by feathers

Created on: May 29, 2008   Last Updated: June 10, 2008

You'd think with an acre of land to work with, I could have a wonderful garden. Or that I could at least have a small corner where I could sit and feel happy under a shady bough, enjoying the scent of blossoms. Sadly, the truth is that I'm incredibly lazy and not the least bit interested in crawling round on my hands and knees to pull out weeds, or get myself dirty cutting things back and planting stuff. Instead, I figure I'll get animals to do this for me.

The humble chook (or chicken, hen, or domestic fowl, for those who don't speak Australian) seemed to me the perfect garden accessory. I'd do the initial work of getting my husband to dig up some earth, and then plant some seeds, and the birds, well known for their enthusiastic digging, would keep the soil loose, the weeds at bay, and convert any slugs, earwigs, snails or other pests into eggs for me. Could it go any better?

Sadly, my chooks did not turn out to be very adept at looking after the garden for me. In fact, they were completely irresponsible and dug up everything. They remodeled the vegie patch, demolished the herbs and turned the compost heap into, well, into just a bunch of mouldering kitchen scraps spread all about the place. They had absolutely no idea whatsoever. Thing was, though, I found their company very appealing. There's nothing like a bit of quiet bokking while you're wandering about the weed-sanctuary of a garden.

So we kept the chooks and the garden struggled on. Apple trees vanished beneath the onslaught of weeds and any further attempt at establishing a veggie patch was greatly appreciated by the chooks, who enjoy a bit of fresh greenery. Especially when it's vegetable seedlings.

Being on an acre in bushfire country means that my husband spends a lot of the summer walking up and down the steep hillside mowing. Whole weekends are lost to the noise and hard work and it seemed to me that we could much more easily get an animal to do this work for us. Not a horse, we didn't have strong enough fences for that, and not a goat because goats eat everything, and we did have a couple of trees that had managed to withstand our ineptitude in the garden.

A sheep. Sheep are great. Everyone knows that they're grazing animals, not browsing animals, like goats, and they'll only eat the grass. Add to that the bonus of wool. I could dust off my old spinning wheel and spend blissful afternoons spinning the wool of our own sheep and who knew maybe with the grass down to a manageable level we could actually plant a few trees and grow some fruit.

The sheep was a little intimidated at first. She was afraid to be on her own, but after a while she figured out that she was actually a chook and spent her time hanging round with them eating. And eating and eating and eating.

I hadn't realised that the sheep was actually an eating machine. I hadn't realised that grazing meant grazing on EVERYTHING. Grass. Herbs. Daisy bushes. The bark off trees whose leaves she couldn't reach. Not only did she eat everything in our so-called garden, but she went over the fence into my neighbour's very well cared for garden. I spent two hours chasing that crazy sheep all over the place, and she would stop and look back at me, take another mouthful of the neighbour's beloved lilac, and then take off again.

Pests or pets? It all seems to be the same in my garden. I sit there now, guarding my few remaining plants, surrounded by my chooks, bokking quietly as they dig stuff up, and my sheep, eyeing off that one last daisy bush. It's a peaceful life, even if not quite the garden I'd planned.

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