Animal Magic

by Carolyn Press-McKenzie

  A sodden Jim walked back into the bedroom, his face a mixture of panic and bewilderment.

  ‘The roof ’s gone!’

  I looked up at the celling, not able to process what he was saying. ‘No it hasn’t, it’s right there.’

  ‘Carolyn, the roof has blown off the house!’

  ‘Sorry, Sam, I’ll have to call you back.’

  Okay, so we are pretty calm folk in hairy situations, but there was a very big question to answer . . . if the roof wasn’t on our house, then where was it?

  There was no time to get out of our pyjamas so we threw on our gumboots and coats and ran outside. As we looked up through the pelting rain it was clear from the exposed rafters that Jim’s assessment was right. But our sense of urgency was for the animals and their safety.

  First stop was the monkey garage, only ten metres downwind from the house. Phew, they were completely unaware and happily waiting for their breakfast. We ran beyond the garage and there, about 60 metres away from its place of origin, precariously balanced on a fence, half on the chicken coop and half in the horse paddock, was our roof.

  Holy moley! I went to call the fire brigade for help.

  It’s a little embarrassing causing such a stir in the community, especially when there was already a stir about us, but as the daylight grew it was hard to miss the predicament we were in up on top of our little hill. I placed the receiver down and assured Jim that the fire brigade was on its way. Then I noticed the celling starting to sag. Jim set about punching holes in it to allow the water to pour through, then set about drilling holes in the floorboards for it to escape. As we worked our way around the house we assessed that only the laundry, Shaun’s room and our bedroom still had enough roof to keep us dry. The rest of the house was a write-off. I could see flashing lights coming up the drive and behind the fire engine were two civilian cars. As the firemen emerged from their vehicles in full wet-weather gear, sauntering up behind them was a familiar face in a Swanndri and shorts. It was Skin, the owner of Jane the pig, and he was hauling the hugest tarp I have ever seen.

  With all hands on deck it only took an hour or so to secure the massive tarp over the house. It was clear the house had sustained a lot of damage but there was no time to dwell on it so Jim and I set about feeding the animals and getting ready for court. Yes, today was the day that our scary neighbours were taking us to the Disputes Tribunal over our shared driveway. Oh what fun!

  The angry neighbours had lined the shared driveway with pea metal that they had scored from a mate as a perky and we were led to believe that they had only had to reimburse their friend with some beer for the metal. They had done the work without consultation or agreement from either us or our nice neighbours, and then taken us to the tribunal because we refused to pay our ‘share’, which would have seen them receive a very tidy and not entirely kosher profit.

  As we sat in the small room awaiting the decision there was an awkward silence. We were seated on one side of the table with our nice neighbours, and the angry neighbours were on the other, with the adjudicator at the head of the table like a parent figure.

  The adjudicator had heard both sides of the story and explained to us all that we did not need to pay for the driveway and that the angry neighbours also needed to understand that we had full unrestricted use of the driveway and they could not control our visitors. He looked them in the eye and said, ‘I think Mr McKenzie and Mrs Press have enough on their plates today without you wasting their and all of our time.’

  As we came up the driveway a few hours later we were followed by an insurance assessor. He came prepared in gumboots and a heavy raincoat and as he walked around the house his disgruntled tutting was audible.

  ‘There were no Zed nails securing the roof ?’ He looked perplexed.

  We each held our breath. We seriously had no idea—we had thought that the shiny new roof was the only thing our tired old house had going for it. Who would cut back on something like roof fastenings? We were horrified and terrified . . . what if the insurance company refused to pay? We’d be physically homeless and financially ruined.

  ‘Well, you are going to need about $100,000 of repairs and it should take about three months. First things first, you need to book into a motel.’

  Jim and I looked at each other with complete relief—they were going to help us.

  ‘But we can’t leave the animals,’ Jim explained.

  ‘What about a motor home parked on the driveway?’ I pitched in.

  And so that was that for the next three months; Jim and I and the kids (when they were with us every other week) camping on the driveway! It took me back to the old days when I was living in my bus. I was in heaven, though it became very apparent very quickly that I was the only one.

  It was winter and in the cold and harsh weather the motor home developed a knack for sweating and growing mould on the inside. We were all sick, permanently cold, crooked and cramped. But we were grateful to be at home and to watch our house slowly but surely coming back to life. It was alarming how many things needed fixing. Who knew that the house had absolutely no insulation in it, but the insurance company was required by law to rebuild to current building code standards which meant we got insulation bats. In fact, our house looked somewhat further along than it had been before the incident.

  And once again we learnt that with every bad situation there is a shiny silver lining. No one had been hurt, we now had a warm and cosy house, Rachel had the wet and ruined remains of the inside of our house to climb over and explore right on our front lawn, and the lovely Greek folk at the local fish and chip shop were so excited to tell us that our disaster had made it on to the international news for all their family in Greece to see.

  Everyone was happy.

  CHAPTER 25

  Rachel

  Whether she realised it at the time or not, Leah had a pretty extraordinary childhood for a young Kiwi girl.

  On lazy sunny weekend mornings Jim and I would tether Rachel on a long lead outside Leah’s bedroom window. It was a safe and sunny spot for Rachel to have her breakfast, looking over the wonderful and enchanting view of the valley. Being a monkey, Rachel loved to climb things: trees, people, cars—she didn’t care. She would often climb up the side of the house and perch, with her stinky Tigger toy firmly gripped in her foot, on the window ledge and look in the window at Leah sleeping. As Leah woke and stretched she would open her window and Rachel would climb through and together they would play on Leah’s bed. I knew we wouldn’t be able to do this for long because as soon as the new enclosure was built, Rachel would be assigned a new routine. But for now those magically innocent sunny mornings were of mutual benefit to both young ladies.

  Rachel was different from the other monkeys. Actually, they were all completely different in age, looks, size and especially in personality. But Laurie and Charlie seemed to need us, perhaps because what we offered was a release from and a huge improvement on their awful past life. Rachel seemed as though she would never accept her fate as a captive animal. Unlike her travelling companions she was strong and vibrant; essentially her spirit had not been broken in the way theirs had.

  I still thought a lot about Rachel’s sister Joanna. It was hard to stomach that a monkey with as much strength and determination as her sister would die in such a sad and unnecessary way. I found it even harder to think of what her life had been like leading up to her death. I couldn’t help but feel that maybe dying was her way of escaping such a heinous existence; in her reality, at only three years of age she had been facing another 30 years of captivity and control. But now, in heaven, her spirit was safe from being crushed and tortured . . . was Joanna the one who had really made it to freedom? The more we pondered the more we felt complete shame for mankind. We would do everything in our power to put the wrongs right, but ultimately no matter how much love and freedom we gave, we knew it would never be enough.

  About six months after the monkeys arrived the ground had dried out and Jim had made
good progress on their enclosures. One day we had a group of young school kids visiting and Rachel was sitting on shoulders and rummaging through the children’s hair looking for nits, in her usually intense and bossy fashion. We noticed that one of her thumbs was sticking out on a right angle; it had somehow become dislocated.

  It’s a big deal taking your monkey to the vet in New Zealand. It requires a paper trail and high-security manoeuvring. But once we were settled safely at the vet clinic and assessing the X-rays, we knew it was worth the effort. Rachel needed to have a pin put in her crippled digit. This was a pretty straightforward operation and we didn’t hesitate with our decision to go ahead. With years of surgical nurse training under my belt I found it hard not to be at the steering wheel of the anaesthetic machine, so I stood at the head of the table assessing Rachel as the surgery progressed nicely. Jim, Shaun and Leah sat patiently in the waiting room, ready to be called in to hold her good hand when she woke.

  Rachel’s heart rate and breathing had been consistent and steady throughout the surgery. She had good colour and there were no alarm bells or signs to prepare us for what happened next. As the isoflorane gas was turned off and the oxygen continued to flow we intently waited for a reflex, a cue that she was waking and that it was safe to remove the tube from her trachea and place her in recovery. But nothing, no eye reflex, no gag reflex, not any reflex, nothing. As the healthy pink colour in her gums started to fade and her breathing became shallow, we cranked into action. The team working on Rachel was great and didn’t miss a beat. They asked me to leave which I respected, and I sat with Jim and the kids numbly and quietly. We were in shock, and at a complete loss.

  The vet, who also looked pale and shocked, came to talk to us. Rachel had passed. Would we like to hold her body? As Jim, Leah, Shaun and I sat on the floor of the surgery, we rocked her lifeless body gently and then each of us in turn held her tight and said goodbye. It was strange as it was the only time we had been able to hug her, really hug her.

  We took Rachel home and buried her at the top of our hill overlooking the valley. We don’t understand why she died that day. But a little part of me wonders if, like her sister Joanna, it was Rachel’s way to escape, her chance to be free from captivity. She was larger than the life she had been dealt. She had never allowed her spirit to be broken and she would never accept being caged.

  Honestly, even with the best intentions, I don’t think we could have ever truly made Rachel feel free and happy. We hope with all our hearts that she is in a better, kinder world now.

  CHAPTER 26

  Piggy Sue, three Burmese and a Chihuahua

  Soon after we had moved to our ramshackle hill, Jim’s mum followed us.

  I often joked that I didn’t have a gnome in the bottom of my garden for good luck, I had a mother-in-law in my bottom paddock instead. Jim’s mum was wonderful, and Leah and Shaun loved the independence of trotting down the hill whenever they pleased to visit her in the little self-contained cottage that she had had built.

  Grandma Carly’s favourite story to tell about any of the animals that have come and gone from the sanctuary is that of a very special and slightly famous pig called Piggy Sue. For Grandma Carly this story is not about all the hype and fuss created around Piggy Sue’s liberation from a life in a sow crate at a large commercial piggery. It is about what happened next, when the cameras stopped rolling.

  Piggy had been with us no more than a week, and her stiff and awkward body, shaped by horribly cramped conditions, was starting to get used to the freedom of walking. She was becoming more animated and was falling into the routine of frolicking gaily behind Jim on the quad bike as he made his breakfast delivery. During the day she would explore the gullies and siesta the afternoon away, usually third in the lineup of six spooning pigs. One morning Grandma Carly called us on the telephone.

  ‘You have to come and see this,’ she said. ‘Piggy Sue’s discovered rain.’

  I could hear the emotion and delight in Grandma Carly’s voice so we all threw on our gumboots and rushed down the hill to share in the moment.

  And there was Piggy Sue, not huddled away out of the weather with the other pigs, but nose in the air, dancing and prancing with the biggest smile on her face. Piggy Sue had had a roller-coaster week of firsts. And that morning was the first time she had ever felt the rain on her back, and she loved it.

  The very next week I was flown by the animal advocacy group SAFE (Save Animals From Exploitation) to speak about my experience of saving Piggy Sue. I was going to be in the company of others such as Mike King and Robyn Malcolm who were speaking out against factory-farmed pigs. This is a summary of what I had to say.

  My heart broke when we entered the intensive pig farm. The screaming and stench of 10,000 captive pigs was more shocking than I could ever have anticipated. I was wearing a hidden camera and microphone. My husband Jim and I had agreed to go undercover for Sunday for two reasons: to save one pig and to help expose an entire industry based on greed and cruelty. When five-year-old Piggy Sue arrived home at our 13-acre sanctuary she could barely walk and was emotionally switched off. The sadness in her eyes had matured from years of torment. Now just two weeks later she frolics and plays, she is an intelligent, curious and vital being. Thank you SAFE for helping Piggy Sue to find freedom. I only hope that New Zealanders have seen through our eyes and will fight alongside us to achieve this much needed change in legislation.

  We enjoyed watching Piggy Sue love every second of her freedom for three more years. Then sadly, one morning, at the age of eight, she just didn’t wake up. But we find solace in the fact that she died in her very own little piece of paradise surrounded with love, not caged and lonely and surrounded in fear.

  Vicki from the Wellington pound is a legend. She doesn’t fit the stereotype of an animal control officer who is out to punish animals and their people. She strives harder than most to save lives and she is good at what she does. It’s certainly not an easy job, certainly one that I don’t envy. The sheer volume of animals dumped weekly at the pound is enough to send anyone to rock in a corner, devastated. And yet Vicki is somehow able to balance out the trauma of the ones that are destroyed by helping as many as she possibly can. Thanks to Vicki, her colleague Jane and now several of their associates, we talk almost daily, planning and stargazing, trying to find as many positive outcomes as we can for the animals left at the pound.

  Right at the beginning of our relationship Vicki called me to ask if I knew of anyone who would be prepared to take on three Burmese cats.

  ‘They come with an inheritance,’ she added, just in case it made a difference.

  The owner was not expected to live for much longer and the family were at their wits’ end over what to do with her animals. Vicki had already found a safe and loving home for the lady’s three Labradors, but the cats were proving more difficult.

  ‘We’ll take them, Vicki.’ I didn’t hesitate. We had plenty of room and a particular soft spot for oriental breeds. I followed up with a laugh. ‘And no, it’s not because of the inheritance!’ And of course I meant it.

  As I met with Vicki to collect the precious bundles she explained that one of the three was missing. Lucy, the youngest of the cats, had left home when her owner had been taken to hospital, and despite everyone’s best efforts to find her she had not yet come home. Vicki then asked me for a favour. The family wanted to know more about us, so that they could tell the owner, who was now in a coma, that it was okay to pass, and that her much-loved pets were safe.

  This is what we wrote.

  Although we have never met we are about to have something very important in common, three very special cats.

  I wanted to write to you, to tell you how much I admire you for being guardian to these beautiful animals. It is clear to me how much they have loved you, and been loved by you. It is distressing to think that you are leaving this world, but please feel comfort in the knowledge that your precious animal family is safe and loved. As I write, Hugo is inve
stigating his new home with us, though he has spent most of his new adventure rolling on his back purring and attacking his scratch post with great passion. Sylvie has made friends with Leah, my 13-year-old step-daughter, and is already snuggled into bed with her. It is just Lucy that we need to settle but I am confident that she will love it here too.

  We live on an animal sanctuary on 13 beautiful acres of rolling paddocks and native bush. It truly is an adventure-filled paradise for all animals. It is up a very long driveway so your family will be safely away from the road.

  As well as having a people family to love, Hugo, Sylvie and Lucy will be living with some other special characters including five dogs, three elderly cats, a very bossy parrot, two ex-circus monkeys and various precious farm animals and horses, all of whom came to us to live out their lives in safety and with lots of love.

  I want to promise to you that your friends are wanted and will be treasured. We will always speak of you, your memory will not be forgotten. We will tend to their needs and make sure there is always fun and plenty of sunshine for them.

  We will never replace the home or the memories they shared with you, but we will give them a new home and new memories. We will love them and protect them.

  Thank you for caring enough to keep them together. Please be assured that they will always have each other. If you are able to watch over them I am sure you will be smiling.

  Vicki and the family tried for months to find Lucy, but she never materialised. We often think of her. Hugo, who shortly after his arrival was diagnosed with diabetes, passed away several years later. Sylvie, now nineteen years old, is sitting on my knee as I write, purring and content.

  As I drove to meet a lady and her wee sick puppy I was rocked by what she had told me. She had bought the pup just a few days before from the same pet shop that Haggis had come from. They had moved premises and opened a flash new mega-store on the other side of town, but they still had the awful original building and that’s where they kept the underage pups before putting them into the shiny new glass-fronted display cabinets of their shiny new store.