Author: Rita de Heer

Writing is what I do. What I think about. What I meditate on. What I dream up. Listen to. Imagine. Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I eat. And I walk. Pull out environmental weeds. There are a thousand more things I do, though writing comes into a fair few of those things too.

Cat Tales 20

The tadpoles saga is ongoing. As a cat who eats only cat kibbles—and there’s a very good reason for that—I am amazed by the kinds of food that tadpoles will take to.

At a certain point my human said, “I’m done trying to chase up oak-leaf lettuces. They’re obviously not in season. And expensive when I do come across one. We’ll try these little beasts on a few other greens.”

Which we did. The taddies, as we’re calling them now, would have nothing to do with icebergs, silverbeet, warrigal greens or boiled lettuce. Fussy little beggars. Then, out of sheer desperation, my human broke a nasturtium leaf from the abundant plantation of nasturtiums we have camouflaging Skink Haven.

Personally, I hate nasturtiums. I hate their smell on me. I hate their wibbly wobbly leaves, and how they are just the right height to get in my eyes when I walk among them. So, no. I don’t go in that jungle. Which is probably why the nasturtiums have been encouraged to sprawl over the one-time garden bed where now a community of a special sort of skinks live. Since I’m not allowed to hunt them.


But the taddies, now. They love nasturtium leaves. Look at them! But which left us with the fish food problem. They went off fish food, left it floating on the surface of the water. I like it so was mightily tempted to go fishing for it. A couple of times I almost overbalanced reaching for a tasty titbit.

Watching my antics, the pernickety old woman said, “That’s it! No more fish food. We’re going to have to try them on something more substantial.” She went hunting in the backyard with an insect net.

I fetched a salt-reduced cat-kibble that’d been soaking in my water bowl. Dropped it into the pond. See what happens, I thought. It’s the pernickety old woman’s own, favorite, and nearly always useful expression.

Eight or ten of the taddies made a straight line swim to the sodden kibble and started in on it, butting at it and tearing crumbs off it. They obviously like it. I could say I told you so.


The pernickety old woman caught a great big grasshopper eating something precious, and killed it. I didn’t see how. She could’ve let me do that. She lay the grasshopper carcass on the water where it floated for three days.

Then! You guessed it. It had needed to rot a bit before the voracious little beggars could get their teeth into it. Do tadpoles even have teeth? They ate that whole carcass though, worrying at it even after it sank.

Dozens of hungry taddies lined the top of the water, waiting for a meal. They worried me. What if Mr Egret came along now? He’d have a feast!

My human had a couple of solutions. First she soaked a bunch of salt-reduced kibbles, put them in a fruit-net from the green grocer’s with a couple of hefty pebbles, and sank the parcel in the pond. “So they don’t spend all their time at the top of the water, easy pickings for the likes of that egret.”

Next she found a dried Bangalow palm frond and cut it more or less in the shape of the pond. Wedged it in there. “Camouflage for the little critters. And, when they start their legs …”

What? These critters would be growing legs? I intended to spend a whole lot more time on the pond edge to see that happening!

Blogging Stats: An Outlier

I usually do an annual assessment of this blog where I have a look at what is working and what’s not. This year I have an ‘outlier’ to consider. This is a post that does so well that it outstrips every other post with Views. Even now, eighteen months since it was posted, search engines are still finding it, and still gets between 1-5 Views per week, with so far, over 150 Views in total.

If it was one of my usual non-fiction posts I would be over the moon! Ecstatic, even, to think that so many people appreciate my writing. I would definitely then analyze its every word, tag and category, to see whether I could replicate its success.

Instead I will analyze it for the elements that allowed it to cross over into ‘Lego-technical-expertise-country’. I think what is actually happening is that Lego enthusiasts are hitting on it in the belief that it is one of the xyz posts they’ve heard about explaining a particularly nitty-gritty technique by way of a technicolor video or some such.

When they discover it isn’t what they expected, they just as quickly click away. Giving me a bunch of ‘false-positives’ in the blog’s stats. Lol, I won’t be posting the title of the offending post in this article! I’m not after more ‘false-positives’!

But seriously, when by now more that a hundred and fifty people click away with their expectations unfulfilled, that can start to have repercussions for a blog. Time to do something about it. I’m thinking of combining the information in all three posts pertaining to that subject, and deleting the originals. That way I still have the information available.

Cat tales 19

My proper, Hand-of-God life, as backyard guardian, started when these frog eggs hatched. The next day, my human carefully emptied all three buckets into the bath in the backyard. A few hours later hundreds of tiny tadpoles wriggled up to get a breath of air, and down to the floor of the pond to get food. And repeated that all day. I studied them for hours.

Their first danger was the egret that came every day. It seemed to know when it was safe. If it came at dawn, I’d be stuck in the house because the pernickety old woman still lay in bed. In the daytime, I might be inside because the pernickety old woman had gone down the street for some shopping.

I stalked from left to right and left sweeping my tail angrily behind the glass doors, hoping Mr Egret would see me and feel threatened by my scary puffed-up black and white shape. But he didn’t appear to be able to see through glass. My human and I had learned from the TV that only intelligent—whatever that means—animals could see through glass or see themselves in mirrors. I have no trouble whatever with either of those types of glass though I confess that the TV sometimes tricks me.

When Mr Egret first arrived, he’d perch on the corner of the garden bed, and would stare for many minutes in every direction. If no movement anywhere—despite me at my performance— he’d half-open his wings and use a slight downward thrust to hop onto the corner of the pond-bath that was mine! He’d start with his scooping action, scooping up a few of the tadpoles at the time, many many times. Every time he’d been for a meal, I expected the crowd in the pond to have been quartered or even halved.

But it didn’t turn out too bad. The babies grew very fast and filled the empty spaces. And they ate everything suitable for them in a matter of three days. When my human and I started to see skinny tadpoles, we knew we had to do something. She researched food for tadpoles and took off down the street. That first day she brought back an oak-leaf lettuce, a tadpole delicacy, she said. I couldn’t see why, surely they’d need something more heartening? She floated the lettuce in the bath to see what would happen.

They loved it. Ate and ate until the remnants sank. My human had already fetched in another lettuce, a different look about the thing, which the little animals barely touched. Oh no! We were back at the beginning plus one. The plus one referring to their growth so far, of course.

“I couldn’t get an oak-leaf,” my human said. “How would they even know the difference?” There were a few things I could’ve said, but I knew she wouldn’t listen. “Maybe they’ll eat fish food,” she said. “If I leave you in the backyard will you still be here when I get back? The Pet Shop is just around the corner.

Humans have a saying for how I decided I would communicate my intention. I tried to remember how it went. Ah. I remember. I arranged my face, and even my body to say Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. Though I might be making a mistake about that saying. I’m not human, after all. It doesn’t sound all that applicable. What I meant to say, Yes I’ll be here. Yes, I’ll be good.

And so I was when my human returned with fish food flakes. They smelled so good I was tempted to jump into the water after them. But in fact, upon getting a good sniff of them herself, she realized their attraction for me and poured a little pile of them for me to lick from the corner of the pond.

Eyes vs Crow’s Feet …

The story about the lack of posts last week? It all started with a trio of crow’s feet. The wrinkles aka grooves and ridges beside your eyes, resulting from years of scrunching up your eyes against too much sun. Everyone over forty will have them.

Last Monday, as I planned to go into the sun light burgeoning down, I spread SP15 over my face not taking the required care as it turned out. After about an hour my right eye started twinging.

Oh right, I thought, sunscreen has sweated down the grooves of my crow’s feet into my eyes. Because that is a thing, right? Well, I hope you’ll tell me I’m not the only person that happens to.

It’s the way that Thorny Devils (Moloch horridus) get their water. They don’t drink. Their ‘crow’s feet’ all lead to their mouths and moisture leaks into them.

By KeresH – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3716812

When I got home, I washed out my eyes. Washed the remains of the sunscreen off. Got the eye-baths out, and the eye drops to soothe my eyes.

Next day, I didn’t go out. Eyes about the same. Did it all again, about three times. Eye-baths. Eye drops. All to be expected. I was prepared for a two-day recovery.

Rest of the week? Right eye the worst. Like sand in there. I lost count how many times I filled the eye-bath with cooled boiled water, pressed it into my eye-socket and fluttered the eye-lid, hoping to dislodge the … what?

Crystalized sunscreen lotion? Yeah I know, we grasp at anything to make meaning. A deep ache developed. Who knew eye-balls have pain receptors? The left eye, though not suffering the original disaster, refused to work by itself and went on strike. It wept non-stop.

Then it was the weekend. No GPs available even if I’d decided to brave the relentless light out there. Monday AM I called the eye specialist. They are lovely people who said, Come down right away, we’ll fit you in.

I wrapped my head with a scarf. Pulled apart the windings so I could see a thin sliver of light, and where I’d be going. I felt like an Inuit in a snow storm despite that it was 35 degrees Celsius outside. Then put on 2 pairs of sunglasses one over the top of the other to make it dark enough.

Once the unidentified muck was plucked from my right eye-ball it started to recover. However, the inflammation had also to be addressed. Result of that, I’m on a once-a-day antibiotic for a month. The kind where you can’t go out in the sun because you’ll get burnt.

In the expectation that my gut would be my next concern, I bought probiotics too. So far so good.

On the way home, popped into the local St Vinnies (thrift/secondhand store) and bought a couple of long-sleeved shirts from their 50% sale. Kind of a synchronicity, I suppose. And stay out of the glare was the other thing.

Apart from all that, it’s pretty amazing to have something more than the usual stuff in common with a 20 centimeter Thorny Devil.

Cheers, all.

Cat Tales 18

When it rained lots and lots, and it was close to summer, the pernickety old woman ran around putting buckets in the backyard to catch rainwater. Even when it stopped raining, she left them standing where they were.

Even as the Hand-of-God, I was mystified as I went round smelling at them. Just rainwater, half a bucket full, that I couldn’t reach to drink. What were they for? Couldn’t be for animals to drink from. I just proved that.

When the buckets were about half-full of rainwater, the pernickety old woman dipped her hand in the frog pond, scooped up a handful of azolla water weed and carried it dripping to the buckets and dripped a bit of the weed in each.

I think there were five buckets. The stuff grew like—well, a weed—and soon all the buckets had an island of green floating in them.

That evening, a clap of thunder! I raced for my favorite hiding place in the bottom of the bookshelves. Another thunderstorm. More rain.


The pernickety old woman loved a good thunderstorm. She stood laughing in the open laundry door, only slightly sheltered. “Smell the petrichor?” she said.

When the storm faded away, and the rain fell only mistily, the down-pipes from the roof started to boom. Or maybe call it a belling. A loud insistent kind of ringing echoed from ours, and all the ones in the neighboring yards on both sides. A racket!

“That’s them,” the pernickety old woman said. “The green tree frogs. The rain woke them, flushed the leaves from their hidey holes, and they’re sitting there—each under his own pipe—calling loud enough to bring any green tree frog female happening to be about.” She laughed.

Ah, I thought. They sit under the down-pipes to have their calling amplified. Smart. I miaowed and joined my human at the laundry door.

“Tomorrow we shall see what we’ll see,” she said. “The buckets will be in all night demand, I’m thinking.”

It was a dark night. I didn’t see a thing peering through the glass doors in the sun-room. I was so curious by the first morning light, I scratched at the pernickety old woman’s bedroom door. She didn’t let me sleep with her for this very reason. She being a night owl and I preferring to be up at the crack of dawn. All I heard was a groan. I think she meant for me to go away.

I did. For about five minutes. Scratched at the bedroom door again. “Fine!” I heard from the bed. Then it creaking.

The pernickety old woman grumbled from near the wardrobe. I understood her to be clothing herself. Humans are so bereft without fur. I skipped back to my position at the glass doors.

My human came bleary-eyed from the bedroom. Dressed in her usual long pants, cotton shirt and kimono loose over the top. She yawned. “Let me put on a pot of tea first.”

“Miaaoow!” Let’s go see outside first, that meant.

“Might as well, I suppose. Water won’t boil for a bit. Beautiful sunrise, all said and done. Wait till I grab my camera.”

She walked. I pranced to the first bucket. We peered into it. “Ah ha,” my human said. “I think we have a jackpot. Look at that! I think a whole clutch. Green tree frog spawn for sure.”