HOME PAGE

TOO KIND

“That is too kind of you”. 

Like so many phrases in the English language, and indeed in most languages, the meaning of this phrase  depends  on how it is delivered and the context in which it is delivered. One way the speaker is endeavouring to express a heart felt sense of gratitude in terms for which a mere thank you is inadequate, while in another what the same speaker may actually mean  it is not kind at all. This is a story about two families  and a llama called Florence where the too kind phrase had both extremes of meaning at the same time. 

The Frobishers had been involved with animals for twenty years in one way or other. Cats, dogs, chickens, peacocks, and one billy goat with one and a half horns. While acquiring  animals they were also acquiring children – three boys and one girl.- and when the girl started showing an interest in horse riding the Frobishers realised it was time to show an interest in a few rural acres and they moved on to 35 of them beside the road to Wiseman’s Ferry on the outskirts of Sydney. There they acquired not only one horse but two, a gelding and a mare,  which rapidly became three when the mare surprised one morning by delivering a colt. Shortly after, they became swept up in the new craze of alpacas, and started breeding those hairy South American creatures with two pregnant females and an unrelated male, which, with the help of a few additional purchases, had, at the time of this story, became a  herd of fourteen.

Initially, Bruce worked in an office in Hunter St on computer software design but during the last three years was enabled to work from an office at home. The alpaca husbandry know-how of himself and wife Barbara increased exponentially as their herd increased. They even won a ribbon in the Hawkesbury Show for a yearling fleece, and by dint of steady work at weekends and holidays, built sheds and fencing  which made the place look a model of professionalism and five star alpaca accommodation. Clearly, the Frobishers loved their animals and had learned well the business of alpaca management.

In the Sydney office Bruce met Mark who was an outside technical representative for the company. Mark and his wife Kay had for some time been interested in llamas, the alpaca cousin,  and Kay had already seen a female and fallen in love with her. However, living as they were in a two bedroom townhouse in Glebe with a backyard about the size of their kitchen, there seemed no hope of owning a llama until, following several visits to the enthusiastic Frobishers, they developed the resolve to find a way.

Then two events occurred within a day of each other to fortify that resolve. First, Mark and Kay  had begun studying the rural newspapers and the Saturday Sydney Morning Herald and read that 5 acres had become available at Maroota less than 10 minutes from the Frobishers. Secondly, on Monday morning following this discovery, Bruce came into the office and said “Hey Mark. Barb and I were talking last night. If you like we’ll mind that llama for  you while you make other arrangements and learn the ropes. No charge”. 

On Saturday night over a bottle of Merlot in their Glebe unit Kay and Mark celebrated the dual facts that they had that afternoon put a deposit on the land and  delivered a female llama, Florence, to the Frobishers. 

When Barbara Frobisher saw Florence she exclaimed. “You beauty. Kay. I can see why you wanted her”.  Florence was nearly six foot tall to the tips of her ears and there was an elegance about her that surpassed any of the Frobisher’s alpacas. The tips of her curved  ears almost touched over her head and her eyelashes would have been worth a fortune in the fashion counter of David Jones. She was also a magnificent deep dark brown colour which glowed in the sun and shimmered as she moved, a powerful contrast to the alpacas which were almost all uniformly white. 

Her manner was proud and aloof in the llama way but Kay liked to tell the story of her first meeting. She had turned away from Florence to talk to the vendor  and the llama’s soft muzzle suddenly appeared between her left arm and her chest touching her wrist searching, the vendor explained, for food. The action was so unexpected that Kay jumped,  lost her footing, and fell to the ground. Florence instantly took two steps back before rocking back on her fetlocks, ears flat on her head, surprised and defensive. Then, after a pause, seeing Kay on the ground, she cautiously reversed the procedure and with ears now well forward and head and neck fully extended began delicately – oh so delicately – to bring her nostrils inquiringly  to the cheeks of the recumbent Kay.  

Florence was also eight month’s pregnant, her dry milk capped teats below a swelling bag sufficient testimony. She had had two cria and the vendors assured Kay and Mark that Florence had no problem with births, both cria arriving around lunchtime, and feeding within an hour. She had proved an excellent and attentive mother. 

The Frobisher homestead, adjacent holding yards and farm buildings, were set in the front five acres of the property and fenced off from the majority of the acres. The alpacas spent most of their time in the 30 acre open area and here Florence took up residence. 

It was December and eastern summer time so the evenings were lengthening and for about a week Kay would travel to Wiseman’s Ferry Rd at the end of every day to see how Florence and the embryonic baby were getting on. 

Further good news came to Kay and Mark when the owner of their Maroota land agreed to their occupancy while the sale went through due process.  Kay and Mark immediately  bought a caravan and spent the weekends in that. 

During one weekend the Frobishers experienced a  difficult birth with one of their alpaca females. The cria was premature and would not stand to drink and so was not getting fed. Kay and Mark were to admire the skill and love with which both Barbara and Bruce milked the mother and syringed  the white life giving fluid into the cria’s mouth. They did try to milk the tiny teats themselves. Mark got nothing out. Kay, harking back to her holidays on the dairy farm of her stepmother, did yield some dribbles but nothing like the hissing jets which both the Frobishers achieved. 

Kay remarked  on how slowly Barbara depressed the plunger on the syringe and Barbara explained : “If I press too hard the milk may go down into her lungs and I would drown her. What I am doing is letting her suck it off the end of the syringe”.

Through that night they were up at 4 hour intervals repeating the process to save the cria and make it strong enough to stand and feed itself which, on the third morning, it finally did. Kay and Mark observing all this went away confident that in the unlikely event there was trouble for Florence’s next birthing she would be in good hands. It was agreed they would not move Florence until after the cria was born. 

On their visits to the farm Kay and Mark became familiar with the behaviour of Florence so if they were in a hurry and traffic or  work commitments might hold them up, either  or both of  them would drop in, stand at the fence, look, satisfy all was well and leave without staying to feed and talk. They learned the various postures of the llama sitting, standing, ears back, ears forward, coming forward to be fed, and scared themselves silly one day when, for the first of many times, they came to see Florence  lying on her side legs extended with her neck stretched downhill, ears flat on her head motionless.  They thought she was dead until, after an agonising pause, an ear twitched and they knew she was only relaxing after a good roll.. 

Then came that Wednesday in February when eyes did not deceive. 

It had been obvious for some time Florence was nearing her time. Her bag was overflowing with milk and running in veins along her stomach. She looked enormous. “ Ready to produce twins” opined Bruce. Kay began living semi permanently in the caravan and making two trips a day to the Frobishers. 

On this particular Wednesday Kay had arrived on her own. It was before nine and already very hot. Temperatures were forecast to rise to over 40deg C. 

When she saw Florence she could not dispel a sense of unease . Florence was sitting by herself in a remote corner of the paddock away from the alpacas. To Kay  everything was superficially normal. The llama  seemed healthy, chewing her cud, occasionally twisting her head round and scratching her nose in a bare patch of earth below her  intermittently grabbing and chewing the nearest stands of grass. On the other hand she did not glance towards Kay, and made no effort to come over to the white bag in Kay’s hands as she usually did knowing it contained her favourite sheep pellets. 

The deal with the Frobishers was that Kay and Mark would look after the animals, could come and go as they liked, and if they wanted help just call out but in spite of her misgivings Kay saw no reason on this occasion to call. There was plenty of  shelter from several trees and Florence was  parked by a big old scribbly. Inconsequentially, Kay noticed that the grass was surprisingly long for that time of year. 

Kay left figuring she would be back  in a few hours and could check then. 

She returned about 3pm. Florence had moved. She was seated some 50 meters away from her morning position out in the open. Still looked composed and regal. But still she made no effort to stand or come to the bag. This time Kay climbed through the fence and walked over to her. 

Still no response.  Florence did not even look at her. 

The sense of unease became a breath catching fear. Something was definitely wrong. 

Kay walked round Florence a couple of times and then again approached her with her hand outstretched, palm open containing seven pellets. Florence gestured absent mindedly toward the hand with her muzzle but, instead of tickling the pellets out with her lips into her mouth, she raised her head abruptly and resumed her contemplation of infinity and the steady movement of her jaws. 

Kay was thinking “I’d better get some advice” simultaneously reflecting that she did not want to make a fool of herself and flaunt her ignorance of camelid behaviour and bother the Frobishers. It had, after all., been a ferociously hot day though a bit of a breeze was starting from the south and the alpacas were also moving little,  some squatting in the small dam.  Florence may just be suffering from the heat. 

Kay took one more look around and this time noticed a dark brown shape.under Florence’s tail. Perhaps 40cms long and  20cms diameter.  

Her immediate thought was “Oh my God. The baby”. But quickly it became clear that if it was the baby it was inside the cylinder. 

 She has had a miscarriage” she said to herself. Then called.  “ BARBARA” before hurrying off to find her. 

It was two hours before the vet arrived and confirmed what Barbara had by then deduced - a prolapse of the uterus. He held the red cylinder of flesh and torn fibre and, surrounded by an assistant he had brought with him, Barbara, Bruce, Kay,  and Mark who had by then arrived, he  explained: 

“I have not experienced this in alpacas or llamas before .. in cattle its quite common and what I have done in those instances is push the uterus back in. There is a huge shock factor here for the mother. There is only about a 50% chance of survival. It must have been like this for a few hours . She has been under considerable strain already. There is … “ as he was talking he began to sound as though he was talking to himself working out his next move. He suddenly checked his flow and said “where’s the baby?” 

“The baby?” A chorus of four voices all still thinking the cria was in the ugly cylinder. “Yes. She’s had the baby. It must be around!”.Then not quite sure who he should be talking to and back to the surgical business in hand …. “Shall I go ahead?” 

While the assistant returned to the vet’s car bringing gelatine lubricant, various local anaesthetics, and anti biotics plus a collection of hypodermic needles, a 5 litre bottle of disinfectant, a needle, and some dressings and cottonwool Mark, Bruce and Barbara walked off in an increasingly  wide arc through the long grass looking for a dead cria. 

Kay stood dumbly looking at the vet, the prolapse, and the vet’s last words echoing in her ears “Of course. She will not be able to have any more cria … even if she does live”. 

Suddenly there was a cry from Bruce as he kneeled down in the grass momentarily lost behind the big scribbly and stood up with a dark brown, struggling, replica of Florence in his arms and brought it over to the vet. Florence showed no interest in her cria and the cria no interest in her mother. Bruce  wondered when she was born and how long they had been separated and why she was so far from her daughter. Kay wondered if she would have found her on her morning visit if she had stayed.

Unkind though it was Kay could not resist the thought “well if we lose you Florence we’ll be able to start over again”. Then she started worrying how she would feed the cria AND save the mother. 

The vet meanwhile had locally anaethetised, injected anti biotics and was on his knees gently massaging the prolapse first with the antiseptic to clean  out the maggots that had started to accumulate, swapping stories from the history books  of Florence Nightingale in the Boer War using maggots to clean wounds, and then carressing with gelatine. Carressing. Carressing while Kay sprayed fly repellant around the wound and Florence’s entire back section until the bundle was clean and slippery and ready to insert. 

The problem now was how. For the insertion, the vet explained, the legs had to be spread wide. 

Florence would not stand and the last thing the vet wanted was  to increase the stress. When she would not stand he announced “what we would do if this was a cow is spreadeagle her back end so you, Bruce, pull out one back leg, and you” pointing to Marc, “pull the other. We will have to roll her over a bit. Ready? Lets go”. 

Florence weighed over 150 kg and she started to resist but there was little fight in her and surprisingly quickly she was sprawled in as undignified position as she had ever been since she tumbled out of her own  mother’s womb six years earlier. Mark and Bruce each held a leg extended. The vet then started to ease the uterus assembly back into her body patiently sliding his hands around the cylinder and pressing and pushing it back into her body. The four of them stared fascinated increasingly aware that it was not just a question of pushing a cork into a bottle. It was more like a sock which had been turned outside in having to be turned inside out as it was slid back in. 

Suddenly it was in and the door of her body closed around it. To ensure it stayed there the vet now put two huge stitches across that doorway and the job was done. 

“That looks’s pretty good”, he said. “Now you’re immediate problem is shock. If she is going to die in the next 24 hours she will die of shock. For the future keep the antibiotics up to her and let’s hope for the best”. 

In all this time the cria had not kept still - a frantic ball of energy. The same dramatic colour as her mother now exaggerated by her tiny red tongue, looking slightly swollen, a  vivid contrast as it lolled out of the side her mouth. 

She put her lips against everyone and everything including various parts of the vet’s car and then when she had tried once she started again. The only individual she did not nose was her mother and her traumatised mother did not look at her daughter once. She was here, there, and everywhere, allowing herself to be cuddled when her lips would appear nibling the cuddler’s ears, then scrambling down and moving from person to person looking for fluid. 

As she moved the sombre mood changed and the tension began to evaporate, gloom replaced by joy. 

Kay said: “Tinkerbell. We’ll call her Tinkerbell”. 

Bruce announced cheerfully: “feeding time for cria”. 

On cue Barbara hurried back to the house for a cup, and a syringe while Mark said: 

“We cannot milk her as she is because as you see we can’t get at the teats. We’ll have to push over on her side again. “ 

Florence started to resist and then collapsed. Bruce held Tinkerbell against her mother’s teats but she struggled to get away so Bruce started milking in that professional way Mark had seen earlier on the alpacas. There was plenty of milk and two of her four teats were easily accessible. While Barbara syringed the first batch into the now eager and grateful cria’s mouth Mark and Bruce heaved the mother over to her other side to drain the other two teats. 

Eventually refusing milk Tinkerbell was placed on the ground and promptly, in that way cria do, after distancing herself a couple of meters from her mother, fell asleep leaving the cares of the world, and in particular her world, to the four humans standing around her. 

The most significant of those cares was getting Florence closer to the house since she would have to be milked and the baby fed at intervals through the night. Barbara Frobisher said “she can stay on the lawn by the back door in one of the mobile pens we use  to house alpacas  at shows”. The problem was that Florence had no intention of moving anywhere least of all standing. 

Bruce then decided to bring his horsefloat into the paddock. He backed up to Florence and parked it so that the ramp was  almost touching her front foot. Florence was not interested and sat staring into infinity. 

At this point the vet discreetly left with his assistant a job well done.. 

How then to move her without stressing her? 

The usual inducements of food, lifting her tail, pulling her neck to right and left, rolling her, pleading with her, were not going to work. 

Suddenly Mark said to the amazement of everyone, including himself he admitted later when he could bear the pain of thinking of the whole matter again: “Look. If we had a canvas sheet couldn’t we roll Florence into that and then we can slide her up the ramp and into the float that way.” 

The plan worked perfectly. Inside the float, they righted Florence so she was sitting in her usual manner. Then Kay grabbed Tinkerbell once again effervescent and eager for more of mother’s nectar and slipped her in with her mother. 

On the lawn all four humans grabbed a corner of the canvas and hauled the traumatised llama out of the float  in the same undignified manner they had used to get her in. However, this time, reaching terra firm, Florence surprised by standing up. 

While Florence was up Bruce again tried to get the cria interested in taking milk direct from her by holding those inquiring lips to the teats but again she protested and pulled away. Not once did Florence look at her although she did not object to the cria’s lips on her teats. Afterwards, Florence allowed herself to be led into the pen, milked again, and then she sat down. Bruce held the cria in his arms cuddling her while Barbara applied the syringe and Kay and Mark prepared to leave. 

“Don’t bother to come back tonight. We’ll feed her at eleven or so. We’ll see you in the morning. They’ll be right. We’ll phone you if there’s a problem”. 

“You’re too kind” said Kay. 

“Well Florence. You look OK”, said Mark to the llama. “Oh boy. She’d better be” to the others. 

“Well she’s left us a great reminder if she does have a relapse”, said Kay. “There’s nothing wrong with the cria thank heaven. It’s a beauty”.  And three voices grunted acquiescence. The ‘great reminder’ having once again selected a position a couple of her lengths from her mother was already asleep her neck folded back almost to her spine her lips pointed to the stars that now filled the sky.

Next day Mark and Kay got to the farm at about 6.30am. There had been no phone calls so both were full of anticipation wondering how they would cope with the feeding for the first time. How soon would they learn to milk. How soon would Tinkerbell feed direct. 

The Frobishers were not up so Kay went straight to the pen on the  lawn while Mark closed the gate and parked the car.  He had scarcely walked half a dozen steps before Kay returned with tears in her eyes. 

“She’s dead”, she said. 

“OH NO. After all that. Well the vet said she only had a 50/50 chance didn’t he. There’s still Tinkerbell. Sleep well Florence”. 

Its not Florence. Its Tinkerbell that’s dead”, said Kay - - -

The vet  also misunderstood.“ Oh that’s a pity. I really thought we had saved her but I said it was only 50/50. You know, the accident really must have been a huge shock …. “. 

“No. It was the baby. The cria. Tinkerbell”, Kay cried. 

“The cria! I would not have guessed. She was in great form. No worries there once she had mother’s milk inside her and I saw she had achieved that.” 

Later, with Tinkerbell on one of his operating tables he said. “I don’t have to look further. Her rib cage has been crushed.  Something has fallen on her. Her mother maybe? Were the two perhaps sitting close? With the discomfort she must have still been enduring she probably would not have felt the  cria, and she could easily have rolled on her side to try  to ease some of the discomfort?” 

Back at the Frobishers Bruce explained: “We went out about 11.30 before bed.  Mother and baby were fine. Tinkerbell was in a corner of the pen  and  Florence in the middle not showing any interest in her daughter. Between us we milked Florence as you saw us do before and then I took Tinkerbell out of the pen cradling her in my arms while Barbara syringed her. When she had had enough I put her back in the pen but this time snuggling her close up to her mum so that through the contact they would bond again.”. 

There was a slight slope in the lawn so Kay asked: “was it on the high side there or the low?”. 

“On the lower” adding  after a pause “We don’t really know what happened do we but that does look like the story”. He paused.  “I just did what I thought was best.” He paused again and Mark broke in philosophically 

“Maybe baby knew best after all”.. 

“Too kind” mused Kay sadly.

HOME

CATALOGUE

MIRRABOOK  ALPACAS

LATEST  NEWS