Taff Down Under 12

Ok, so we got a dog. How very domesticated I hear you say. First a wife, kid and cat, and now a fucking dog.

The tale.

LeeAnne as you may or may not know, works for the animal welfare department of the state. Part of this job is getting the returns from the pounds of dogs that have been, or are going to be, put down.

Years ago she had a dog, called "Jarrah" who she dearly loved, a Red Heeler. But when Bethy came along the dog got very jealous and vicious, so either Bethy or the dog had to go… (Insert wisearsed remark here)

Anyway, one day, 9th Dec. 2002, to be precise, she received the lists and on it was a dog described as a "three year old Heeler" who was going to be put down the next day. Foolishly, she looked at the picture of it on the pound website.

Even more foolishly she told me to look at the picture.

The next morning at 8.00 am we were waiting at the pound gates for them to open. If there’s a more heart-breaking place in the world than the "dogs death row" I don’t want to know about it. I would have taken every single mutt home with me, if LeeAnne hadn’t had me in a headlock at the time.

Anyway, we met the mutt, and he was all over us like a rash. Smaller than I would have imagined, but full of bounce and good humour. Bethy went wild…

We took him, and paid the pound a small fortune to take him off their hands. You would have sworn by the cost that they were parting with their own true loved dog.

On the way out, we bumped into Will, a vet that LeeAnne knows well from her work, who was there to put the "dogs of the day" down. "Here’s one bugger you’re not getting" she told him.

Anyway, we took him to Mary’s, who had agreed to look after him for the day while we were at work, and he promptly pissed against her sideboard. (I knew he was a good dog.)

 

We let Bethy name him and now the poor sod, and the poor sod that has to walk him in the park three times a day, are lumbered with the name "Barnum." (She’d just been to see the musical). LeeAnne thought it was apt due to P T Barnum’s catch phrase of "there’s a sucker born every minute".

He’s now a full part of the family, and much loved. We were ever so lucky, he’s not a fighter, not a biter, not a chaser, he’s docile and forgiving. He’s barked twice since we’ve had him. He walks to heel if commanded to, he always comes when called. We were VERY lucky.

 

Here’s some info on his breed.

The Australian Cattle Dog is a relatively hearty, healthy breed that has an average lifespan of twelve to fifteen years. They are a medium sized muscular dog that stands 17 to 20 inches (43 to 51 cm.) at the withers (shoulders). Their weight range is variant around their general build but on average falls between 30 and 50 pounds (14 to 23 kg). The Australian Cattle Dog comes in two colors: Blue or Red.

The Australian Cattle Dog personality is often reserved with strangers and even FIERCELY protective when they perceive that their property and/or persons are being threatened. The ACD is intelligent, but can certainly often be described as hardheaded and stubborn. Once an ACD has befriended you, they are a friend for life…. but that friendship must often be earned. Australian Cattle Dog are often referred to by their owners as "Velcro" or "shadow" dogs…because wherever you go, there they are!!

The Australian Cattle Dog is an EXTREMELY active breed, with mental stimulation being of paramount importance. A bored Cattle Dog is a destructive Cattle Dog!! The Australian Cattle Dog is a social breed that NEEDS to be with "its people". Because the Australian Cattle Dog is an active breed, a firm commitment must be made to exercise. ACDs make excellent running or biking companions although care must be taken not to over exert the young dog. Because of their intelligence, ACDs make WONDERFUL obedience prospects (although their intelligence can actually be a hindrance in this ring also). Australian Cattle Dogs are also known to excel at Dog Sports such as Fly ball, Agility and Frisbee competition.

Too fucking right on it needing exercise, it gets up to two hours walking a day. My arse has vanished! (I’m down to 87 kilo’s)

Anyway, now for a bit of a bummer. As we had had Bethy for last Xmas so she could come to the UK for the wedding, her dad decided that she should go to Tasmania with him this year. Only fair really, and he’s too big to argue with. (A LOT more than 87 kilos!!) So we lost her for three weeks, which took a lot of the fun out of the season, as kids make Xmas.

So rather than mooch about the house without her, we decided to take a break, and head for the coast. (And ‘cos we’re nice people we took Mother Hen with us.) One of LeeAnne’s work mates has a house in Lilli Pilli (I kid you not!) just outside Bateman’s Bay, that he only let’s out to friends. But he let it to us in any case.

The drive down was arduous, as it was a baking day, and LeeAnne’s car doesn’t have air conditioning. So it was windows down all the way. Some daft bastard, who shall remain nameless, decided to cruise with his left arm out the window, swatting flies, catching the breeze, and collecting bits of hedge as he went.

It wasn’t until we stopped at and the cool breeze over his arm stopped, that he realized it was now burned to a crisp. The twat.

Anyway, just before you get to the coast, you pass over a range of mountains. On one side, the side we were coming from are vast plains, baking in the sun, arid and semi dessert. When you got over the top of the mountains and start heading down, you hit the sea’s edge, and the climate changes rapidly. The humidity is so intense it takes your breath away. It’s like walking out of a sauna, and into a Turkish bath. Amazing.

Without too much fannying about, we found the house. Lovely place. Upstairs was a kitchen / dining room, 2 beds, en-suite bog and shower, large veranda with a sea view. And the same downstairs, without the kitchen. (And the view.)

So we stuck Mary downstairs.

In the garage was a 16-foot dory with an Evinrude outboard on it, but LeeAnne wouldn’t let me play with it.

So we settled into a nice routine of days on the beach, walks with the dog, watching England get slaughtered in the test match, and copious amounts of alcohol in the evening. (That last bit applies to Mary and me only.)

We stuck out some bread and stuff on the veranda to see if we could attract some of our feathered friends. Within minutes we had a flock of rainbow lorikeets. Beautiful birds, but very noisy and aggressive. Watching them squabble and fight gave us no end of amusement.

 

While we’re on wildlife, here are some other things we saw down there.

My first wild penguin. Unfortunately dead. Might not even have been a wild one, may have been dropped there by an uncaring zookeeper?

An osprey.

Loads of lizards, from tiny one inch long ones, up to five inches long.

Couple of snakes, didn’t go close enough to see what type.

A moray eel, a very small one, on the end of a shore fisherman’s hook.

A dragon.

Ok it wasn’t a real dragon. But it was very ……charming.

Our mate Albert came down for a night. Good to see him. As we fancied doing something a little different, we went to the local RSL Club. (Returned Servicemen’s League) Buggery, was it odd as fuck or what?

 

 

As we were parking the car, we witnessed a very drunk man in the car park pissing publicly whilst still drinking from a bottle of beer. It looked like it was passing straight through him unhindered. In fact it probably was.

The place itself was bloody massive. We thought I may not be allowed in as I was wearing sandals, but the guy who signed us in said "no worries," so in we went.

After a few refreshments we went to look at the grub. There was a vege option, just one, so we had that. Albert had steak, the rotter.

Then to explore the clubs facilities.

They had hundreds, no exaggeration, of "pokie" machines, or "one armed bandits," as us Pom’s would call them. Gambling on these is a big industry in OZ, as well as a big social problem. They all have govt. warnings on them, like fag packets, but about fucking your life up through gambling. These machines take coins, notes and even fucking credit cards. Mental.

Anyway, LeeAnne and me played one for a while, but we couldn’t work out what was happening, or what we were supposed to do to win. LeeAnne pushed a button and six dollars fell out, four more than we put in. So we quit while we were ahead, and went into the bookies. Yup, they have a bookies in the bar. I put two dollars each way on a horse, which promptly came in second. Second from last that is.

By this time the "cabaret" had started, some balding bloke with a guitar and backing tapes playing thrash metal. Ok, it wasn’t thrash metal actually, more sort of "song’s you hoped you’d never hear again," played and sung by someone who’s terminally tone-deaf.

At sunset the lights dimmed, everyone stood, and the "last post," along with a recording of ‘At the going down of the sun, and in the morning. We will remember them". was played. They do this every night. Funnily enough we were quite near some old boy in a wheelchair with gongs pinned on his chest, which made it rather moving. Either that or I was more pissed than I remember.

Xmas day we did the pressy thing, and walked the dogs on the beach, and then had the traditional Xmas Barbie lunch. Roast vegies, meat substitute stuff, gravy, tatties lavarly grub. Which was all rather nice.

One day we had a gem of a thunderstorm, it came down in buckets. So we sat on the veranda, read books, drank beer (me) and watched the rain. Lovely. Over the week I managed to get through 12 books.

Unfortunately all too soon it was time to go home. On the way out of Bateman’s Bay I got breathalised. They have a big crackdown here over Xmas on drink driving, and speeding and that sort of stuff. Not only do they crack down, but also they double the penalty points if you’re caught during the defined Xmas period. Luckily I hadn’t drunk that day, it was only 10.00am after all, and I never start before midday. Well most days I don’t. So all was well.

Do you know that you can be breathalised in OZ, get caught over the limit, and not lose your license? They have a sliding scale of offence. Civilised place or what.

Minor Offences

Minor offences include all offences involving a blood alcohol content reading above the relevant limit but less than 0.15%. First offences generally attract licence disqualification periods from 1 month to 12 months, and fines can range anywhere from just a few hundred dollars up to $2,000. The Magistrate can still impose jail sentences, but such a penalty is generally reserved for repeat offenders.

 

We played "car cricket" all the way back, and LeeAnne beat me three games to nil. I’m not playing with her again; I’m sure she cheats.

Off topic here but still…

Do you remember the mail in which I was ranting on about how the Aussies have a very "down to earth" way of naming things? As in;

"What shall we call those dogs that herd cattle by nipping their heels Bruce?"

"Let’s call them "Heelers" Bruce"

"I thought "Australian Cattle Dogs" a good name too Bruce,"

"Yer right mate, let’s call the red coloured ones "Red heelers", the blueish coloured ones "Blue Heelers", and Call the breed "Australian Cattle dogs,""

"Fair dinkum Bruce."

Do you know what they call what we would call a switch card here? They call it an "Eftpos" card. Yup, bloody Eftpos. (Electronic Funds Transfer Point of Sale.) Nifty eh?

Oh and the local monopoly on gas, water electricity, who we have big beefs with at the moment, seeing as we live in the ACT, Australian Capital Territory, (There’s another one, we live in the bloody act!) is called "ACTEWAGL" (Work it out yourself)

Try phoning the bastards up and not giggling, "Hello is that Actewagl? Snurt, snigger, fnarr!"

Those bastards got right on our tits’ the other day. They sent us a bill for leccy, which was three times the normal amount. "Weird, " we say, "we haven’t changed anything."

So we phoned them and got the cold shoulder, basically told, "tough titty". So we phoned them again, and got told, "have a sparky check your house over, at your own expense, and if they don’t find anything wrong, we may or may not send someone over to check the meter. But you have to pay your bill before we send someone, and even if the meter is fucked, we still wont refund your cash, we may give you some credit."

So we did that. Luckily the sparky is a mate of LeeAnne’s, and did the job buckshee. He not only found that we had been paying too much for years, let alone a bill for three times that, but when he turned the house power off totally, the fucking meter ran backwards!

So we went into their office, and while LeeAnne patiently explained our situation to the total fuckwit behind the counter, who was convinced we had a leaky water main for some reason, I filled out a complaint form. We then got told that, as our bill wouldn’t clear for a fortnight, they wouldn’t even consider farting in our general direction until then.

The wankers, I hope they get privatized!

After all that we deserved a holiday, we hadn’t had one for…ooooh, three days. So we decided to go into Sydney for New Years Eve.

We managed, after lots of net searching, to get a room. Sydney was full to bursting point. In fact as things turned out it was a fortuitous choice.

Compared to the other places we tried, it had a room for a start. It was only a very short walk from the station, and it was cheaper than most places we tried.

We took a train into Sydney, it was about a forty-minute journey, but cheap as chips. The trains in Sydney are wonderful, big double-decker buggers. As we were on the main line in, they ran every 11 minutes, up till 3:00am on New Years Eve. Also you can buy a cheap city pass there, which gives you a day and a night’s travel on all the trains, busses, and ferries. Marv!

We first went up to Kings Cross, the red light area, similar to London’s Soho, but not as threatening. We hit a cheap curry place we knew from our last visit, (any three curries on a large plate with rice, about two quid!) then we had a few beers, and watched the goings on. We bought a bottle of cheap voddy, we knew booze was going to be astronomically expensive in town, and headed down to Circular Quay.

I can never think of Circular Quay without the song "And the band played Waltzin Matilda," coming to mind, it’s one of the saddest songs ever.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,

And they shipped us back home to Australia.

The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,

Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.

And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,

I looked at the place where me legs used to be,

And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,

To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"

As they carried us down the gangway,

But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,

Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch

And I watch the parade pass before me.

And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,

Reviving old dreams of past glory,

And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,

They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war

And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"

And I ask m'self the same question.

 

 

Anyway, they weren’t letting anyone carry any alcohol onto the Quay, so we put the voddy in a water bottle, and got through the checkpoints with it, neat trick huh?

We got ourselves a good view of the bridge, from just below the Opera house, and watched the fun. The Hare Krishnas were out in force, as were several thousand other loonies. The nine o’clock fireworks were cancelled due to high winds, most of which were coming from me. But the midnight ones went off spectacularly. My god I’ve never seen fireworks like it! They were magnificent. Words cannot explain how good they were, so I wont bother trying.

 

After they had gone off, we wandered about a bit and found a pub. In the upstairs window of the pub the landlord had set up a massive sound system, and someone was spinning some decent cheesey house and disco tunes. We got stuck into the beer, and joined the hundreds of people grooving in the streets.

At one point I got talking to a bunch of Sheffield lads, who were over following the test series (Yes, they did look pretty fucking miserable). One of them said, "We could never have anything like this back home, it would be one big brawl by now.." Had to agree with him.

We caught the early morning red-eye special back to the motel, and kipped for as long as we could.

We decided to do the tourist thing the next day. We had a brief discussion on taking one of the two brolly’s we had in the car with us, as it was rather cloudy, and decided against it. As the train into Sydney left the station, it started to rain.

First of all we went back to "the Cross," where we knew a place that did good cheap breakfasts. Unfortunately they were over run, and seemed to have forgotten how to cook. It took them nearly an hour to get us the basic breakfast, which wouldn’t have been so bad, but that was all they were offering that morning. Sheesh, someone fucked up badly. I could just imagine the guy in the kitchen saying;

 

"Ooh look, another order for breakfast. Ok, I’ll open a tin of beans, put some bread in the toaster, now what else? Eggs! That’s it eggs. Fried, boiled, or scrambled this time? Scrambled, better whisk some up then…oh yes, mushrooms now where do I keep them? ……"Ooh look, another order for breakfast. Ok, I’ll open a tin of beans, put some bread in the toaster, now what else? Eggs! That’s it eggs, fried, boiled, or scrambled this time? Scrambled, better whisk some up then…oh yes, mushrooms now where do I keep them? ……"Ooh look, another order for breakfast. Ok, I’ll open a tin of beans, put some bread in the toaster, now what else? Eggs! That’s it egg. Fried boiled or scrambled this time? Scrambled, better whisk some up then…oh yes, mushrooms now where do I keep them? ……"Ooh look, another order for breakfast. Ok, I’ll open a tin of beans, put some bread in the toaster, now what else? Eggs! That’s it eggs. Fried, boiled, or scrambled this time? Scrambled, better whisk some up then…oh yes, mushrooms now where do I keep them? ……"

 

We did all the usual bits, went to the Opera House Laurie Anderson is playing there soon, I nearly bought tickets, but they were a bit on the steep side. Bugger, I’d love to see her live.)

We visited "The Rocks" a twee, up-market, shopping area, (and bought a brolly there, grand total in car now three), and then walked over the bridge. You can now walk over the top arch of the bridge, but we decided against it as it wasn’t cheap, and it was pissing down. We did walk up the tower supporting the bridge as they have a museum in it, and the views from the top over the harbour are magnificent.

We bumbled about until it got dark, and then took a train back to Kings Cross. We went into this Lebanese restaurant, and ordered an extra large Lebanese vege pizza. We watched the woman heap stuff on it, including what looked like five kilo’s of cheese. When it came we were shocked to find that it was the size of a tractor tire.

And about as tasty.

I don’t know what the yellow grated stuff she put on it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t cheese. It was some sort of melted yellow glue that had no taste, and sat on the stomach like sand.

We ate as much as we could, and then ran away. Slowly.

We spent the evening in the window of our favorite bar. From there you get a great view of the hookers, (both sexes) the cruisers, the junkies, the winos, the sad, lost, and hopeless, the wild, weird, and wonderful inhabitants of The Cross. It’s an education.

We particularly enjoyed watching the "Spruikers". These are the guys, (touts I suppose you would call them), who try and entice people into the live shows. It’s funny as fuck.

Some guys need no persuasion; they virtually run up the stairs. Some guys pretend not to be interested, but go in reluctantly, as if they are doing it in order to do some research or other. The funniest ones to watch are the couples; normally it’s the wife who wants to go in, and the husband who is reluctant. Stands to reason, if any of the strippers call him by his first name, he’s dead meat.

The next morning, we took a slow drive back to Canberra, stopping off at a quaint village on the way back, where we had some decent grub.

On my birthday (January 4th, thanks for all the fucking cards.) we went to Aussies biggest car rally the "Summernats".

And it was fucking wonderful.

There were the customized cars, the trade stands, and through the day, there were parades, and events, and shows. It was marvelous.

During the parades, all the guys were shouting "Show us yer tits," at the cars with girls in. Some cars had very attractive girls in; some girls showed us their tits. Which was very nice of them.

The motorcycle stunts were stunning, Christ those guys get high nowadays? They launch the bikes up a ramp, get off, go make a cup of tea, and get back on the bike before it hits the landing ramp.

They had a rocket engine dragster there, and a car with a Merlin fighter plane engine in it. Scary.

Oh, and a guy jumped 21 motorcycles in a double-decker bus. (No I haven’t got that arse backwards)

One downside of the day is that we lost our bloody camera there, or had it pinched. It had most of the Sydney piccies on it, and all the Summenats, so I’ve none to bore you with.

The end of the evening they had a couple of bands playing, not bad but a bit poppy for my taste.

 

And then they had the "Sydney Showgirls" on. These are very attractive strippers. Luckily they had these huge screens up, and video monitoring, so you got a good close look. To say they left nothing to the imagination would be the understatement of the year. To see any more of these girls anatomy, you’d need a very flexible endoscope. Very nice end to my birthday that.

The other day, while we sat at home, LeeAnne pointed up into the corner of the room and said; "Look, that’s a Huntsman." I looked into the corner of the room, where the most obvious fake spider, about the size of my stretched out hand, had been stuck to the wall. "Oh, very fucking funny lover, where did you get it? Out of the Xmas Crackers?" So I went across to take it down.

And it walked across the wall.

I am now world record holder for the "backward leap behind the sofa" event.

It was fucking huge!

Australian Huntsman spiders belong to the Family Sparassidae (formerly Heteropodidae) and are famed as being the hairy so-called 'tarantulas' on house walls that terrify people by scuttling out from behind curtains. In fact, they are a diverse and relatively harmless group of spiders, with 13 genera and 94 described species. Huntsman spiders are large, long-legged spiders, measuring up to 15 cm across the legs. Huntsman spider bites usually result only in transient local pain and swelling. However, some Badge Huntsman spider bites have caused prolonged pain, inflammation, headache, vomiting and irregular pulse rate.

I showed Bethy it when she returned, "Oh I’ve seen bigger ones than that," she said. Clever bugger.

It was our first anniversary the other day. See, we haven’t killed each other. Yet.

Will write again in a month or so, once something new has happened.