Smart Animals
Classic tales of clever creatures
Plume Crazy JANE FARMER
One morning, my one-year-old Kelpie pup, Zappa, and I took our usual walk along the airstrip on our property in Western Queensland. A male emu and his seven striped chicks were quietly strolling down the far end of the airstrip.
After a while I noticed that the father began walking in our direction in a very erect manner – his neck feathers fluffing out slightly. Then he began to pick up pace, striding purposely towards us on his powerful legs, feathers puffed out, making his long scrawny neck look about 20 centimetres thick.
Zappa stood quietly beside me until the emu, now at full speed, was about five metres from us, his large yellow menacing eyes focused on me. I quickly looked around for a stick or any sort of weapon, but of course the airstrip was clean. I dared not turn and run, as the emu would easily outpace me.
In terrified desperation I ripped off
my hat, waved it the air and jumped up and down and screamed like a banshee, attempting to make myself appear bigger and scarier.
Zappa followed my lead and started barking. Surprised, the emu skidded to a halt, wheeled around and sprinted back down the airstrip with a very irate hound in hot pursuit.
Before they’d gone too far, I called Zappa off – not wanting for either to get in a fight or be hurt. He responded immediately and started to jog back to me.
Quick as a flash, the emu realised he wasn’t being chased any more, spun around and raced straight at the dog. He nearly caught him, as I yelled a warning. Zappa whirled around, and chased the bird back down the airstrip and into the scrub. I let him go this time. I could hear his muffled barking, then all was quiet.
Shaken by our frightening ordeal, I thought it would put a stop to our morning walks for a while, but the next day Zappa was bouncing around ready to do it all again. He never chased another emu but it is comforting to know he had my back.
Gentleman in the City ELIZABETH STRACHAN
A few years ago, after a long morning of sightseeing in New York, my children and I took a breather on a park bench in Central Park. “Look!” my son said, pointing to a nearby rubbish bin. That’s when we saw our first racoon. Quite at home in the big city, he paid us no heed, concentrating only on finding lunch. He sorted through a few options before emerging with a wrapped sandwich between his paws. Satisfied, he jumped down and ambled to a spot on the gravel path, not a metre from where we sat. The children were mesmerised, the racoon providing better entertainment than any museum. He glanced at us, perhaps as reassurance that we weren’t about to pilfer his lunch. With delicate fingers, he peeled back the plastic wrap until the halfeaten sandwich was uncovered. Then he surprised us all. Instead of starting his food, he turned to a nearby puddle and dipped his paws in. With a casual air, he rubbed his paws together underwater for a moment, preened his whiskers, then started precisely picking at his meal.