At long last the rain arrived and I swear I saw the Indian Runners out doing whatever amounts to a happy dance for ducks.

One of the the Terrible Twins.

They are certainly happy with their now full to overflowing paddling pool and are rarely found far from it at the moment.

Meanwhile the rest of the Great Urban Ark could care less – in particular The Terrible Twins who have pretty much taken control of the entire household.

Now nearly four months old they are entering the feline equivalent of adolescence – apparent by their rude behaviour and never ending demands to be fed.

Both have decided that the appearance of a skirt on yours truly is an invitation to play all kinds of hide and seek, and anything that gets in the way – like for instance my feet or ankles – is in danger of at the very least painful mutilation.

It is also enormous fun to creep up the back of sofas, ready ourselves on the back and pounce on knitting needles with a yowl and a flash of paw and claw.

They have finally ventured outside where they promptly discovered the joys of exploring beneath the house.

The other half of the Twins - peaks of feline mischief.

I was less overjoyed when I saw first the enormous trail of cobwebs they both dragged in and secondly the huge spider they had unearthed and decided to play with.

I don’t do spiders. Much the same way I don’t do roosters.

No matter how large the Great Urban Ark may grow, you will never find a resident rooster.

When I was a kid we had a huge white rooster that looked like Foghorn Leghorn from the cartoons – and he used to bail me up in the egg house every day.

Invariably my mother would end up having to rescue me and there would ensue a dinner time conversation in which mum would insist the rooster needed to go.

I of course would be egging her on – so to speak.

Mum’s concern was my then baby brother who was about 18 months old and wandering around in nappies; mine was that the rooster scared the living daylights out of me.

 One day the dratted thing didn’t even let me in the chicken coop – he flew at me, claws out and scratched my face quite badly. 

Mum, of course, was furious, telling Dad it was a miracle I hadn’t lost an eye and what if it had been the baby?

Dad was still quite unmoved and simply changed my afternoon chores to include feeding the dogs instead of the chickens.

We had two or three border collies and a young huntaway that was a bit of a nutcase and I adored the lot of them, so I was happy.

About two days later Dad was in the chook run and the rooster pecked his gumboot.

According to my mother, he didn’t even break stride, he simply reached down and rang its neck and kept walking.

I have a funny feeling it was then turned into chicken stock with much zeal by my mother – although that may be simply wishful remembering on my part.

Whichever it was, roosters just make me incredibly nervous – but I do enjoy having The Henny Penny Gang around so I was really interested in what the experts had to say about chickens in this month’s Breeders Digest.

We’re also looking at heating your home now that the temperatures are a bit cooler.

Nothing is nicer than a cosy fire on a winter’s night and if you don’t believe me, ask The Terrible Twins – they have taken over the spot right in front of the fire in our house.

Old Cats and Slobradogs have had to settle for second and third row…respectively.

Until next month, stay warm, stay safe, and stay happy.