Chapter 11 – A Christmas Interlude

 It’s Christmas Eve 2025 and there are three small dogs snoring beneath my desk. I’ve just finished the last shift of the day – the last feeds, the lock ups, the final checks and all is finally in order.

It started with feeding Elsa and Mr Snow the two snowy owls. As usual as I threw their evening meal to them they reacted with warning hisses and raised wings. They have been with us for about eighteen months and yet for all the perceived wisdom of owls they have shown no level of intellect whatsoever. In fact I would go as far as to say that of all the different birds I have come into prolonged contact with over my life, owls must rank amongst the very dimmest. They get fed twice a day, they get talked to and they are shown no level of aggression yet they still see us as the enemy.

Walking out of the owl aviary I was immediately met by Arthur and Socks who were scaling the woodpile in impatient anticipation of being fed. Arthur and Socks came to the sanctuary together, being described as feral. They are however far from feral and have never shown any sign of wildness. Socks is cautious of everyone and baulks at being touched, Arthur on the other hand loves a good cuddle. They have their own small shed accessed by a catflap where they are fed and will shelter from the extremes of weather but generally they skulk around the sanctuary freely, living their individual lives. When food is en route they will appear from the shadows and gallop to their shed constantly checking over their shoulders to make sure that the bearer of their dinner is still behind them. There was excitement in their bouncing paws tonight and Arthur was particularly over exuberant, frequently jumping onto Socks’ back as they dashed down the path.

I then went to bring the ponies back into their paddock for the night. Earlier in the day I had let Bibs and Bobs the two welsh ponies out of their own field to roam freely around the unfenced spaces of the sanctuary. This allowed them some fresh grass to tug at, different smells to explore and less boggy terrain to walk or gallop over. They love it when they’re let out like this and we do it whenever we know there won’t be any comings and goings during the day. Letting them out is always easy, you only have to call them and walk towards their gate and they’ll get the message and be at the gate before you arrive. Getting them to get back into their paddock can sometimes be a little trickier. Naturally the best way to get any animal to do what you want it to do is to entice it with their favourite food, so with a bucket containing chopped carrots and pony nuts I called out in the fast approaching darkness to the two boys and shook the bucket energetically. This action alone will normally do the trick and the sound of pounding hooves on the ground will be quickly heard. Tonight the rattling of the bucket and the calling out met with no corresponding whinnying or thundering feet. There aren’t a great many places for two hefty ponies to hide so with the torch lighting my way I began to search for them all the while calling their names and shaking my bucket. They weren’t by the greenhouses, or the chickens, not by the compost heap or raised beds, they weren’t by the bonfire or behind the cabin or by the swings or up by the driveway gates. In fact it seemed that they were nowhere. Still I searched with a modicum of concern beginning to fill my stomach. I ventured down towards the ferret enclosure where I couldn’t imagine they would be, but I was beginning to run out of choices.

Nothing.

As I turned to walk back up the path towards the garage to start a second walk round I was mugged just as if I were in a dismal alley in a town. From the hedge on my left a large dark shape suddenly appeared from nowhere and snorted right into my face. I responded as any normal person would by screaming and in so doing my arm holding the bucket of pony treats spasmed causing the bucket to circle in the air allowing its contents to rain down on the floor.

It was without question a set up. One shape became two and I was unceremoniously jostled out of the way so that the two ponies could hoover up the treats that were lying on the ground. I knew they had temporarily beaten me as there was no way I could entice them back to their paddock whilst there were goodies readily available so I decided to get on with the remainder of my walk round.

The pygmy goats are pretty much independent. The four of them live as a small herd led by the matriarchal Lulu. They have no interest in forging a bond with us that extends beyond being fed and very occasionally receiving a back scratch. If it’s not raining they’ll be outside, if there is the tiniest spit of rain they will be sheltering in one of their sheds. Tonight, as there had been two drops of rain about three hours previously, they were sheltering together in their hut when I checked in on them. Immediately they all stood up as I appeared in their doorway, suspicion in their eyes just in case I was to lunge at them to catch them for their hoof cutting.

I left the goats to deal with their anxiety complexes and crunched my way over the gravel to look in on Midnight and Merlin. It was evident that they had settled down for the night by the loud snoring that could be heard at least twenty paces from their field enclosure. When I got to their entrance I flashed my torch inside. Their two bulbous bodies were squashed together on the pallet bed that they have. They grunted in irritation of the light but declined to enquire who was interrupting their sleep, instead they each thrust their heads deeper into the mound of duvets and straw that make up their sleeping quarters.

I flashed the torch towards the sheep and could quickly and easily discern the sparkling eyes of our small flock sat around their paddock. A bleat from one of them as they sensed my approach and then a chorus of bleats in the hope that they could convince me to give them an evening scoop of food. The sheep don’t get fed in the evening normally, but the bleats made me feel particularly guilty and with it being Christmas I didn’t want to go back into the house feeling like Scrooge. So, I opened up the feed bin, scooped up some of their food and went to toss it into their trough. Unfortunately however I then noticed that the trough which is normally secured to the fence rail had come off (probably from one of the rams knocking it off) and was lying out of arms’ reach in the field. Clearly I had to go into the field to collect it and pop it back onto the fence.

It has been an incredibly mild December with only two mornings so far that we have had to crack the ice on water bowls. It hasn’t however been a dry month and with our clay soil this has had the inevitable result of there being some very muddy, boggy patches. One particularly bad patch of mud is just in the gateway of the sheep enclosure. As soon as my foot stepped over the gate threshold my boot sunk down into the mud, then my other foot did likewise. If I had remained in that position and not attempted another step then all would have been fine. Unfortunately I instinctively attempted to take a third step into the field at which point the mud sucked hard at my wellington, so that as I raised my leg the boot remained in place. For the briefest of moments I balanced on one leg with my other foot in the air devoid of its boot. The following moment, which seemed like a long, slow motion moment, I tottered, then gradually rocked forwards, then sidewards, then backwards and ultimately forwards again and forwards a bit more and then a bit more and then with a splash I was as forwards as I could be.

The coldness of the mud permeated through my trousers and gilet but I managed to keep my head, face and crucially my glasses clear. I flapped around like a landed fish trying to get some purchase on solid ground so that I could raise myself back up and was halfway to achieving my aim when I was suddenly struck by a woolly mass which bent me backwards and thrust me deep into the mire.

This was not how I was hoping my Christmas Eve would turn out.

I battled and swore and struggled and yelled and begged Jeffrey (as it was Jeffrey our particularly naughty Boreay ram who was showing his excitement at me being in the field with them) not to strike me again. Luckily I wasn’t too far from the gate, so with some paddling and struggling I was eventually able to grab one of the bars of the gate and slowly lever myself up to a vertical position. My mood had by now completely changed from festive joie de vivre to apathetic misery. I was cold, dirty, wet and bootless. I did however still have my torch though it was caked in wet mud and not giving me a huge amount of light. It did give out just enough of a beam to pick out the outline of my two boots which were eerily standing empty just where I had left them.

I still had animals to check on and even though wet, cold and miserable I couldn’t give up. Having retrieved my boots and sunk my wet feet into them I resolved to get everything done as quickly as possible so that I could get in the shower before Kelly got home.

Closing up the bird coops was straightforward, as was checking on the rabbits and guinea pigs. In essence I just needed to walk Lana round to her stable and convince the two ponies that life would be better for us all if they went back into their paddock.

Lana proved once more, as she does every day what an exceptional animal she is. I flashed the torch with its muddy lens into her field and picked her out lying down on the far side by the perimeter hedge. I considered whether to leave her out as we often do on mild nights but wanted to check on her properly first. I slushed my way towards her through the field, calling her name as I did so. She slowly raised her great bovine head silently assessing my direction and then gracefully stood up to welcome me. I held her head in my hands and felt my misery disperse. She has that talent. Whenever things get a bit much a few minutes with Lana alleviates everything. I patted her and talked to her, scratched behind her ears and rubbed her sides. For her part she stood and took the affection in her stride.

‘Right my darling,’ I said to her, ‘you happy to stay out tonight? It’s not going to get too cold.’

I assumed an answer and turned to walk back to the gate, halfway across the field I looked back to where I had left her only to see that she was a few steps behind me following me almost perfectly. When I got through the gate I waited to see what she was going to do, after all she may not have been following me but instead heading for her food trough. She neared the gate and then veered abruptly away from it, circled around and then again veered away.

‘It’s ok Lana, follow my voice, you’ll be alright,’ I beckoned.

She knows there is a gap to walk through, but she also knows that there are painful sides to that gap and on several occasions she has battered her nose against the gate upright or the big metal latch. I stepped back so that she had a straight line to walk towards me rather than an angle.

‘This way Lana, come to daddy.’

She straightened herself up and using her radar or whatever super skill she has walked right towards me.

‘Good girl,’ I praised her, ‘this way then.’

Steadily, picking her feet up high, she trudged behind me following my voice or quite possibly my muddy smell to the large field enclosure we call the barn. There, with bales of hay at her disposal she knows she has a veritable bovine bacchic feast in store, albeit with only some pigeons and doves as companions. I settled her in the shelter and put on her radio, tuned as always to Classic FM.

My mood was raised, though I was still very cold and very wet and very muddy. I called out to the ponies knowing that they wouldn’t respond to me if I didn’t have a bucket of goodies for them. I scanned my torch around and started walking towards where they had mugged me. A tawny owl hooted close by and then a corresponding ‘keevit’ from another answered it, then answering them both was a whinny from one of the ponies.

‘Bibs, Bob,’ I called, ‘bedtime.’

Another whinny.

‘Come on boys, bedtime.’

A thundering of hooves and a rush of air and I felt two masses fly past me. I judged that it was the two ponies rather than Santa’s reindeer. I flashed the torch and picked up two big bottoms cantering over the drive towards the pony paddock.

‘Go on boys, bedtime.’ I called and picked up my pace. I couldn’t believe for one minute that I would get them into their soggy patch without a tempting treat, but it was worth a shot and it did seem like they were going there of their own accord.

They stopped to grab at some grass and I caught up with them, then I walked confidently and with intention to their field calling them as I would normally do. Without hesitation they followed me into their paddock, I duly exited and closed the gate behind them. Job done!

I’ve washed now and smell and look a lot better. For a few hours Kelly and I are going to relax with the dogs and at least one cat and will watch something on the television. We will probably fall asleep on the sofa and then eventually go to bed, at which point the dogs will no doubt wake up and cause merry hell until they get exhausted at about 6.30 in the morning, at which point they will decide to go to sleep snoring and farting.

It goes without saying that animals can’t comprehend Christmas, everyday is just another day. But last Christmas morning Kelly wore a sexy little Mrs Christmas outfit and I wore (because Kelly chose it) a very uncool elf outfit. We fed and watered and greeted all our animal residents with songs and laughter and smiles and stupid costumes (well one stupid costume anyway). I’m sure that at the very least the pigs with their heightened intelligence would have worked out that something was different on that day.

I’m not sure what we’ll do in the morning. I’m not sure that I want to wear that elf outfit again as I looked really ridiculous and it was chuffing cold. I do know that it will be for us a perfect Christmas morning. We have treats for everyone – some bought by us, many more bought by friends and supporters of the sanctuary, and rain or shine we will feel the privilege we have for sharing our lives with so many special souls.

At some point tomorrow we’ll eat, we’ll have a drink or two, we’ll do our rounds around the sanctuary and do any essential or emergency chores, then when all is safe and secure we’ll relax and probably fall asleep on the sofa before the dogs start their war.

To me that sounds like it’s going to be a pretty fantastic day.

Feliz Navidad.