Post by Old Dragon (Al) on Mar 16, 2008 13:44:06 GMT 1
Please share here your early memories of any pets your family had when you were a young child.
Here is one of mine...
As a child, although we weren't allowed to keep poultry at my dad's allotment, we had bantams at the bottom of the garden. There were two small runs and roosts for them under the apple trees.
My younger brother and I were always allowed to name the hens, but the cocks were always called 'Dick'. To distinguish them from one another, they were given a prefix - that relating to size, behaviour or colour. Over the years we had Big Dick, Little Dick; Pecky Dick; Pretty Dick; Ginger Dick etc. Although there were regular clutches of chicks reared, the young roosters were usually disposed of by Dad and unless wanted to replace the aging ones. (I hated that, but was given no choice in the matter, hence special pets were only selected from amongst the hens.)
During one particularly wet, cold and miserable spell of weather, and when there were two young bantam cocks preparing themselves for spring conquests, somehow both managed to escape and get together. Perhaps it was the wind that had blown the gates on their respective runs open? Whatever, they had been baiting and threatening each other for days, and couldn't wait to take advantage. We only found them by chance. Little heaving and exhausted bundles of mud, blood and matted feathers!
More dead than alive, my mother carried them up to the scullery, filled the sink with warm soapy water, and gave them both a bath! They were then placed, one at each end of a flat topped guard in front of the kitchen range, and to dry off.
I was only about seven or eight then, and really worried about the two young Dicks. Even then I knew that, without them, there would be no chicks the following spring. They looked most forlorn and half-dead, as they sat on the guard. Out came the medicinal brandy bottle and Mother proceeded to trickle a generous dose off a teaspoon and down their gullets. They were then left to their own devices to either recover or not. Mother had work to do and better things to worry about than the fate of the two cocks.
Something must have been looking after them, though. It wasn't long before the first, trying to get to his feet, fell off the guard and onto the kitchen floor. Seeing his adversary starting to strut his stuff and making attempts to crow through what might in rooster terms pass for hiccups, proved all to much for the second bedraggled bird! What feisty little things bantams can be. Even with doses of obvious double vision, they were game for another go at each other! How I laughed at their vain attempts to connect - those rather like a pair of inept knights in the lists, missing and charging past one another in a flurry of wet plumage. That only to stagger around in some semblance of a circle, to pose and posture on unsteady feet, slur and hiccup their intentions, and otherwise prepare for another valiant, but equally fruitless, combat run.
In the end, it was my laughter that alerted Mother to the scene, and she bundled the pair of them back down the garden and into their own runs, where their dainty little wives then showed them just what they thought of their exploits!
I swear to this day that Mum put them back into the wrong runs and with each other's hens!
Here is one of mine...
As a child, although we weren't allowed to keep poultry at my dad's allotment, we had bantams at the bottom of the garden. There were two small runs and roosts for them under the apple trees.
My younger brother and I were always allowed to name the hens, but the cocks were always called 'Dick'. To distinguish them from one another, they were given a prefix - that relating to size, behaviour or colour. Over the years we had Big Dick, Little Dick; Pecky Dick; Pretty Dick; Ginger Dick etc. Although there were regular clutches of chicks reared, the young roosters were usually disposed of by Dad and unless wanted to replace the aging ones. (I hated that, but was given no choice in the matter, hence special pets were only selected from amongst the hens.)
During one particularly wet, cold and miserable spell of weather, and when there were two young bantam cocks preparing themselves for spring conquests, somehow both managed to escape and get together. Perhaps it was the wind that had blown the gates on their respective runs open? Whatever, they had been baiting and threatening each other for days, and couldn't wait to take advantage. We only found them by chance. Little heaving and exhausted bundles of mud, blood and matted feathers!
More dead than alive, my mother carried them up to the scullery, filled the sink with warm soapy water, and gave them both a bath! They were then placed, one at each end of a flat topped guard in front of the kitchen range, and to dry off.
I was only about seven or eight then, and really worried about the two young Dicks. Even then I knew that, without them, there would be no chicks the following spring. They looked most forlorn and half-dead, as they sat on the guard. Out came the medicinal brandy bottle and Mother proceeded to trickle a generous dose off a teaspoon and down their gullets. They were then left to their own devices to either recover or not. Mother had work to do and better things to worry about than the fate of the two cocks.
Something must have been looking after them, though. It wasn't long before the first, trying to get to his feet, fell off the guard and onto the kitchen floor. Seeing his adversary starting to strut his stuff and making attempts to crow through what might in rooster terms pass for hiccups, proved all to much for the second bedraggled bird! What feisty little things bantams can be. Even with doses of obvious double vision, they were game for another go at each other! How I laughed at their vain attempts to connect - those rather like a pair of inept knights in the lists, missing and charging past one another in a flurry of wet plumage. That only to stagger around in some semblance of a circle, to pose and posture on unsteady feet, slur and hiccup their intentions, and otherwise prepare for another valiant, but equally fruitless, combat run.
In the end, it was my laughter that alerted Mother to the scene, and she bundled the pair of them back down the garden and into their own runs, where their dainty little wives then showed them just what they thought of their exploits!
I swear to this day that Mum put them back into the wrong runs and with each other's hens!