Archive for the pets Category


Posted in canon g10, environment, farming, food, Humour, life, organic, pets, photography, sheep, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on July 25, 2010 by norvenmunky

This week, norvenmunky has been tasked to ‘help’, as the neighbour has gone away on hols.

Most times it’s please feed the cat, the goldfish, walk the dog, you know the form. Last time it seemed an odd instruction at the time to feed the cat the goldfish, and on their return during the subsequent acrimonious debrief, I felt it wasn’t my fault the comma was missing in the original instructions. All I did was follow them.
However, this past week I have mostly been left in charge of eighteen sheep, and an orchard.

The orchard is pretty easy to look after, so far there’s no recorded instances as far as I’m aware of an orchard escaping, and it’s probably relatively easy to locate 4 acres of fruit trees if they escaped.

An Orchard, yesterday.

Sheep however, despite being stereotyped as ‘thick as shite’ are a different matter. Apart from wandering round eating grass they do appear to have a fairly well organised escape comittee. No doubt the wandering round is a ruse , to lull one into a false sense of security as they discretely drop tunnel earth, (thats not an NM euphamism), from their trouser legs about the orchard. What you’ll have is eighteen sheep, with seventeen of them ostensibly ‘thick as two short planks’, and one criminal mastermind. The master crim however has an apprentice whom is always carefully hidden amongst the flock. Thus when the master criminal escapes, or goes ‘missing’ in a Waitrose moment, ‘Yes sonny you were talking to it yesterday in a field’ … there is always the apprentice to instantly take over the reins. His primary duty is to find the way out through the clucking hedge that you had previously thought would keep North Koreans at bay.

The object of the week was to count said sheep daily, check them over, fortunately not in glove puppet style, feed them, and ensure that the orchard was ‘secure’. Now you’d think counting eighteen sheep would be relatively easy, in a sort of one to eighteen, and then stop sort of way. Over four acres of orchard where there are assorted hiding places, and tunnels (allegedly), it’s not quite so easy. And they all look the same, ‘ish’.

17 Sheep, see what I mean about counting?

The fastest way to count sheep is to get them in one area and try to stop them moving around too much, this was done by throwing feed into a trough, and then standing back from the ensuing chaos. The older sheep very soon got wise to this and as soon as you appeared at the gate, they were there in full chav mugging mode. This made it a bit challenging to get through the gate without being trampled, and without losing any. It’s fine being Brian Hanrahan on HMS Herpes and saying “I counted them all out and I counted them all back in,” but even pilots are easier to control than a herd of unruly sheep. Trust me, I know …

Look Luv, I'm a Herbivore.
If you don't mind, I'll get w#####ed on 'windfall' later in the season, ta.

Wot we dun to keep the sheep indoors, was to buy electric fencing and to cordon off two acres. This was a quick and easy fix using a car battery with a solar panel recharger.

Click Click, Click Click ...

You can tell it’s working, as it makes a ‘click click’ noise. Checking it felt like being an extra in ‘The Longest Day’ dropped at St Mere Eglise, and waiting for a corresponding ‘click click’ in return. Meanwhile fervently hoping it wasn’t a sausage muncher on the other side of the hedge …

Left Switzerland, Right Germany ...

The fence proved remarkably effective in keeping the eighteen, seventeen, sheep in check. You can see above how good it was, we made sure that no motorbikes were left anywhere near the sheep for fear of them having a Steve Mcqueen moment, as the week’s gone on they were certainly getting bolder. I was half expecting one of them to start dressing in womens clothes and feigning mental health issues to try and get the red cross to spring her. And here’s a picture of ‘Miss October’ specially for ‘the welshman’ just in case he’s feeling homesick.

'Miss October'

Theres also been a good bit of wildlife to see whilst seeing to the sheep so to speak. There’s a large hare, which I’ve tried to get a snap of unsucessfully so far. I keep waiting by the entrance to the field with the camera, hoping to capture one of the oldest cinematic jokes going.

There is already some windfall in the orchard, and there looks to be a huge crop of fruit this year of apples, pears and plums. The idea is an organic process, the orchard grass is kept ‘managed’ by the sheep, at least on their side of the fence it is, the electrifying message having appeared to have made its mark. At the end of the summer we will pick the fruit and the sheep will be sent away to return with little chefs hats on the end of their rib cage. Some of the fruit will be stored for normal use, and some may be used to make a batch of Organic cider to see if the process and quantities are viable for a micro brewery. The fruit trees are polonised by a herd of bees, these are kept in three hives at the farthest end of the orchard, so in the spring and through the summer the place is a hive of activity. One or two of the sheep with a bit of ‘character’, (n.b. see your local paper Q.V. ‘local character’), have already started munching on the windfall apples that aren’t even fermenting yet. I’m really looking forward to seeing what happens when they all start wandering round with huge quantities of ‘Arkansas Black’ inside them …

Fruit stuff ...

So its the end of the week and NM has given the keys to the orchard back, and seventeen sheep. There is another orchard (pears), a field or so away from where NM’s sheep week has taken place. Its unused and may be available for rent, NM’s wondering what Perry tastes like.


The drink.


Hoovering Slugs

Posted in Humour, life, pets, Uncategorized with tags , , , on April 18, 2009 by norvenmunky
Oovah Killa

Oova Killa

Now, most of NM’s readers will be thinking what album has he dredged that title up from? Well you can check all your albums, but I’m fairly certain that even in the depths of Jonesy’s renowned ‘Prog Rock’ collection there isn’t, a ‘Hoovering Slugs’ track.

Now, I know its not two words you’d normally expect to find in the same sentence, but blokes, will already be curious at just the title, and I can see the thought patterns already developing, ‘I wonder if you can …’ etc etc. Wimmin will needlessly have passed it by thinking ‘that’s just stupid’.

Well NM has been left as ‘OIC’ NM Villa, for a couple of days as the gerls lay seige to the wastes of Norven Norfumberland. NM has of course been given his usual instructions, and ROE.
A/ Feed Rabbit.
B/ Don’t Kill It.
C/ Keep The House Tidy.
D/ Don’t Kill The Rabbit.
E/ Bring The Rabbit in at night.
F/ Don’t Kill The Rabbit.
G/ Ring Me If There’s Any Problems
H/ I Can’t Remember If I’ve Mentioned It, But Don’t Kill The Rabbit.

Now all this is relatively straightforward, all I have to do is not kill the rabbit, and feed it. Oh, and keep the ‘drum’, ‘tidy’. Tidy of course, is open to interpretation. The rabbit is officially a ‘hard bastard’, next week it’s got an hours worth of prime time on SKY+1 TV’s ‘UK’s Hardest Rabbits’, It’s the programme right after the 45 minute special ‘Fern Brittain, Follows Through’.

‘UK’s Hardest Rabbits’, is a show where an ‘L’ list hard man celeb, parades around various hutches interviewing nutter rabbits, using an ‘east end’ mockney eshdury accent. At the end of the show he goes all moist eyed, as the rabbit donates a half chewed carrot as a memento of ‘Vair time twogevva’. Anyway, capturing said rabbit usually involves more swearing than reviving a half naked unconcious airline ops occifer, face down in an Amsterdam hotel bedroom, having ‘passed out’ watching ‘telly’. The only minor benefit being the rabbit isn’t likely to take your eye out when you roll it over.

Having eventually trapped said rabbit, and brought it into the kitchen prior to releasing it to its ‘indoor quarters’ in the conservatory. NM realises that the assorted hay, grass, rabbit shite, and a tiny, tiny slug about 1.5cm in length, strewn across the rug, will likely end up in a ‘My Office, Your Hat!’ type interview with Mrs NM if its not sorted. Fortuitously (theoretically) there’s a Hoover standing in the corner of the conservatory. That’ll do to clean up, NM thinks, in a lucid, alchohol free, bloke, type moment. Now, the ‘cleaning’ starts, small bits of grass, hay, rabbit pooh all easily dissapear from NM’s gaze as the Hoover relentlessly churns its way across the rug. Suddenly, the slug catches NM’s eye. It’s tiny, (1.5cm), that’ll go up, spiders, small stones do etc. Blokes can see the logic can’t you? Blokes are nodding, wimmin are saying, ‘No’. ‘You’d hoover a stone or a spider, but never, a slug’. Well, Mr Hoovers products are very good, ssschlooopp, and, as if by magic, the slug has gone, ‘Yay!’, none of that paper, prod, poke, throw out the door shite for me!, sorted! Carry on, only a foot or so left.

Well, that last foot may as well have been Captain Oates’ last walk. The Hoover indeed took its time, about 15 secs or so and it started to whine, worse, than a Chilean red. There was a wisp of smoke, and a smell of burning that had NM retching, staggering, to reach the ‘OFF’ button.
Now, I have no idea why slugs don’t ‘hoover’, small insects will, small stones, screw’s, nails etc. etc. will, but slugs, don’t.
Ask a lady friend:
‘Would you hoover a spider/stone/screw?’
Answer, ‘Yes’.
Ask them ‘Would you hoover a tiny tiny slug?’
Answer, ‘No’

Fellow blokes, take this as an advanced warning. I now have to explain why the previously servicable Hoover, isn’t. I also have to provide a plausible reason as to why I ever thought that hoovering a slug, was ever, ever, a good idea.

The really, really, bad news is that the rabbits female, and afterwards, on bringing her into the conservatory, she sniffed the air and gave me a look that said:
‘WTF have you been up to? Hoovering slugs or summink?’

Lads, I need your help …

That Smell v.2.0

Posted in cats, dogs, Humour, life, pets, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on October 13, 2008 by norvenmunky

Inflatable dog poo sculpture wreaks havoc

A Puppy ( a fecking big one I grant you), Yesterday

A Puppy, ( a fecking big one I grant you), Yesterday

Earlier this year a modern art exhibit wreaked havoc after blowing away from a museum in the Swiss city of Berne.The exhibit in question, titled “Complex Sh*t”, was an inflatable dog turd the size of a house.

The exhibit, a sculpture by American artist Paul McCarthy, was blown loose from its moorings at the Paul Klee centre. An inopportune gust of wind then carried it 200 yards. A sort of ‘following through’ moment then… The giant inflatable stool brought down an electricity line and smashed a greenhouse window before eventually coming to rest in the grounds of a children’s home, after becoming en-snared in a full washing line…

Representatives of the museum later revealed that McCarthy’s work of art had a safety system that would automatically deflate the inflatable turd in the event of a storm but admitted the device had failed to activate. No doubt Bergies colleagues had a similar excuse stored in case they were ever reunited with ‘les enfants du piscine’

Well today some people we know got a new puppee, ah, bless, etc. Well they’ll have all the entertainment of ‘house training’ it.
Always struck me as an odd term that did, ‘house training’, shades of BBC2 and Babs Woodhouse shouting ‘Bungalow’, at some poor demented mutt. Or her yelling ‘1930’s Semi’ and being pleasantly surprised to see a lard arsed golden retriever, wiping its ring piece across the carpet whilst paddling toward her with the lippy out.

It reminds me of a training story and jolly jape played on a new kitty owner, by a known ‘perp’.
New kitty was the owners pride and joy, and I’ve heard tell it was a cute little thing. Well the training started in earnest, and soon Tiddles was using the last scrap of paper, and moving onto the litter tray. Occaisonally there was the crunch of gravel underfoot in the kitchen, lets face it though, it could have been worse, and softer.

Well being a house frequented by assorted piss taking bastards, a cunning plan was hatched. Tiddles ate well and had a very healthy appetite, but to the increasing concern of the owner, had irregular bowel habits. Sometimes as much as two or three days would pass before there was a ‘result’ in the tray. Books were consulted, and other owners, no interweb then, and the concensus was that something was amiss and a vetinary appointment should be booked. (For the cat). Well off went Tiddles to the vets and no doubt had a happy thirty minutes or so playing ‘glove puppets’ with the staff, and returned home, probably in a filthy mood. Lots of cuddles, treats and sympathy for the poor mite. Well four days passed before another movement, and as predicted on the Friday afternoon the responsible owner rang for a vet appointment for the Saturday, which was duly booked. Now Tiddles in fact was a good kitty, very regular, but shift times in the household had allowed the early shift to on occaision remove Tiddles efforts and spirit them away, to be replaced with new kitty litter prior to the owner rising from their slumber. Hence the irregular movement pattern.

Now Friday night being a night out for all on the lash, went ahead as usual. Late night revelers on turning in, said ‘night-night’ to Tiddles and wandered off to bed. The morning shift went out the door as usual for the ‘oh ffs its early’ start. However on departing, Tiddles handiwork was removed, as usual, and after 15 pints or so the previous evening, replaced with a morning glory specimen that Berg’s Dartmouth naval gazers would have been proud of. All it really needed was a walnut on top to finish it off.

Well the house was awoken by some very (still monumentally pissed), loud swearing and cries of disbelief from Tiddles owner an hour or so later, when the young feline was drunkenly being associated with a ‘richard’ at least the size of a good M&S Yuletide log.
Then the smell hit home, and then, it hit the fan. Big time.

Have you met Miss Jones?

Posted in cats, dogs, environment, Humour, life, pets, recycling, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on October 11, 2008 by norvenmunky

Apparently the RSPCA has complained about North Nottinghamshire County Councils ‘Cruel’ recycling policy. Dog bins have been appearing next to normal litter bins and the council make regular trips to clear the bins of unwanted dogs.

When asked about the recycling, Miss Jones, a spokesperson, (perish the thought we find out she’s female), for NCC said we just collect them, ‘We don’t actually recycle them ourselves, thats outsourced to an approved outside contractor’. Regarding the size of the problem Miss Jones replied, ‘The number of unwanted dogs is on the increase and especially on the run up to christmas we expect the problem to get worse, unfortunately people discard their current dogs, in anticipation of receiving a newer version as a gift, its a product of our throw away society. We’ve provided these easy to use recycling points where people can dispose of their old dogs responsibly. They are compacted and recycled with household compost waist and then bagged. We sell the compost with all the profits going to The Cats Protection League.’

When asked if it were humane, the source said its a ‘Kennel to Grave’ approach to BS7750 environmental management standard. When further pressed on the matter she admitted somewhat bad temperedly that lethal injections were not provided, as it duplicated a process already covered by compacting and shredding, and they weren’t made of money due to cost cuts.

Icelands Bubble About To Burst

Icelands Bubble About To Burst

The councils costs problem has recently been exacerbated by Icelands Kerry Katona being reported missing with a large chunk of NCC’s cash, allegedly to buy more dogs.

Take it to the limit

Posted in dogs, ebay, Humour, internet shopping, life, pets, photography, shoes, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on September 17, 2008 by norvenmunky

Ebay’s a fascinating place, with lots of ‘stuff’ on offer. A good friend of mine advised several of us that he had found Faux leather dog boots for sale. He’s still not put his hand up to what he was actually looking for when he stumbled across this little gem, but we’ll let that pass.

So with the natural inability of the usual ebayer to write sentences or use fings like gramma the undoubted target market is to attract the urbane urbanites, shaved head, mouth breather, vacant look, IQ of around 55. Parents no prettier. You’ve seen them.

Apparently then, if you have a dog, you need:
Durable and breathable Small Protective Pet Dog Boots Leather Booties Shoes
Your pet will be the hottest dog on the street when she steps out in these cool, stylish Protective Dog Boots.

It is of course reassuring to know that these are destined for bitches, it seems somehow ‘right’. None of your ‘gangsta’ bling Ridgebacks will be wearing these this season …

With Velcro straps, making the Dog Boots very easy to put on.
The Velcro assisting with holding Fifi down whilst the fake leather is wrestled on the end of her little pins.
Fashion Dog Boots Shoes to make sure your pooch looks smart and cute,
Hmm… see ‘fun’ photo shoot later, if you ‘re not worried by now, you bloody well should be.

With deluxe anti-slip rubber sole,
So, dogs, and anti-slip rubber specified, even the Welsh sheep are beginning to look uneasy, glancing in each others ears, almost as if they hold some gungy, black, waxy muck to be responsible for the flow of obscene possibilities that’s beginning to reach their brains.

For ‘fun’ Photo-shoot sessions. Sure to bring you lots of fun and laughters.
Material: Faux leather
Package set of 4

You just want to steer well clear of anyone offering to show you pictures of their ‘fun photo shoot’ bitch sessions. Next thing you know they’ll be offering to re-paint your garage door by the River Mimram, with some naked bint and a pack of four! Despite the entreprenurial nature of the offer and discounts galore for bulk orders, they’ve missed a trick to supply three packs for all those run over rescue home mutts.

One is also advised to
Please measure your dog’s paws before ordering.
The last thing you want is the wrong size turning up, conversely of course that exactly what the bleedin dog is hoping for.
How to measure
1. Place a paper underneath the front paws (the front paws are usually bigger than the back paws so it will be fine doing just that).

And just in case you’re still not sure, the front ones are down a bit from the hole with the sharp pointy white bits in it, that smells like a dogs bum, and the back ones are underneath that neat strawberry coloured starfish with a brush next to it, that smells like a dogs bum.

2. Outline the paw with a pen (including nails).
From this instruction you rather get the idea that fido has got a bit fecked off with the procedure, if by this time you are having to nail the bloody dog to the floor to draw round its feet.

Have to admit I’m still intrigued as to whether he was looking for a fake leather dog though …

Free Bird

Posted in birds, Humour, life, pets, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on June 9, 2008 by norvenmunky

Following on from my last post, we did indeed get a free bird. And a mature one at that. Henry the ‘northun git’ parrot appeared one afternoon on the Ivy on the wall of the garden. In the way of such things it was at about 4:30pm on a Friday. He was quite happy just sitting on the ivy whilst assorted small garden and woodland birds were crapping themselves, thinking ‘what the #### is that!’ as they flew up and down the length of the garden wall. Knowing that an inland frost was forecast for that eve, (please someone from the met office show me an off-shore one …), I decided I would try and get some assistance for it. Local vets were closed, RSPB weren’t answering, so I tried the RSPCA. Having negotiated their call filtering system I managed to speak to a bloke who took all the details, injured, description, size, etc and that was that. They would have been more interested it seemed if it were a young bird, rather than mature. Clearly setting standards high so early in the weekend, no doubt if a young bird had not been caught on the Friday night and if having joined their local Tennants Association, (see worst enemy post), if it were still looking grim by 11:00pm Saturday night the mature bird option may suddenly become more interesting. By this time Mrs Norvenmunky had come home, and her being her, dived into the ivy, and t’parrot happily walked up her arm and sat on her head. So still having the bird in the bush (so to speak) the local feds were contacted, on account of Mrs Nm knowing that they had a bit of a thing for animals, including, and this isn’t a cheap joke, a pet pig. The Sherriff suggested we contact Mrs X, who had lost a parrot, so Mrs Nm went off to get her, and the childminder who had a large cage, for Chinchillas, not children, agreed to lend it to us for our ‘guest’.

Meanwhilst, t’parrot, now in the conservatory, and happily trashing the joint, they are destructive bastards, they really are, had started to talk. A quick check on tinterweb had id’ed said parrot as an African Grey, about a thousand quids worth! t’parrot was now talking in a quite distinct Yorkshire/Gratuitous comedy ‘northerner’ accent. So he wasn’t ‘local’. Mrs Nm now had returned with Mrs X who immediately declared parrot as ‘hers’. Bollox is it, I thought.

Now t’parrot had a red ring (round his leg that is, nothing to do with his diet), so I asked Mrs X what the number was on her ring, well on her birds, it wasn’t like I was expecting her to have a tatoo or anything, and she didn’t know the number. So when did you lose the bird? Ooh ages ago, (long enough to have sold her cage), yes but how long ago? ‘ooh dont know can’t remember’. So you lose a thousand beer tokens worth of parrot and you don’t know when… Ooh he’s grown a bit since I lost him too! So you lose an exotic bird ages ago, in a non natural habitat, and when he appears he’s fatter, bigger and healthier than when you last saw him, thats normally the case isn’t it?, Oh and he swears a lot too. Well Henry, hadn’t been swearing, though truth be known he had plenty of reason to have been swearing. Having been ‘lost’, found (captured), and now having some mad, fag smoking, Ferrari red haired harridan blowing kisses at him, and not calling him by his name, must have grated just a little.

I politely suggested the ‘lady’ was ‘probably mistaken’, Mrs Nm bundled said biddy back into the car and got rid of her. Not ‘wet work’ tempting though that was to suggest, but just back to her drum. Having realised that Henry was in fact quite a clever sort of bird, and was possibly going to be around a while, I thought that the least I could do for his real owners was to teach him a new tune to whistle. So I chose the Italian national anthem. That’ll teach them.

Fortunately in our village we have a local shop, that sells all sorts of stuff from obscure car spares to fish food. He also sells bird food. Berg, take note re bird food, the restaurant is still a better bet, (though more expensive), than a bag of Trill and half a bottle of Ouzo. Mind you I have nothing but admiration for the dogged determination shown in bringing the lo-cost ethos to a new ‘market’, called ‘women’ …
I asked Mr Shopkeeper he had any parrot food, and he asked why did I have a parrot? For once, the reflex didn’t kick in, and I assured him that yes indeed, I was the temporary, (probably), keeper of an African Grey, as of the previous evening. Ah I know someone who’s lost one he said, yep so do I, I said. Oh no not her he said, this lady, and gave me a phone number.
Now this lady, had the foresight to have taken the ring number, which matched, and also gave a description of a distinctive mark, and told us his name, Henry. Little Nm went up to the parrot and said ‘hello Henry’, and Henry said ‘Allright me duck’ back. Whithin thirty minutes a charming lady appeared with a wad of cash, (the reward, not taken), and Henry was re-united with his proper owner. He was an interesting bird, as he was a companies food tester, hence being a fat bastard presumably. He had a range of accents, mostly West Yorkshire as that was where he was based as a tester, no doubt passing comment on the food tasted,

Call yerself a shef?, That’s shite that is …