Animal Magic

by Carolyn Press-McKenzie

  I woke the next morning to the comforting sound of Felix’s song. But immediately I realised he wasn’t alone; another playful tune intertwined with his, and then another and another. As I slid open the loft window in my old TK Bedford bus and looked up into the bows of the big macrocapa there they were, six glorious magpies speckling the branches. And to the left of them singing his heart away was my special little Felix, all grown up and ready for new adventures. I climbed down the loft ladder and ran outside.

  ‘I love you little buddy, please stay safe, and please visit me as often as you can.’

  I knew he understood, as he always understood. This remarkable creature had made such a huge impact on my life. But to see him with his own kind just seemed so right and so natural. My job was done.

  Felix did bring his family back to visit, but as time went on the visits became less and less. I’d gaze at them in the trees and whisper, ‘Fly, be free little man.’

  Now that Felix had found his family . . . maybe it was time that I extended mine?

  It was almost exactly one year later that I had a call from Jim. He was passing through my town and asked if I would mind him stopping by.

  I didn’t even recognise him at first; he was tall, confident and much more dashing than I remembered. We started looking for a home together just a month later. It needed to be close to the kids’ school and with enough acreage for the motley crew . . . and whoever or whatever came next.

  A listing in the private sales section of the real estate advertisements caught my eye.

  ‘Character villa with horse arena and round pen on 13 acres. Offers from $165–$195K would be considered.’

  Oh, that was cheap, and it was in the Hutt Valley, just 30 minutes from the kids’ school. As we drove up the long gravel driveway to the funny old villa perched on a hill, we reserved our judgement and just took it all in. The house was essentially a shell that had been burnt out in an arson attack before being relocated to the property for renovation some day, although it appeared that day had not yet come. It needed a huge amount of work but at least it had a nice new roof.

  The land consisted of three hills and three gullies facing north for premium gorse-growing ability. But the potential was there and the elevated views of the valley, a mixture of farmland and native bush with even a distant snowcapped mountain, were to die for. As Jim and I walked the boundary we stopped to admire the horse arena and round pen; we never imagined that we could possibly own anything as fancy as an arena, but it would be so handy for my movie work. When we took a closer look, we saw that the arena was essentially a 40- by 30-metre area where the fertile top soil had been removed and sold, and then the exposed bare clay just sprinkled lightly with woodchips and edged with old tyres. Jim sighed and leaned against a round pen post which in turn wobbled and leaned against me.

  Among all the gorse and ragwort, which in themselves would be a lifetime mission to clear, this odd little property felt right—and it also felt affordable.

  When we approached the vendors, they dropped the bombshell that the price was listed wrongly and they wanted closer to $295,000. But after checking with the bank, Jim and I agreed to go to $265,000, and the worst and cheapest block in the valley was officially ours.

  Everything was falling into place as we settled into our new home. It may have been far from perfect but, as they say, it had potential. Our capacity to take in unwanted animals, to rehabilitate them and rehome them was great, and Jim, whose day job was as an electrician, was on a steep learning curve. Nothing fazed him. He was an absolute natural. With extra flat acreage loaned by some local property investors for supplementary horse grazing, we were soon officially named Pakuratahi Farm Animal Sanctuary, and in charge of a number of old and wonky farm animals and horses.

  Of course there were the usual adjustments which come from two households coming together. Poor Leah was only five but you could almost see the horror on her face when I turned up to school to collect her and her brother every second week in my 6-tonne horse truck that we had purchased for a great price from a horsey lady. (It was an upgrade from the old home-built float that was on its last wheels and perfect for my animal wrangling jobs.) The other parents drove nice cars down the cul-de-sac to the suburban middle-class primary school, but not me; I drove the big blue TK Bedford truck. It was Leah’s first year at school and she was very specific about what she liked. She liked pink clothes, she always liked to be organised and on time, and she liked meat not vegetables. The pink clothes I could do, but the rest was not quite our reality. With the food we compromised. Jim and I were both now vegan but we made the kids vegetarian meals that they enjoyed, much to their surprise. Shaun was much easier going, more of a people pleaser. If those around him were smiling or, better still, laughing then his job was done and he was happy.

  After school one day we arranged to meet Jim at his mother’s house. Grandma Carly had been a rock in the kids’ lives. She had helped Jim survive the scary and lonely act of solo parenting when it was his week with the kids, and Leah and Shaun loved to spend time with her. So with all the recent upheaval and change we’d often use her as a meeting point after school.

  On one particular day I had run out of bird seed for Gerber and needed to pop by the local pet store on the way to Carly’s. We had been to this store many times before for supplies and had never been impressed. It smelt dank and the large fish tank in the middle of the floor had such a huge fish in it, it didn’t have much room to move. As I looked at the parrot treats, Shaun and Leah made their way through the screen door into another room at the back of the shop where the birds, puppies and kittens were kept. They always seemed to have a fresh supply of baby animals out the back.

  The children hadn’t been away from my side for long when I felt a tugging at my leg.

  ‘The puppy is hurt, Carolyn.’

  Shaun looked concerned so I dropped what I was doing and followed him into the back room. The noise of the one hundred or so budgies, finches and parakeets was deafening, and the smell was worse than the rank odour at the front of the shop. It was more an overpowering stench of faeces—bird, cat and dog—with a heavy splash of matured urea. Shaun and Leah pointed into the back corner of an old aviary. There sat a tiny little tri-coloured corgi cross favouring her little front paw. I looked at the pup and then I looked at the sign that read ‘Border collie $50’.

  ‘But she’s not a Border collie,’ I questioned the attendant who had walked in to see if she could help us.

  ‘Oh yes, she absolutely is,’ she assured me with confidence.

  ‘Crossed with corgi?’ I pushed.

  ‘No, she’s a Border collie.’

  Unsatisfied, but knowing I was getting nowhere, I decided to change my line of questioning. ‘So why is she holding her paw up?’

  ‘Oh someone stood on her. The vet is coming this afternoon to decide if she is worth keeping.’

  My jaw dropped and the kids stepped in closer. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  The upbeat young attendant lowered her voice and said that they didn’t keep the sick ones.

  I looked at Shaun and Leah and thought about our lovely new home. We had just rehomed the last of our rescue dogs and Murphy could do with a friend.

  ‘So what do you think, Shaun, are you responsible enough to care for a puppy?’

  His eyes widened as I placed the little fat stumpy-legged pup into his arms and we walked towards the checkout.

  At Grandma Carly’s we tossed around names and eventually settled on Haggis. Haggis McKenzie, the perfect name for a dumpy little corgi cross.

  I took a moment to worry about Haggis’s siblings. What if their new families had truly believed they were Border collies, what if they felt cheated or disappointed in some way, how would that bode for the puppies? I assured myself that if they were anything like Haggis the families would surely realise how lucky they were . . . but I couldn’t help but think that both the dogs and the families had been set up to fail by the dishonest pe
t store. This store has since been sold and has new owners.

  CHAPTER 9

  An unconventional marriage

  Jim and I planned to wed a few months after we had moved into our new home.

  We had organised a very simple affair; we wanted to be married at home with 30 or so family and friends, nothing flash, just a day filled with love.

  Although Jim’s wife had left him a year or two before we met, they hadn’t actually got around to signing the divorce papers, so six weeks before the wedding Jim set the paperwork in motion. He signed and paid for his half and passed the other half on to his soon-to-be ex-wife so the document could be completed and filed before our chosen date. We were so excited and so wrapped up in the approaching festivities that it wasn’t until a week before the big event that we realised we had not received confirmation of Jim’s divorce.

  ‘You’ll never believe it,’ said Jim as he walked pale-faced into the room.

  ‘What’s up?’ His expression had me a little worried. Jim had just got off the phone to his ex-wife. Except she wasn’t his ex-wife, not even close. She hadn’t filed the paperwork.

  ‘But why?’ My eyes widened as I did a quick countdown in my head. Yip, only five days to our wedding. This was not looking good.

  ‘She said I owe her money.’ Jim shook his head. ‘I told her we were going to pay it off, we just don’t have it right now.’

  When Jim’s wife left him, he had decided to stay in their home to keep things as stable as possible for Shaun and Leah. At the time, her lawyers had contacted Jim requiring him to sign a document stating that upon selling the house his wife would get a percentage of the profits. But where it all went pear-shaped was that Jim agreed on a fixed fee; they decided on the amount he would pay her based on a valuation they got at the time. Jim’s wife agreed to leave her share in until the house was sold, as it was still very much the children’s home, but more than two years later the market had dropped and when he sold it, the price he had received was nowhere near the original valuation. Jim had done everything he could to keep his children settled in their home and now he owed his ex-wife money we just didn’t have. She was right, though, we did owe her. It was in the contract Jim had signed, but as the house had only just sold, the details of the payment hadn’t really been discussed yet. We just had no idea that she would pounce on us from out of the blue.

  ‘So what did she say exactly?’ I was strangely calm.

  Jim looked bewildered as he repeated the conversation that clearly had him blindsided. ‘She said, “Ha, ha, I haven’t signed the papers, so you’ll have to cancel your wedding.”’

  I sat with Haggis on my knee stretched out like a sunbathing otter. ‘Crikey, I didn’t realise we were playing games.’

  So Jim and I brainstormed. We were about to be paid for the sale of my bus so that was the money issue settled; we would clear that debt immediately. Next issue: what about the wedding? Well, we decided we didn’t need a piece of paper to confirm our love and commitment to each other, so after a quick call to the marriage celebrant it was decided that we would have a commitment ceremony instead. And with Haggis as my bouquet, Murphy as Jim’s wingman, Shaun, Leah, family and friends surrounding us and the motley crew looking up from the paddock, that’s just what we did.

  There was so much love around the ceremony. Two days earlier I had celebrated my thirty-first birthday, and had woken that morning to find Jim missing. As I yawned and stretched I saw a note on my pillow with a very messy message saying, ‘Look out the window’. So I did, and there in the paddock, on our disastrous new arena, lay a giant love note configured from old car tyres: ‘Happy Bday CP I Love You’. As my eyes searched the paddock, seeking out the artist, there he was walking up the steep driveway towards me, head to toe black as soot, with a beaming white smile directed straight at me.

  So that’s why, even today, if someone asks me my name I have to ask why they are asking. My legal name is still Carolyn Press, but I prefer to use Carolyn Press-McKenzie. It may not be completely legal, but I decided that day that I was not going to let a silly situation sabotage my wish to carry Jim’s name. We have built a life together and I want it to be known that he is part of my journey and what better way than to take his name as my own. Jim and his ex did eventually divorce, years later, so she could remarry, and he signed without fuss, in fact with great delight. We still haven’t married officially, because for us the funny little commitment ceremony on our little hill with our family, friends and animals was perfect, and all we will ever need.

  CHAPTER 10

  Three horses, a goose and a common weed

  The motley crew were in bliss with 13 acres to amble around.

  They stuck together as an inseparable tribe, welcoming all the newcomers with helpful and non-judgemental ease. Drum the Clydesdale stayed his reliable calm self as new horses were transported into our care. The majority of them were either injured and deemed expendable or elderly and consequently forgotten. We worked alongside the SPCA rescuing local horses in need that had all been failed in one way or another. Each story was about people giving up on them, not able or wanting to provide what the horses so desperately needed. Although my vet nursing skills and obsessive dedication to wound healing were invaluable, their emotional states were inevitably what needed the most work.

  One day the SPCA called with a horrific story. A man had allegedly attacked and raped a small herd of three horses. The owner lived out of town and the horses needed somewhere safe to rest their beaten and stressed bodies. We collected the two mares and a filly that day. The older mare had been chased but not caught; she had, however, fallen down a drain. The SPCA team needed help to get this exhausted horse out safely. The chestnut mare and her foal had been violated.

  This man was known to police and his telltale signs of tampering had first been noticed in the stables at the local race track, but more recently he had been braving the elements and picking older or more vulnerable horses on surprisingly public road sides. The mess he left was always the same: the horses beside themselves, anxious and on edge, not wanting to be handled or touched. Their rear ends would be covered in engine oil, the lucky ones would have superficial wounds and the not-so-lucky had deep and severe wounds. Horses that were younger were more severely damaged, perhaps because they fought harder and had been restrained with more force. Word got around town that the perpetrator was at it again and more tampered-with mares were being discovered. For those who thought to call the police it was always too late. One owner told me that in addition to the wounds around the horse’s rear, her mare had broken out in stress hives which had started to slough. Her horse was a toxic mess, which the vet put down to the severe emotional trauma.

  Laboratory tests confirmed that engine oil was present on the horses, but frustratingly there was never any firm forensic evidence, and today this man still walks free.

  Of the two beautiful mares and one filly that we took in and rehabilitated, two were returned to the owner who moved them to grazing out of the area. But the most damaged, a stunning seventeen-year-old thoroughbred called Lady, was signed over to us for further rehabilitation and eventual rehoming. We treasured and adored her and made sure she felt safe. When her sores finally healed we found her just the right forever home. She is still there today.

  The more injured animals Jim and I were faced with the more we knew we needed to help. My vet nursing skills were extremely useful, but I couldn’t help thinking that I could be doing more. We had seen vets shake their heads over and over again saying, ‘No, sadly there is just nothing more that can be done’ or ‘You’ve tried your best, but it’s too costly to go to the next stage of treatment and to be honest it’s just not worth it’. I was really starting to resent this no-can-do attitude. I remembered the never-say-no philosophy that I lived by when I was working on movies, where I made the choice to think outside the square and come up with a solution that kept everyone happy and made the project plausible. And I couldn’t help wondering
why we couldn’t apply that attitude to rescue and rehabilitation work.

  My friends had been telling me about a woman who taught the art of healing with herbal remedies. Apparently she was amazing and had a farm crammed with medicinal herbs. I was intrigued and arranged to go to meet her. From that first encounter, I was totally in awe of her wisdom. I enrolled in her one-year diploma course in herbal remedies, and on completion I enrolled in the advanced second year. I was a sponge. Who knew nature could be such a powerful healer? Well, actually I did.

  I remember one summer holiday when my brothers and I were teenagers. David had slipped and fallen down a waterfall, as you do. His wrist was severely broken and in the months that followed, the doctors told my parents that the bone was not healing and that David would need a surgical graft from his thigh bone to his wrist. My mum was an amazing lady, calm and loving and quietly determined, and had an unbeatable knack for making everything okay. All throughout our childhood we wanted for nothing; it wasn’t about having money or possessions. The magic that Mum wove into our lives was about being positive, being determined and having a huge can-do attitude. Mum decided to put her upbeat philosophy into action to help my brother in this situation, and set about finding a way to heal David’s damaged wrist despite the doctor’s diagnosis.

  She had only three weeks until David’s scheduled surgery, but she had a plan. She had taken my brother to a naturopath and had a list of foods and remedies that would help the bone to mend. So Mum set about making sugar-free nutritional meals packed with nuts and seeds, massaged all of David’s limbs daily, wrapped his broken limb with comfrey poultices, and twice a day plunged the injured wrist in and out of hot and cold water. I watched and marvelled.

  The day of the scheduled surgery came all too quickly. Mum and David bundled themselves off to hospital, ready to accept the worst with a positive smile. David was sitting up in his hospital bed awaiting the pre-anaesthetic drugs when the doctor entered the room scratching his head. He was holding the pre-surgical X-rays of David’s wrist. He glanced past my mother’s nervous smile and rested his eyes on David’s arm, then he scratched his head some more.