OCTOBER 2019 |TheAustralian Women’s Weekly 149
→I
thoughtmydaysofnewborn
motheringweredone.At45,I
figuredI’dneverhavetocrawl
outofbedforanother3amfeed,
orchangeanothernappy,or
scrubmilkstainsoutofmy
pyjamaseveragain,butI waswrong.
Fourweeksago,wewelcomedLucy
andMaisy– a pairofpetlambs – into
ourfamily.Ostensiblymy
children’sschoolAgDay
companions,I havebonded
tothesewoollyweeorphans
likebidi-bidiseedsto
trampers’socks.Onrainy
daystheysnuggleup
togetherbesidemeonthe
couch;onrainynightsthey
sleepona plushdogbedin
thebathroom,theirbottoms
safelytuckedintotoddler-
sizednappypantsto
preventaccidental
discharges.
Myfather,a retireddairy
farmer,naturallythinks
I havelostallmymarbles
but,truthbetold,what
I haveactuallylostis all
mymoggies.
BeforeI wasa wifeanda
mother,I wasa self-
confessedcrazycatlady,
livingalonein thecitywith
a clutchofSPCArescuecats
sufferingfromvarying
degreesofmentalinstability.
Tiger,Tortie,Minnie,Mr
PantsandSnufflesweremy
felinefamily– mykitty-cat
children– despitetheir
collectivelackofrespect
formycarpet,suede
couchesandanyclump
ofperennialcatnip
withincooee.
WhenI movedtothe
country,thecatscametoo.
Theygangeduponmyhusband’sold
farmdogsandeventuallyreachedan
uneasytrucewithhisresidenttabby,
livingouttheirdaysstalkingbarnrats
andfieldmice.A fewweeksago,
however,webidfarewelltoMinnie,
the last cat standing, and for the firstLynda’s project
PHOTOGRAPHYby SALLY TAGG • STYLINGby LYNDA HALLINANfillingbottleslongafterthey’vegone
tobed.
AgDayis a Kiwiinstitutionthat
datesbackto1911,whenthe
traditiondebutedin Otago.Theidea
wastofosterrespectandbuilda
strongconnectionbetweenrural
communitiesandtheagricultural
industrybyencouragingchildrento
careforfarmanimals.Cow
cockieslentprimaryschool
pupilscalvestoraiseand
return,andsheepfarmers
donatedtheorphansthey
foundonlambingbeats.
Althoughthemycoplasma
bovisoutbreakhasnow
putthekiboshonthecalf
competitionsat many
schools,thousandsof
lambs,goatsandchickens
willstillbestruttingtheir
stuffonschoolsportsfields
aroundNewZealand
thismonth.
Mysix-year-oldson
Lachlanwillbecompeting
withhiscookies-and-cream
Coopworthcrosslamb,
Lucy,whilemyeight-year-
oldsonLucashasa
boggle-eyedblack-faced
SuffolkcalledMaisy.
(Lucasinitiallynamedher
Macy– anabbreviationof
Mason,hisfavourite
villagerin Minecraft– but
shedoesn’tseemtocare
whatI callherprovided
I’mbrandishinga full
bottleofwarmmilk.)
AsforLucy,hername
shouldreallybeMiracle,
forshe’sluckytobehereat
all.Abandonedatbirthby
hermum,shewasfound
bya localfarmer,shivering
undera gorsebushand
decidedlyworseforwear.Wetookher
inandlavishedherwithlove– and
nutritiouscolostrum– buttwodays
latershewentdownwith“jointill”,
aninfectionthatgetsinthrough
thenavelandresults in a type of
septic arthritis.timein myentirelife,I’vefound
myselflivingin a feline-freehouse.
Butnature,astheoldadagegoes,
abhorsa vacuum,andnosoonerhad
Minniebeeninterredundera Chinese
lanternbushthanintothebreach
trottedtwolittlelambs.
Forcountrykids,raisinga petto
parade around at the annual schoolAgDay(orCalfClub,asit was
knownin myday)is a riteofpassage.
If I’mbeinghonest,it’salsoa riteof
passageforruralparents,forweare
theoneswhoareinvariablyleft
holdingthebabieswhileourchildren
are at school each day, not to mention“I have bonded to these woolly
wee orphans like bidi-bidi seeds
to trampers’ socks.”