Rural ramblings 3: nearly chicken licken

12 May 2007

By Patrick Vickery

We were up at six-thirty. The sun was a moon, outside was a gloom and my first task was to feed the animals.

A couple of roe deer assessed the situation through a misty haze as I administered to the hens, ducks and goats before returning indoors to feed the dogs, eject the cat before it did something unspeakable in the plant pot and restock the dishwasher with crockery that still retained traces of sausage casserole from the previous night's supper.

The sun appeared with a licence to chill, the cat shivered on the patio steps (if looks could kill), and we decided to take one of the dogs down to the beach for a stroll.

Good idea. Lock the house, quick wave to the nesting ducks in the hanging basket (a sort of "how are you, ducks?"kind of wave), dog in the car, then up the drive past the big fat hen roosting on the nonchalant goat to the receding sounds of the 'left behind' dogs wailing in disbelief that we could possibly have gone without them, as we headed for Nigg beach with its panoramic views of outsized sheds, oil rigs and Cromarty village.
The dog, a golden retriever (a bit smelly at times, but a lovely animal) gambled the sands as we ambled, all was tranquillity and peace, the only sound to be heard the chug of a tug boat and the screech of a seagull.

Then it happened.

The dog spotted a seagull bobbling on the water. It was a view with a thrill, a licence to kill, a seagull bobbling was a seagull for gobbling, so she headed out to sea towards Cromarty with no intention of coming back.

My wife, Liz, calmly hailed the passing tug boat (how extraordinary is that, eh?) which duly redirected the naughty dog back to shore as I gibbered and jabbered in a state of panic on the beach.
Dog on the lead, dog in the car, head to the nearest shop for whisky for the tug boat crew (not many shops near Nigg, you know) and then return home, down the drive past the big fat hen roosting on the nonchalant goat, to be greeted by a crescendo of noise from the 'left behind' dogs still wailing in disbelief that we could possibly have left them behind in the first place.

Later that day, relaxing in the lounge over coffee and carrot cake, the cat emerged from nowhere and did something unspeakable in the plant pot, the naughty dog ate it and the phone rang in the kitchen.
It was a dilemma. Chastise the cat, chastise the dog or answer the phone? I answered the phone, just as the offending dog put his head in the dishwasher to peruse the crockery which still contained remnants of last night's supper.

I put one foot in the dishwasher to deter the dog and attended to the phone call balanced on the other foot, at which point the doorbell rang. The phone call was a brief one: "Got it," I replied. "Must go now, dog's in the dishwasher, someone's at the door, cat's misbehaving."

I ejected the casserole slobbering dog and the disgraced cat through the front door past a startled looking couple 'cold-calling' about the state of my soul. "Not a good day for my soul," I grunted, as the nesting ducks in the flower basket squawked something unrepeatable and deposited duck muck on my shoulder, "Cat's done the plant pot, dog's in the dishwasher."

And with that, the friendly soul redeemers beat a hasty retreat up the drive past the big fat hen and the nonchalant goat to return another day. Bad timing, that was all, tomorrow would be a better day.

This article first appeared in the Ross-shire Journal and on the Rural Gateway website

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