A Case for Animal Welfare in South East Europe

There is a set of four lines from a poem by the American humourist Josh Billings in 1870 which more than adequately defines my family.

"I hate to be a kicker, I always long for peace,but the wheel that does the squeaking is the one that gets the grease".

You may be familiar with the saying as it does surface on occasion in the popular press.You might even have thoughts along the very same lines if an apt situation arises or you may just have the CD of the greatest hits of the singer songwriter and just great James Taylor.

There is considerable debate over the true definition of the last two parts of the phrase but it has its best application in describing an awkward, noisy, self importance and demonstrative type of person who by kicking up a fuss always gets attention.

In polite language such people can be referred to as "go-getters" or "high flyers" when in general terms I would call them pushy, rude and not a little bit ignorant.

I have of course been extremely envious of such attributes in those situations in my life that have demanded that I speak up, make myself known or just kick up a bit of a rumpus.

I am just not that type of person and that also applies, in the majority, to my immediate and wider family.

We were brought up, returning to the first part of the Billings poem, not to kick and to always adopt the peaceful way. Again, not in itself a sign of weakness or a timid nature and in my personal experience often still by far the best way to deal with a specific event or situation. It is just that we are perceived as being a bit placid, no real trouble, unlikely to cause a ripple or whip up a storm and so on.

For some reason we exude this aura even though we have no other distinguishing traits to suggest such. Trying not to be too paranoid but this is picked up by those around us in key roles or where we are simply seeking some assistance.

Consequently we can find ourselves ignored, sidelined and placed well down on the order of priority in such day to day scenarios as shopping, queuing, ordering things on line, being served in an eatery or bar and in one hundred and one other predicaments.

I know all too well the first indicators of becoming the invisible family.

If there is any kind of gathering or a crowd we just take on a sort of camouflage and disappear from the plain sight of those in charge.

This was illustrated on an overseas holiday when for our first night in a rented Villa we decided to take the short walk in the cool evening air into the nearest town. Around the picturesque harbour we found a very quaint restaurant where we could sit under the stars.

The waiter pounced immediately and we ordered drinks and a few nibbles with no apparent problems of comprehension or language barrier. As is the custom in those parts the surrounding seating filled up as the night went on and the clientele were obviously well known regulars of the establishment, locals, even close neighbours or relatives.

After three hours our glasses had dried up and we could not eke out any more residue of olives or bread from our canapes but however much we assumed an air of willingness to order our main meal we could not convey this fact to the waiter even though he was up and down and around the terrace every few minutes.

There is a brief passage of time, perhaps a few seconds, in such situations when it is imperative to make a noise, in a friendly non aggresive tone and make contact with the outside world.

I well knew when that window of opportunity arrived. In fact I could see it looming up a long way off as the children and my wife became increasingly fidgety and agitated from lack of sustenance after what had been a very long and hot day of travelling.

Unfortunately I missed the chance and that was down to my genetic disposition not to be a sqeaky wheel.

That 180 minutes took on the guise of purgatory or so it seemed before the waiter took it upon himslef to approach us.

No doubt he was a little annoyed that an English family had occupied a prime table for all that time for the sum purchase of two glasses of wine, three cokes and had plundered the gratuities of local produce including his mother's dough bread.

Parties of townsfolk were milling about by the quay ready to take up our place and we had outstayed our welcome.

In somewhat more broken English than he had much earlier displayed he said that he thought we were only there for drinks and the view and not for food.

I was by now livid, protective towards my starving family and with irrational feelings of Xenophobia (ironically as I was the foreigner) but this came across outwardly in just a red face and the first trickles of Mediterranean climate induced perspiration on my nose, under my arms and in that ultimate sign of human weakness, a line of damp under the man-boobs.

My true emotions surfaced some way down the cobbled street and around a corner where I could have, if a poor unfortunate animal had been in the vicinity, kicked a donkey quite hard.

My children, now all young adults have thankfully learnt a lot from my meekness and reluctance to cause a squeak. They are all well balanced, polite individuals with not a bad bone in their bodies but can get served, noticed and acknowledged at such times as their invisibility cloak would otherwise enclose them and make them disappear. They say such characteristics skip a generation, like ginger hair, freckles and bed wetting so I am a bit fearful of being seen out in the future with any grandchildren.