now and again as if to avoid the vigourous shaking I gave him when I though the neighbour killed him by driving over him with a tractor.

 
The owls look hungry. I guess catching a mouse in this heat  will be like catching a piece of biltong. I don't like the way they are looking at Jean-Luc however.

The geese have left the building and are camping out at the damn 24/7 where they intimidate the ducks and have violent goose-water-wrestling matches.

As a result the band of Hadidahs have returned to their old unfortunate ways of sitting on the roof in the morning. It annoys the geese no end, but there is nothing they feel like doing about it.

The horse have not tried to escape. Neither has the big. Both are keeping to the shade.

Even Crazy Brown Bird only pecks a few times at a single window every morning before he collapses under the sprayer.

And that says a lot.

Mistaken identity and the miracle tortoise

This morning as I am about to leave for work there was the customary shouting at the gate indicating that company had arrived.

I look out the window to see neighbour-of-the-wandering-pets standing there looking grave. After quickly checking that there wasn't any desperate horses or pigs hiding behind him wanting to get in, I opened the gate.

"I killed Clive," he says looking like he is about the burst into tears.

"Clive, no not Clive..." I say. "Where?"

"I drove over him with the lawnmower," he said.

Now, unfortunately Clive (it is the owl for those of you who haven't been paying attention) has a very dangerous habit of sitting on the tar road at night.

"Are you sure it is Clive?" I ask. "It is not perhaps Mrs. Clive or Baby Clive? I heard them on the roof last night."

"It is Clive," the neighbour said somberly.

A long, rather complicated and absurd explanation followed about males and femals that I couldn't quite follow partially because I only had one cup of coffee and partially because the neighbour likes to use scientific names for animal parts that sometimes is beyond me. (Turns out there was another reason too...)

"Can I see him," I ask. "Maybe I can keep one of his feathers."

"Feathers?" neighbour asks looking perplexed.

"Yes, you know, feathers."

"But it is Clive we are talking about?" he says.

"Yes it is," I say. "He is not Clive the great featherless owl. He had feathers."

"So who is the tortoise then?" the neighbour asks.

"Stanton? What happened to him?"

"Let me rephrase," he said. "I killed Stanton."

"Stanton? No. That is terrible. What happened?"

"I drove over him with the lawnmower."

Turns out that that was unfortunately true. All was, however, not lost.

Walked over to where Stanton lied. Picked him up. He stuck his little head out. Looked at me funny.

"You are not dead," I said. Stanton looked outraged as one does when one is woken from tortoise slumber.

I checked his shell. "And you haven't cracked up either," I say laughing.

Stanton didn't get the joke, but I guess if a lawnmover drove over me early in the morning I would also not be in the best of moods.  

"I hope this will teach you not to fall asleep in long grass again," I said.

And then I started my day with my half-broken miracle tortoise under the arm and Clive safely on the rooftop.

Counting man and city ways

I have given up chocolate until Easter - and no am not ready to discuss it - I am mentioning it up front as an excuse for the bizarre story that follows.

Most of my friends know how incredibly curious I am. Calling it curious is actually nice. It should be called something with the words chronic and/or pathological in front of it. Sometimes I also have a shocking lack of boundaries.

People who gym in the first few days of January are either die-hard gym fans or those, like me, who feel guilty about spending most of their awake hours in December lying in a hammock, on a beach or sitting on Ouma's stoep with a glass of bubbly in hand.

Some of the people at my gym are always there. If I gym in the mornings they are there. If I gym in the evening they are there - and they don't work there.

One of these people is a rather big (as in muscled) man who always counts repetitions out loud. I don't have words to describe how much this annoys me - especially as sometimes he counts wrong and then all I can do is start to listen to him grunt-counting his many, many, many repetitions he do to catch him making a mistake again.

I am sure he is a lovely person. He sure will be handy to have around in a flood, or a storm or a fight for that measure. Maybe just not where the necessity to count to more than ten is needed. O yes and he drinks with his mouth open (I am often very bored at gym hence all the detailed observations).

In any event last night I leave gym happily on my way to feed the geese, make sure that Awful-Noise bird hasn't returned, put the sprayer on for crazy Brown-Bird and his subcontractors and have a chat to Jean-Luc who seems rattled by the Awful-Noise bird incident.

In the car parked next to mine is the counting man. And he looks dead or at best for him asleep. City instincts say drive away fast and pretend you didn't see. Port Elizabeth instincts say ask him if he is ok.

I drove away. Then turned around. Went back. Convinced self that he had a heart attack or something worse. (Can you have something worse than a heart attack?) Went back to find him still in car, still sleeping or dead.

Knocked on window.

Counting man who is clearly not dead or possibly named Lazarus woke up.

Asked if all was fine.

Counting man smiled as if I am princess on white horse (&^%$#$%!!!). Explained that sleep in car between gym sessions.

Asked why.

Regretted it.

Treated to long tale of woe about the cut throat body building business.

Tempted to say that counting man must stopping skipping from 63 to 76 when doing repetitions, might be better for body building purposes.

Didn't say a thing.

Smiled politely and left counting man to his nap.

Returning to city ways.

Jean Luc agrees as long as city ways involve having a pet mongoose.

New arrivals and old friends

This morning while gathering my wits before I get up, I was startled by the worst screeching I ever heard at my bedroom window.

I will admit that my first thought was that the geese had finally managed to kill somebody or something.

I walked out on the stoep to see what they have done. Turns out nothing. I was greeted though by a strange looking bird with a voice that makes nails on a blackboard sound like Beethoven.

"What the hell! Who are you?" I asked.

The bird made a terrible noise.

Even the geese looked startled.

"Where did you come from?"I asked.

The bird answered - am only assuming that the horrible sound meant somewhere where there were lots of deaf people.

"You can't be pecking on the bedroom window this early in the morning," I said. " That is the little brown bird's job - and if he is not available he has subcontracted to the finches. We have no space for another window-pecking bird. The vacancy is filled."

At this stage I must say little brown bird looked on proudly and pecked away even more energetically than usual.

Awful-Noise-Bird flew to the birdhouse where he ate almost all the breakfast seeds in big beaksful.

"I am not sure if we have space for another eccentric at the cottage," I say.

Awful-noise-bird made that sound again.

The geese looked on in horror. The ducks were trying to hide under each other's bums.

"The noise will have to stop," I say putting down apples for Jean-Luc (the mongoose). "You are disturbing the peace. Jean-Luc was peering around the corner at the horrible new thing.

At this stage I saw Rambo hopping into the garage confirming my suspicions that he really did spend his nights making dark plans with other members of the froggy mafia.

Awful-Noise-Bird continued his one-sided conversation - and then he tried to eat Jean-Luc's apples! Jean-Luc charged at Awful-noise bird but thought better of it and retreated to the tree where he started digging, what I presumed was a trench for when he co-opted Rambo in a strange and mysterious froggy-mongoose way to assassinate Awful-Noise-Bird.

Then the one swallow peered out the nest. Next all four of them attacked awful-noise-bird. Well well...and here I thought the geese were the aggressive ones.

Awful noise bird retreated 30 m away. He flew into the high branches of a tree and sat there complaning loudly.

"Thank you," I said to the swallows. "I couldn't take it either anymore. I will forgive you the awful mess you make on the stoep every day. You are my true friends.

I hope Awful-Noise-Bird got the message loud and clear. Otherwise I will need to have a chat to a frog and a mongoose.