One day I went to the shop to buy milk and came home with a goat called Billie! I had no idea what I was going to do with Billie, but I assumed it would all fall into place. I was wrong.

     My kind and unassuming husband was very surprised when I opened the gate to our home for waifs and strays with a goat in tow. The bearded animal snorted when he saw the garden. Heaven, he must have thought, a Billie Goats Heaven!

     I was a very kind but assuming wife, my husband said, to think that we could easily accommodate this animal that had one eye on the washing line and another on our prized allotment. But Billie was here to stay, at least for the time being.

     He didn’t make friends easily, which was probably due to his horns. These  had the potential to toss an unsuspecting person into the air. And they certainly scared many of our friends away.

     And he escaped, once or twice, could have been more but I hate to think about it. Oh, the trouble it caused. We thought that Gilbert the Great was a handful, but Billie the Goat beat him hands down.

     ‘A goat can live for twenty or more years,’ a friend told me kindly, ‘but I suggest you don’t tell your kind and unassuming husband that.’

    ‘He’s probably not far off old age,’ I replied and instantly felt sorry for poor Billie.      

     I knew we couldn’t keep Billie indefinitely, our home for waifs and strays just wasn’t right for him.

      ‘We could rent him out,’ I said jokingly, to my kind and unassuming husband many months later. ‘Someone must need a natural lawnmower.’

      He shook his head and said that Billie deserved somewhere permanent. I agreed.

       It was after Billie got into the allotment, that we sought a new home for him. I asked Tom the Egg (he really did exist) if he would put some posters around the villages and off he went on his new bicycle.

       Within two days, someone called and asked all about Billie. What he looked like, colour, size etc. When I had given them a full description, they asked if they could come to see him straight away.

        Well, what a surprise. Billie found a new home on the stage. He was to star in a play which was running for another four nights, then live the rest of his days on a farm close by.

        I have often been to visit Billie and delighted to write, that he is a happily retired acting goat.

 Goodnight Billie! I often wonder where you came from.

Not far from our home for waifs and strays (very close in fact) are miles and miles of spectacular thorny evergreen gorse plants. At this time of year, the pungent smell of coconut erupts from the blaze of yellow flowers, which the gorse is widely known for. But today, as I walked by these sunny little heads, I noticed they were covered in silk like drapes. They had been invaded by the Tetranychus lintearius!

      Colonies of gorse spider mites can do more damage to the plant than any other organism. However, it does not appear to attack any other plants, thankfully!

     These tiny spiders are bright red and appear to float eerily in the silk webs which can stretch to quite some distance. However, heavy mite activity can reduce flowering and stunt the development of the branches. But all is not lost! You see, a particular species of ladybird, know as (Stethorus punctillium) is a natural predator and have the potential to severely reduce the population of the gorse spider mite. So look out!

I don’t want to eat snails,’ said Hywel Hog, ‘I’m a vegetarian!’

      ‘You must eat up,’ said Mrs Erinaceus (this is Latin for hedgehog), ‘before the winter comes.’

       Hywel Hog moaned and groaned just like all children do when they don’t want to eat their food.

       ‘Eat! Eat! Eat!’ he said, playing with a snail that was put in front of him. ‘But I don’t like snails!’

       ‘All hoglets eat snails,’ his mother replied. ‘Now eat up!’

       ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ said Hywel Hog and pushed the snail away.

       Now Mrs Erinaceus knew that unless Hywel Hog ate his food, he wouldn’t survive until the spring. She was a very worried mother.

       But the young hoglet would not eat his food and he got thinner and thinner. It was almost time to hibernate and Mrs. Erinaceus knew that her young son would die if he didn’t eat soon. She tried everything she could think of, worms, beetles and slugs, but nothing worked. Hywel Hog refused everything that contained meat.

        ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ he kept saying, over and over again. ‘I don’t want anything to have to die for me!’

        Although Mrs Erinaceus thought that this was a very sweet thing for her son to say, it wasn’t helping matters and the days became colder and colder and Hywel Hog got thinner and thinner. Then one evening, a very strange thing happened.

         They were wondering about in the garden of the home for waifs and strays, when the door of the house opened and someone came out. Young Hywel Hog and his mother watched from the shadows as the lady put down a dish of something that smelt delicious. They watched closely, as she went back into the house and closed the door.

          ‘You stay here,’ said Mrs Erinaceus, ‘while I see if it is safe.’ And she scurried across the yard to where the delicious smell was coming from. Her little heart raced and she prayed that the food would be suitable for Hywel Hog.

           ‘Come,’ she called softly to her son, ‘I think you will like it! It doesn’t smell like meat.’

           Little Hywel Hog hurried over to his mother and sniffed at the food in front of him.

           ‘It’s delicious!’ he said excitedly and gobbled it all down. Mrs Erinaceus sighed a huge relief.

           Every night they went to the yard and waited for the door to open and the food to be left. And every night until it was time to hibernate, the young hoglet gobbled up all the boiled vegatables.They never once saw the lady smiling at them from the kitchen window.

We are not the only animals on this planet that experience grief. For many years, I have watched animals grieve in very much the same way as humans and today was one of those days.

       As a young child my father taught me that all animals should be shown respect and he talked about the grief they felt for each other. The first time I saw this for myself, was when our cat caught a magpie and left the poor dead creature on our doorstep. As I cradled the large black and white bird, I was alarmed at the screeching and screaming of another magpie in a tree nearby. It cried pitifully for the next couple of hours. It was the heartbreaking.

        Sea lions also wail pitifully when having to watch killer whales eat their babies and dolphins mourn for sometime after the death of their young.

        Back at our home for waifs and strays, I have endured many times, the harrowing cries of a sheep when its lamb has been hit by a car on the common close by.  The same applies to horses and cattle.

        But stranger still are the hens. Today, I thought it was odd, that despite the sunshine, there was not a hen in sight. I wondered around the garden and down by the pond but still no sign of them. Remembering that one young girl was broody, I opened up the henhouse door and to my surprise, they were all inside. I watched for a moment in disbelief that they could all be laying eggs or possibly gone broody, but then I saw the reason for their strange behaviour. Our oldest hen, Freebie, was dying.

        As I have said before, hens always know when another is sick and dying. One will almost always stay close, until the end. But here were all my hens, standing in a circle around poor Freebie. She died shortly afterwards, peacefully.

        Grief is a powerful emotion and although we think differently to other animals, our feelings are quite often the same.

Ok, so this is a love story about two worms who live in the garden at our home for waifs and strays. I guess I might lose some readers, but hang on a minute! Worms have five hearts and breathe in air and breathe out carbon dioxide, just like us. So why not stay a bit longer. It wont take long. Their names are Wilma and Willmott.

     ‘Do it now,’ said Wilma bossily, ‘while it’s dark!’

     ‘Why does it always have to be me?’ replied grumpy Willmott. ‘You know I’m afraid of the dark!’

     ‘You’re a grown worm,’ said Wilma, ‘worms live in the dark. And we need more air down here!’

     ‘But it’s scary up there. And those chickens bit off uncle Teds head, remember? I want to keep my head Wilma. Why don’t you do it for a change?’

      ‘Willmott Wormery!’ Wilma shouted and made some earth slide down the side of their sitting room, ‘you are a coward and Uncle Ted was a fool!’ she said crossly. ‘He went up in the daytime. What did he expect?’

      ‘Not to lose his head, that’s for certain!’ said Willmott quivering.

      ‘It’s dark now,’ said Wilma more gently, ‘I can’t go, I can hardly breathe!’

      Willmott  loved his wife. She was getting old and lucky to have survived as long as she had but that was probably because he had taken such good care of her, he thought. No, he couldn’t possible let her do it. He had to pluck up the courage and go himself.

      As Willmott slid up to the top of their burrow, Wilma made the sign of the cross. ‘Don’t let anything happen to him,’ she said silently, ‘he’s a grumpy old so and so but I still love him.’

      Willmott anxiously stuck his head out into the open and breathed in the cool night air. It was good, he thought and almost forgot to check for predators.    

      ‘Be quick!’ shouted Wilma. ‘before you lose your head too!'

      Willmott began to drag bits of leaves and straw into the burrow. Wilma helped at this point, by reaching up to get them.

      ‘Ah that’s better already,’ she said. ‘I can breathe easier now.’

      Willmott dragged some tiny stones into the entrance. 

      ‘We’ll soon have lots more air in here Wilma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Put some supper on! I’ll be down now in a minute!’    (Remember, these are Welsh worms!)

      Just as Wilma was about to prepare the food, she heard an almighty scream. It was poor Willmott.

      ‘It’s a chicken!’ he cried, his voice full of terror.

      Wilma dropped everything and slid quickly up the burrow after poor Willmott.

       ‘He’s got me!’ shouted Willmott. ‘Goodbye Wilma!’

       Poor Wilma struggled to the top to see that Willmott still had his head and was smiling.

       ‘What on earth are you playing at Willmott?’ she said breathlessly.

       Willmott turned and wrapped himself around Wilma. ‘I needed to know that you truly loved me,’ he said grinning, ‘and now I know that you do!’ Then he kissed her.