It's a Dog's Life

One of the things I really enjoy, is walking my dog, patting my dog, rumbling with my dog. Either close to home or packing her in the car and going to my sister's where there are two other labradors that enjoy a rambunctious romp and getting as wet and dirty as possible.

I just watched a TV show on our multicultural channel about people on 5th Avenue in New York and similar selubrious addresses, they live in luxurious apartments and pay dog walkers to take their pampered pooches into Central Park three times a day. Apart from the unpleasant pooper scooping it looks like a pretty nice job. Chocolate labradors, standard poodles, Bichon Freise and the usual pyjama cases (any dog less than 20cm tall with long hair that should really have a zip down the middle for you to stuff you're nightie in). They get paid $600 a week . . to walk a dog! I'm in the wrong job! Then there are dog nannies, dog chefs, dog groomers, owners of doggy birthday party venues (you get to keep the balloons for $250). I'm talking US dollars here . . . it was funny but it did point out the fact that we do so much for our dogs whilst the poor canines in other countries are considered food, not to mention the plight of humans.

We think little about the bush dog, armoured to protect it from being attacked by pigs, or the country dog that survives, chained when it's not working, on castrated testicles and table scraps or the guide dog that knows it's working once the harness is engaged, or the police or sniffer dog that will do just about anything to be rewarded with a rolled up hand towel and play.

When I die, I want to come back as a rich man's dog . . . As a dog lover, I spoil my pooch. It's obscene . . .but I still do it. ThePrincess sleeps on my bed . . . she is my companion, my pal, my live teddy bear . . . . She showers with me, (well once every six months) eats the stuff that the kids don't turn up to eat. (She enjoyed soy basted salmon tail, peas and new potatoes last night because ClareBear preferred a Big Mac) and listens to my pillow talk. I don't really care what people think, she never gives me cheek . . .she sits by me when I'm in tears with an understanding look in her eyes . . she forces me to exercise . . . she barks at marauders (read rabbits) . . . I even spent $3,000 on her to replace a ruptured cruciate ligament when so many other things around the place needed repair. And she's a gun soccer player . . gets a stick in the mouth and rolls a ball around the yard until her nose bleeds. I don't know why they afford us so much pleasure, but they do. I loves me Lily - booyakasha!

Tweety Pie

Well on a lighter note, since my last post received the attention of 3 in a blogosphere of over 5 million! My little Noisy Minor Mum as begun feeding three hatchlings. Two of the ones in my hanging basket are strong little tweety pies, one is a runt and she's stopped feeding it. Now I have the documentary dilemma. Do I let the nature take its course or rescue the little fledgeling with some mealy grubs? (They don't feed regurgetated food so it's quite easy to hand raise them). There's also the strong possibility that another will meet the same fate since only one normally survives. It's so heartbreaking when this little family drama is taking place right outside your bedroom window.

As adults, they are the best alarms ever. They alert us to snakes, lizards, dogs, people and birds of prey . . .they are the most reliable alarms nature has to offer . . . so try to save, or let nature take its course? Since God is not interventionist, dare I?

DDD

I got into my muckies, drove out to Glenorie, fed the boys then sat on a freezing porch chair for two hours (mainly because the clock on my mobile still has daylight savings time so I was an hour early) waiting for the vet to drench and take some of Lozzies blood. It was worth the wait and I'm glad I put on a bit of lippy and a snufter of Calvin Klein. The man is a god. A literal "Oh my God". About 35, 6'2" built but wiry flashing big blue eyes, short cropped brown hair and a smile to make you melt. His now softened Glasgow accent trips wittily off the tongue and I'm a ball of moosh. Then out comes the pink disinfectant bath, the rubber wellies and gloves and a full body disposable virus suit complete with hoodie. I don't care, he even looked hot swabbing down. Not the normal precaution just a disinfect to try to stem the transmission of horse flu but it meant he stayed longer, talked more about IlDiablo and fireworks . . .he even asked for my number and has promised to call tomorrow . . . (sadly with the blood results) He came, I saw and he did what he had to do and then left . . but not before generously offering to disinfect my wheels for me . . now that's romantic don't you think?

Ahhh DDD . . . Douggie Didn't Disappoint!

Poo the Flu

This horse flu thing isn't a joke any more. It doesn't kill horses unless they get a severe infection but it's very, very contagious so needs to be contained and until recently, we've been a flu free country so nobody vaccinates against it. The saga all began, when a Hong Kong stallion was released from quarantine too early and spread it through a major riding facility in Sydney's city centre. He then was transported up country and affected a few Warmblood mares but by then it was too late. Everyone with whom he had come in contact managed to spread the disease. It spread to Randwick Racecourse and the Spring Carnival was halted affecting not just the bookies, strappers, stable hands - many of whom are casual workers and are now laid off but also the affiliated industries . . . trucking, feed suppliers, caterers, ticket sales, fashion designers, milliners. It stuck to suppliers, vets, horsey handlers and spread to Hawkesbury Racecourse and a number of spring Gymkhanas - big this time of year.

Well even that didn't bother me too much but now I'm becoming a spoilt NIMBY. It's affecting my local Equine vet who has only 2 clean vets (they don't treat flu cases). The rest are 'dirty vets' and I'll bet my lovely Douggie or the spunky Chris Clark are dirty vets. Douggie has a body like Adonis and a Scottish accent to match. He's enough to make me swoon. He chats on and on whilst sticking his fingers in places that no man should ever have to go (on the horse . . lift your game!) Chris is the surfer type - easy on the eye and a smile that admonishes the sins of the world. You watch, I'll get that pretty little blonde from Noosa who's very charming but not at all droolworthy unless you're a young bloke - does nothing for me whatsoever.

Then there's the feed guys who delivered yesterday but said due to quarantine, they're not allowed on the premises so we had to lug bales of hay and sacks of HiGain Senior and Chaff up to the shed. Bastards. I'd have lent them a bottle of Dettol to deliver.

Then to add insult to injury . . .I hear that Il Diablo is bringing his dogs to the APEC meeting . . What the? Does he need a foot warmer now that the wifey poo has decided it's just too dangerous in Sydney with all those crocs in the sewers, sharks in the harbour and funnel webs between the sheets? Normal people have to wait 3 months before their pets are allowed out of quarantine.

Just goes to show, if youre an asshole you can get away with anything . . .

George Bush dumps John Howard as lapdog.

Violence of the Lambs

I was going to write something poignant, political - make a statement about the upcoming APEC meeting or the fact that Army Leaders from 19 countries have just enjoyed a clandestine meeting in Sydney and nobody knew about it but . . . nup . . today has been a very silly day . . . my workload has slumped due to TheBoss being in Vietnam and I've had a barage of funny conversations with the Saturday party revellers and at long last, a NZ Pubcast to entertain me at lunch time with a two-pub ramble and a three man streetwalk.

I have two friends who live in New Zealand. One who I know really, really well but is all loved up with the insta family and hasn't called me for ages. The other who I have never met but spoken to often, has been off the radar for a few weeks until today's pubcast so it's welcome back Johnny Dodge. Sadly neither are actually of NZ birth but never let that get in the way of a good yarn. We enjoy a rare and strange relationship with our neighbours across the Tasman and jibes are par for the course. During the Pubcast, mention was made that only 5% of the population of NZ is human . . that’s because 95% of the population is sheep!

We Aussies, now that we are living no longer on the sheep’s back but on the resources boom and flogging the world substances such as yellowcake, tin, bauxite, iron, coal and gas, feel vindicated in transference and slagging the Kiwis big time about their sheepish bad habits.

You’ve heard the jokes:

1. How do New Zealanders find sheep in the long grass . . . “Very enjoyable thank you eh?”.
   
2. Why does New Zealand have some of the fastest race horses in the world? Because the horses have seen what they do with their sheep
   
3. An Aussie journalist was in New Zealand doing stories where he saw a Kiwi farmer doing unnatural things with a sheep. He approached the Kiwi and firstly asked, "What sort of sheep is that?" He scribbled down the farmer's reply - "a Merino". The next question was, "Do you shear them?" The farmer replied hastily, "No! Go and find yer own!"
   (I think only Kiwi's and Yarpies will get that one!)

Well we know that the Kiwi’s get a bit pissed off with these jokes (many of which were first levelled at Australia before anyone realised that the land of the Long White Cloud had a sense of humour – or indeed sheep) In fact they’re probably just puzzled as to why some Aussie would put a jumbuck in his tucker bag, when with a raised eyebrow and some sweet talk it could be coaxed into a sleeping bag!

Sheep jokes aside, the New Zealanders have taken the joke to a new level with a slash, gore-fest of a little movie called Black Sheep that’s taking the antipodes by storm. Sheep have exacted their sweet revenge via celluloid. Sheep shaggers – sheep baggers beware! An experiment in genetic engineering turns harmless sheep into blood-thirsty killers that terrorize a rural town in New Zealand.

This is a fun-filled ridiculous out-of-control blood-soaked ride where bitten humans are transformed into Weresheep. There are no rules set in the film and there’s nothing to take seriously. The goal is to have you sit back, relax and have one hell of a good time.

I told you I had a silly day. This just tickled my fancy.

And in the event you’re reading this Stan . . . you really should give me a call!

Party Animal

Sharing sandwiches with building apprentices $10.00
Being fined for vagrancy $75.00
Partying hard until 5.00am on bonfire night -










Priceless!

And just in case you were wondering . . .

He's Ok, ate a hearty dinner and is back lounging on the camelia bed! Phew. (Christ, how can I go from empathetic disabilty to dogs not turning up for dinner . . . I am a whacko.) G'nite.

Don' t You Dare Die on Me Now!

Babybro and Stressany have gone to Queensland for a little short break and a Christening. I'm in charge of feeding the dogs. The ancient Nelson Mandela, the snappy and needy Keira and of course my own ThePrincess Lilly. All is well, it's 7:30. Keira is waiting as her nom de plume is Madame Scoffalott, ThePrincess has downed her two cups of healthy weight management Purina (wish someone would feed me small portions) but Nelson . . . nowhere to be found. He's black as pitch so if he's carked it in the herbacious border, I won't know until daylight. He's been a bit vague and deaf lately. It's bloody day one and I've lost his dog. Just don't die on me this weekend old fella . . .I'll never live it down.

Dog Day Afternoon

Hey, today was much like any other Saturday. It was cold this morning so I curled up amongst the pillows and pretended I was invisible until the usual gruff voice demanded I get up and attend to my ablutions. We hung around for an hour or so, drinking tea, smoking, blogging, just generally taking the morning slow. It was cold so all the heaters were on until the house was cosy. The washing was done, so we walked out to the line. Had a sniff around the bins, Keira, licked my right ear profusely which was a bit of a shock in the early morning frost and quite unexpected. Then the usual daily ritual began, cleaning, spraying, sweeping, swiping . . .all a bit tedious really so I decided to take some time out and do something different. I noticed the electric fence but since my collar wasn't on, it formed no impediment so after the second trip to the washing line and chasing the wood ducks off the swimming pool, I just went for a cursory sniff. I didn't mean to wonder but there was a stray soccer ball, a creek full of water, ducks and rabbits everywhere so while she wasn't looking I sort of accidentally on purpose shifted into 2nd and did a runner. It was fantastic. I traversed the next three blocks, about 500 metres in all. Had a swim in two of the ponds, chased at least 50 ducks. Barked at that bitch that has the same name as me but she can't do a damn thing about it because she's confined within the swimming pool fence - die biatch. Then through to the construction site at the end of the road. Ahh . . . paradise, builders. Boofy blokes in blue singlets and rather unflattering yellow hats but their food boxes . . . . little plastic tubs of ecstacy. First there are the Lebanese labourers who bring their olives, flatbread and lamby meaty things. Then there are the Aussies who eat all of the pie except the crusty bit at the end, then there's that really sweet Greek bunch who share their Souvlaki, not to mention the fetid mess of rubbish that's been stacked up all week waiting to be removed by the bin men. That incredible blend of plastic, rancid food and left over MacDonalds papers . . simply bliss. So once replete, it's time to have some fun. Down to the lake. The ducks have me sussed and have moved out to the island in the centre but those idiotic moore hens are nesting in the reeds, they're stupid. They look one way and run the other so there's at least a half our of confusing the shit out of the bird brains but ooooh . . . there's Brewster, been at least a week since we've sniffed buts. Fabulous, now I have a partner in crime. She won't mind that I've had a little jaunt, even if I have lost track of time. Won't be happy about the muddy bits but hey . . .I am having a ball! Oooh . . more building sites and a now charcoaled fire that smells . . . can't quite put my paw on it . . .rabbit . . .of course. The bastards think they're so cute. Simply ossu bucco on the run as far as I'm concerned and when i catch one . . .and don't think for a minute I won't . . . well maybe . . .but I'll keep trying. So now I have a beautifully charcoaled face from rummaging below the embers. Bastard rabbits got away again. They're worse than the viet cong with their tunnels and labyrinths.
Ok looks like Brewster's given up . . it's only been . . .holy shit. Seven hours. I'm in strife. I'm 5 kms from home . . .she who must be obeyed will be driving around in that crappy honda shouting "l-i-l-l-y" or something babyish and banal like "Here lilly pilly . . woo hoo" She can only whistle once with two fingers and every subsequent whistle is a mixture between a squeak and a raspberry. Just as well my hearing is acute. Ah, foik her. If I make her sweat I'll get a Pantene shower and a decent meal.
Roit. Off to the Edgewater Drive lake. Have to be careful here. Do-gooders pick me up and take me to the vet where I'm scanned and spoiled and then picked up by she who must be obeyed. That's not a good thing becaus it costs her paper chits and she gets the shits so dinner rarely follows these excursions.
Feeling a bit toired now. I'm miles from home but the trail's fresh. Some builder bastard has put up temporary cyclone fencing on my usual route so it takes a bit longer to get back to base. Well at least the mud has dried. I've been away so long now that she'll be beside herself, so pleased to see me. Christ I'm glad I haven't got that electric collar thingy on, running back up the drive won't be quite as traumatic. "Muuuuuuum . . . I'm home" Here she comes "Muuuuum". Ahem, right not quite the greeting I was expecting. Let briefly inside only to be ushered into the kennel out the back. Not a word . . . not a single word . . .I think she's mad. I think I'm in the shit and will probably be locked up all week. She won't even come to the door if I do the cute paw scrapey thing and mew like a newborn cat. Crikey, I've done it this time. Perhaps a 7 hour bender was pushing the envelope. Maybe I'll get a Pantene shower a little later when she's calmed down and be allowed back on the bed. Then again, it's clean sheet Saturday and I've been a skank. I don't like my dog bed . . . it's cold . . I'm hungry . . . it was just a jaunt for goodness sake . . .just a little tramp across the building sites . . . just some harmless socialising with men in blue singlets and a bit of slap and tickle with some bird life . . .can't a dog have a bit of fun now and then . . .