This is one of my favourite posts on one of my favourite blogs!
‘blogetiquette’
Blogging about blogging is, yes, a little strange perhaps, however, as a relative newcomer to this form of communication and writing, I have decided to coin the term ‘blogetiquette’ because I think it needs to be one word – a neologism if you like! (I’m hoping that the annual dictionary re-writers will pick this up and make me famous!)
So, the blogetiquette rules I’ve decided on for myself include:
- have respect for the parents of the blog (in my case, wordpress.com)
- only subscribe to other blogs if you are genuinely interested (not because you want them to subscribe to yours)
- read all of the posts written by your fellow bloggers before publishing your own
- reply, or at least, acknowledge all comments made to you on your blog – again, before you publish your own
- get permission before you reblog someone else’s post (this is only because reblogging has recently become fraught)
- limit yourself to less than 5 posts per day or you might annoy people with the email build-up (the most I do is 4 and that’s not often because I’ve had some negative feedback about overposting!)
- be grateful for any awards or nominations you receive (whether you accept them or not)
- respect your readers and subscribers
- never hit the ‘like’ button unless you really do like the post
- always be honest in your own posts
- never criticise other people’s posts
I’m sure I could think of more but those are the ones I usually adhere to now that I have made the transition from novice to fledgling.
Speaking of fledglings, these two peacocks have nearly grown their ‘King’ feathers …
… whereas poor old King is still mourning the loss of his own (don’t worry, he’ll grow them back soon!)
Of all the birds who live here, it is the peacocks and peahens who have the best etiquette skills in terms of their respect for each other and for us too. When they take bread from my hand, instead of nearly swallowing my arm (as the geese do), they make a soft clicky noise as if they are saying ‘thank you’.
They have birdetiquette down to a much finer art than we will ever get blogetiquette!
If you have any blogetiquette tips, please share them….
Politely yours
Julie
Daffy duck
I have spent copious amounts of time (well over my usual 15 minutes!) researching what kind of duck Disney’s Daffy was/is, all to no avail. Unless I’m wrong – which is quite possible – Daffy is not one particular breed or another; Daffy Duck is (just) a duck.
The reason I embarked on these minutes of research is because our male Indian Runner duck reminds me of Daffy.
For this reason I have decided to call this duck (drake I should say!) ‘Daffy’. Until now, he and his ‘wife’ haven’t had names because they only just escaped being obliterated by the fox that killed the other Indian runners, so I have always just call them both ‘Duckies’. I didn’t want to name them in case I lost them – I hope that makes sense!
Daffy is the one I rescued from the fox the morning of the massacre. The fox had already killed several chooks and ducks and it had its jaws around Daffy’s neck when I ran out and scared it away. Now Daffy can’t quack properly. His wife, who I think I will now call ‘Dotty’ (not to be derogatory, but they are actually not the most intelligent of breeds!) is never far from his side. Here they are venturing into the ‘bath’ after everyone else is finished. The other ducks and geese will have nothing to do with the Indian runners. I don’t know why although, as I’ve mentioned before, Daffy does occasionally exert a bit of surprisingly fierce amourosity towards the Sebastapol geese. I wish I could get a photo of Godfrey chasing Daffy chasing Diamond but it’s always short-lived with Daffy well and truly banished to the outskirts!
Daffy and Dotty are so intimidated by Godfrey and the rest of ‘the gang’ that they live completely separate lives; they even have a separate pen because Godfrey is so horrible to them. When I let them all out in the morning, the gang follow me for the lettuce treats but Daffy and Dotty go in the opposite direction because they are so scared of Godfrey!
Hence, I am unable to hand feed these lovely Indian Runners unless Godfrey isn’t looking; it has to be quite secretive.
I will try their new names out today!
Unexpected
This afternoon, I drove the old ute/truck up to the highway get petrol, so I could take some rubbish to the dump (we don’t have rubbish collection here because we are too far out of town). After filling the tank, I went into the shop and got some orange juice and, as I was paying, a tall, elderly man in a white shirt and bicycle shorts tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I were heading east.
At first I was a bit alarmed at being tapped on the shoulder by someone I’d never met before but, after I said, “Sorry, no, I’m going the other way”, I watched him go to the refrigerator and get some water. He was perspiring a lot because it’s 40c today – very hot!
I was still paying when he came back to the counter and I said, “I’m so sorry but my son has just had an operation and I need to get back home with this orange juice. Can you just have a rest here and carry on? I’m sure someone will be able to give you a lift.” He then told me he had already ridden over 100 kms today and his destination was only a further 12 kms. I said, “sorry” again and left.
But on the way home to Son, I thought better and decided to get home, get Son and go back and rescue the man. Son (despite his philanthropic ideals) was less than impressed. Nevertheless we raced back to the petrol station in the ute and the cyclist was still there. I beeped the horn and yelled out, “We’ve come to rescue you!” His look of relief made it all worthwhile.
It was only then that we remembered that the passenger space in the ute would only allow two people, not three, especially one with a massive plastic brace on him. So, as the cyclist was loading his bicycle into the back of the ute, I went back into the shop and (yay!) one of the customers was a neighbour and agreed to take Son home. Whew.
Then, on our way to the cyclist’s destination, he told me that he was 72, that his brother had died yesterday, that he loved cycling, and that he wrote poetry. I then told him a bit about Husband, Son, the birds and my own writing.
When I dropped him off, he rummaged around in his knapsack and gave me one of his books of poetry. He signed it, I shook his hand, he kissed me on the cheek, I said “Thanks for the book!” and I watched him ride into the heat glare.
Then I turned around and headed home to face Son’s glare – hehe!
Is the grass always greener?
I’ve just counted it up – the emus were gone for seven days – a whole week! Well, we now know they weren’t exactly gone and they were just in the next door paddock but wow! You have to realize that these paddocks are huge and the emus are still relatively small at one year of age. Also they blend in and, from a distance, look like tree stumps or branches. Or perhaps I need glasses!
Jenny, the farmer who owns the paddock, and I, had a big laugh on the phone about why they would prefer her paddock to ours, and Terry’s wife, Kaye, quoted the old saying, ‘the grass is always greener’, but what I find most interesting is that, instead of running for the hills, the emus stuck around.
It’s such a strange feeling to have actually let them go, in my heart and head, and now they’re back. For days, I comforted myself by imagining that they were frolicking in the forests, drinking from the streams, making friends with wild emus, and I actually accepted they were probably better off. Now I realize they didn’t want to go. The paddock they were in was on the corner of two roads and very easy to get out of (much easier than getting back into our paddock – go figure!)
With only three Emerys left (and the death of the fourth haunts me), the happy ending is a little tainted, however it is a beautiful thing to have them back. Once back in their yard, they went straight to the water trough and then to the bowl of wheat, then looked at me, and my container of cabbage, with glee!
This one is much more interested in my ring than the cabbage (they love anything shiny).
My beautiful Emerys! I will take them for a SHORT walk later today.
Maybe!
The emus are back home!
It’s a long story how this happened and is all due to my new hero, Terry, who single-handedly herded the Emerys through the fence back into our paddock.
The reunion was wonderful… when I said ‘Emerys!’ they looked at me expectantly and let me hug them briefly before they drew away. It was then that I realized that my communication with them suffers a certain amount of semantic confusion; ie. they think ‘Emerys’ means ‘Cabbage’. It’s all sorted out now.
Yippee!!!
Thank you so much, Terry!
Bedtime
The geese and ducks like to have a bath before bedtime. Godfrey usually supervises.That’s him at the back.
The two turkeys we call ‘the Bubbles’ never participate. That’s one on the left, walking away.
Even if the turkeys were interested, Godfrey hisses them away. He has a very powerful hiss which he accompanies with an angry trumpet noise.
The peacocks aren’t interested in bathing either. They think the ducks and geese are weird! Angelina, in particular, is rather disdainful of their antics.
I can see Angelina’s point of view – Ola, Pearl and Tapper like to play leapfrog in the bath.
Everyone waits their turn.
Well, except for Tapper who is always the last to get out of the bath and go to bed. That’s her at the forefront.
Pearl and Diamond aren’t that keen on leaving the bath either.
Woodroffe, however, willingly goes to bed because he loves his bedtime snack of lettuce scraps.
Zaruma’s favourite bedtime snack is bread, so he also willingly goes to bed.
Eventually, Godfrey and I get them into their yard for the night. Once they are in, Godfrey usually turns around a gives me a goodnight kiss (a sharp nip to the ankle) if I don’t leave the yard quickly enough!
Ahhh – the bedtime ritual!
Golden pheasant reflections
Phoenix 1 is getting more narcissistic by the day! This morning be began his ritual of trying to find his reflection in the veranda windows very early.
His view of himself was blocked, but he persevered and, eventually stopped his plaintive chirping when he saw a little bit of himself.
Finally, he saw the whole of himself. He stared admiringly for a moment, then trotted off (yes, he does trot!) to join the peacocks in eating some figs that had dropped onto the ground nearby.
So, by my calculations, this gorgeous but peculiar pheasant spent nearly 7 hours looking for a good reflection of himself, then, once he found it, he left his ‘mirror’ to have fun with the other birds.
I don’t get it and I really think Phoenix 2 should come back to give Phoenix 1 some perspective!
Emu adventures
Yesterday’s emu fiasco went like this:
- 6pm: Joyous discovery that the three Emerys were still in that paddock adjacent to our paddock (on the corner of two roads)
- 6.10pm: Son and I cancel dinner with my mum and make a plan to herd emus back into our paddock
- 6.15pm: We drive down our road and turn right into the other road and park near the gate to the paddock
- 6.16pm: Son walks into the paddock to herd emus to the gate and out onto the road. The plan is to herd them, with me in the car, and Son on foot, up the road and around the corner into our road and up to our driveway and into our property
- 6.40pm: Son gets the emus out of the paddock and into the road and, with my car lights flashing, I follow as Son walks them to the corner
- 6.45pm: Two cars going in opposite directions on the road are forced to stop to allow us our slow journey. I have to jump in and out of the car to stop the Emerys from coming back. This is difficult as emus can run backwards!
- 6.55pm: We eventually reach the corner and the people in both cars get out and help us to get the emus to turn into our road. Hilarity and thank yous are exchanged, then they all drive off
- 7pm: With Son walking in front of the emus, and me driving behind, we gradually get them close to our driveway. Dusk is falling.
- 7.10pm: The emus get to a little bridge and won’t cross it, so begin to run back towards my car. I leap out and shoo them back up
- 7.12: The situation repeats itself
- 7.14: And again. They will not cross the bridge
- 7.15: Again – back and forth, back and forth. By now I have abandoned the car and I, too, am on foot
- 7.30: Success at last; I have them running towards Son who is right next to our paddock. We decide to open a gate into our paddock instead of trying to get them all the way to our driveway, which is just past the stupid bridge
- 7.31: Just before they get to our gate, they all push through into the same paddock (adjacent to ours) where they were in the first place
- 7.32: Son begins to yell in frustration when I follow them (getting a nasty shock from the electric fence – I’m not quite sure why this didn’t deter the emus)
- 7.33: I try herding them but, because it is now getting dark, they go all skittish and run in all directions. I have the vague hope of herding them through the fence into our paddock, but it doesn’t work
- 7.40: Son screams ‘give up, Mum – it’s not worth it!’
- 7.41: I walk back to the road and get into the car with Son who is exhausted in his back brace and in a rage
- 7.42: We drive the tiny distance home in a frenzy of frustration
- 8pm: The howling begins and ends
- 8.30pm: Son and I agree that one day, in the far-off future, this might be a funny story….
- 9pm: I find photos taken previously, during emu-walking, that illustrate this post
- 9.05pm: Son tells me I am crazy and I tell him he is right
- 9.10pm: We exchange a reluctant hug and begin to plan tomorrow’s emu adventure
Howling at the moon
Tonight, Son and I both howled at the moon. I don’t think we have ever done this before and it is not something I would recommend!
We hadn’t planned on howling at the moon together, but our mutual differences (yeah, one of those paradoxes), the emu fiasco, and the absence of Husband, reduced us both to such grief that the howling just happened.
Perhaps it was cathartic; perhaps not. Neither of us have ever been caught up in the net of self-pity, but tonight we were caught off-guard by a moonlit view of everything and it was overwhelming. So we howled. We howled at each other, with each other, and with the moon, until our voices were hoarse and the dogs became frightened.
Luckily we don’t have neighbours living closeby or they might have called the police!
jmgoyder 