So there I was, half under the ride-on mower and trying to figure out where a bolt went, while hubby grumbled "hurry up this is heavy" and suddenly something bit me on the leg.
I yelled and dropped the bolt, shuffling out to see what I had been attacked by.
"Now I have to line it all up again," hubby complained, as the something bit me again, then three or four more times.
"Find the bolt and we'll try again," said hubby, ignoring my yelps of pain.
"I'm being attacked" I told him, searching wildly for my attackers. "I'm being attacked ... by ants!"
There were ants swarming over me, biting in all directions. Hubby was insistent that the lifting and bolting job had priority but I was far more insistent that I get rid of the tormenting ants.
It was the first time I'd ever been bitten by ants.
Which is surprising, given I've managed to be bitten by quite a lot of other things.
When I was quite small, my mother took me to the zoo. There I was bitten by a guinea pig. Sometime later my grandparents introduced me to a donkey and that bit me too.
Our first puppy bit not only me, but also my teddy bear, whose ears he pulled off.
It's surprising I still like animals, really. I was victim to a second guinea pig as a teenager, learning not to break up a guinea pig fight with my bare hands when one of the innocent-looking balls of fuzz bit my finger to the bone. They're not as cute as they make themselves out to be.
I failed to apply the same lesson to dogs though. Being a slow learner I tried to stop a dispute between our german shepherd and the neighbours' cocker spaniel, which sunk its fangs into my arm. I still have the scar.
For a few years I remembered to keep my limbs out of the mouths of pets and livestock. Until I popped into a promising-looking pet shop in Whangārei one day and was looking at a friendly-seeming parrot.
There was a sign on the cage.
"Beware - Joe bites" said the sign. Or parts of it, as some of the sign had been nibbled away by something sharp.
The parrot looked at me and sighed.
"I wanna scratch," it said, pushing its head out between the cage bars towards me.
"Scratch?" he asked plaintively. "Scratch?"
The poor thing was obviously harmless and scratch-deprived, I thought as I gave in to his pleas and put a finger out to scratch his head.
Joe whipped round and sliced through my finger with his beak, drawing blood. Quite a lot of blood.
The pet shop proprietor looked over.
"You scratched Joe, didn't you?" she asked.
"Come to the counter ... we keep a stock of sticking plaster for people who scratch Joe."
I added parrots to my list of untrustworthy pets, under guinea pigs and spaniels.
The list has now grown to include pet rats - especially female pet rats called Mushroom, one of whom is responsible for the numb tip of my right forefinger, horses both large and small ... a large horse called Noddy put the scar on my left forearm (just down from the spaniel-scar) and a small horse called Nigel sunk his teeth into my left shoulder.
I have also been dismayed to discover that goats, despite only having bottom teeth and none on the top, can give you a nasty gnawing.
It's disappointing really, as an animal lover, to have met with such animosity.
No wonder then, that when we were out walking with the kids some years ago and they found a pet deer behind a high fence, I stayed well clear.
"But look," they said, patting it through the fence and feeding it grass. "It's really sweet, and quiet, and it likes us."
Nope, I told them, it's luring you closer so it can pounce.
But it really did seem sweet, and tame, so I ventured closer and held out a hand and ... The deer quickly stood on its hind legs, drew back a front hoof and punched me square in the chest.
I flew backwards and landed on my bum.
"That deer hit me!" I said, bewildered.
My family laughed. "You have a hoof print on your T-shirt," they said.
"But at least it didn't bite you."
