Tuesday, November the 30th, 2004

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The Adventures of Tiny Enid

Tiny Enid knew all there was to know about the capture of ostriches. As we sat together gulping down tumblers of lukewarm tap water, she gave me some tips.

“Here are some precautions,” she said, “Avoid excessive exertion and rough handling during capture, otherwise sudden death or permanent collapse will occur as a result of muscle damage. Ostriches that go down as a result of capture stress usually die of secondary problems such as pneumonia or renal failure. It is imperative that stress factors be minimized. Capture only at low ambient temperature (around 28°C), prevent overexertion, and minimize handling of the captured birds.

“When attempting to capture ostriches in camps or in small enclosures, be very careful not to herd the ostriches into the fence. The fence can be used as a guide to steer the bird into a capture boma, but not as a net. Broken legs and lacerations are the usual outcome of a poorly planned capture operation. Ensure that iron standards and fallen trees are not in the path of the running birds.

“Once an ostrich is caught, always be aware that the powerful legs are effectively used for defence. The bird will try to disembowel or at least maim its captors. Stay away from the front of the bird unless you have control of the head with the neck held at full extension and lower than the bird's back.”

“Those are very useful hints, Tiny Enid,” I said, and I was grateful to have heard them, for who knew when I might be sent out to capture an ostrich?

“I haven't finished, Lancelot,” she said. My name is not Lancelot, but Tiny Enid had for many years had a fixation upon the actor Lance Percival, and the symptoms of her mania cropped up in unexpected ways. I made a snap decision not to contradict her, for she had been known to throw fits and dribble when confused, and I hated having to mop up anybody's dribble, let alone Tiny Enid's. “Go on,” I said.

“For mass capture of ostriches in a large camp or in the wild,” she continued, “the use of the plastic capture boma is very successful. Young ostriches up to two years of age are often found in large groups called creches: these creche units can number up to sixty birds. Due to their strong herding instinct these units can easily be manipulated and chased into a capture boma using a helicopter.

“Once the ostriches are in the boma they should be allowed to rest for at least an hour before they are loaded. Excited and hot birds tend to panic when loaded immediately into mass crates and will pile on top of each other and trample each other. The use of a shield to force the birds gently forward and up the ramp will minimize injury to the birds and the handlers. Large, aggressive males can sometimes be problematic. These should be placed on their own in separate crates.”

“That sounds like a very good idea, Tiny Enid,” I said, as she paused for a sip of her water. Across the fields, we could see wild hogs careering madly into the swamp, and the faint silhouette of a watercolourist sat at their easel, attempting to capture the scene.

“When time is not a factor,” said Tiny Enid, “a pop-up corral set up around a watering point or a small patch of lucerne with supplemental feeding is a useful method for the capture of ostriches. The birds are allowed to enter the capture corral on their own, and stress levels are kept to a minimum as no chasing of the birds occurs.”

She paused again, took a cigarillo from her pocket, and asked me if I had any matches. I fumbled for my little box, but it was damp.

“I'm afraid my matches are damp, Tiny Enid,” I said.

“If you blow on them, they will eventually become dry, Lancelot,” she advised. “While you do so, here are some final points. Never capture ostriches at high ambient temperatures. Do not handle ostriches roughly during capture. Do not chase the birds excessively during the capture procedure. Never use a net gun to capture ostriches. Never chase ostriches into a fence to capture them. Are your matches dry yet?”

“No, they are not,” I panted.

“In that case,” said Tiny Enid, replacing the cigarillo in her pocket, “I suppose I shall have to visit the newsagents.” And she sipped the last of her water, rose from her chair, kissed me lightly on the forehead, and walked away.

Years later, in a secondhand shop, I found a watercolour painting of wild hogs in a swamp done in pinks and greens and pale yellows, and I bought it, because I wondered if it was the painting made on that golden afternoon when I sat with Tiny Enid for the very last time.