A (worm) picture is worth a 1000 words...

I thought about going through long and tedious explanations about why we chose to up sticks and head for the bush almost 18 months ago. Why we gave up a seaside home and a good salary and weekends off, for the harsher inland climes and the vagaries of income and long working hours associated with life on the land. Why we left shops and malls and discount chains for a small IGA, a Mensland and a couple of 'ladieswear' outlets (actually all these are pretty nifty - again, another post).

'Why, why, why' many of our city friends cried. And some of our country associates too. Most 'young people' head from the bush to the 'big smoke', to find careers and enjoy what is considered 'a better life' (to a teenager anyway). I was going to go through why we reversed the trend, swam against the tide, and undertook our 'tree change'. Instead of boring you with all that though, I found this photo I took a couple of weeks ago while the kids were swimming.

I apologise for the fence between us and the action - but I reckon this photo kinda explains why we came 'home'.

Can you see what enraptured the kids and I that sunny Granite Glen day? OK I'll go closer (curse this blogger shrinkage of photos!)

Nuff said...

Love & Sunshine (and lots of worm moments)

Bush Babe

Coz you can never have too much Great Dane

I have had very few pets in my life… oh, I’ve had LOTS of animals around – horses, cattle, working dogs, even a sheep (called Mary Jane – that’s definitely a post all on its own!). All have been useful but very few creatures who have just been a companion.
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Now I know I shall have lots of responses from cat-lovers after my next statement. There have been cats in our family home – but I don’t think cats are pets really. (Oooooohhhh, them’s fightin’ words). Cats aren’t pets. There, I've said it.

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Don’t get me wrong, I love cats. We had a Siamese called Gabby and he was one of the family. But cats aren’t pets (again, dukes down girlfriends!). You wanna know why? 'Cause cats own YOU, you don’t own them. Think about it. It’s true. It’s should be called c’attiude (did I just say that?? Sorry) – but if you think YOU are in charge you are kidding yourself.
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Now dogs are pets. And as my last post was so forlorn, I thought I should share some of the wondrous, amazing, heart-filling joy that my first REAL PET brought into my life.
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His name was Cosmo. Well, actually, he was completely unnamed when SSB spotted him at the pet store that fateful day. SSB had decided that, as we had moved in together, and as he would be away a lot with work, I needed a dog. I went along with the plan – I had never had an animal COMPANION before, and was still adjusting to the idea of having a full-time human companion. I could take it or leave it... whatever.
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Friends who had heard of SSB’s plan nodded knowingly. “Surrogate child” they murmured behind their hands. “Trial run for the Real Thing,” said one encouragingly to me. Jeez… a lot of pressure on one little pooch, thought I. And on me too, said a little voice inside my head.
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And then SSB fell in love. With a tiny bundle of loose sleek fur, whose sisters were picking on him mercilessly. I went along to see what had transformed my Strong Silent Bloke into such a gooey mess. We had discussed Staffordshire Terriers and Alsatians and I wondered if the canine in question would perhaps be a Rottweiler. And then he picked up a small, squirming blue-and-black-and-silver puppy. The sign said: 'Great Dane puppies - $400'…. GREAT DANES.

“Do you have ANY clue how big a Great Dane is?” I asked, aghast. “They are bloody ENORMOUS.”
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“But LOOK at him”, SSB insisted. And then he passed him to me. Now I am an animal person. I am just wired that way – in general, I love most things warm-blooded and furry (except for the absolute exception of rats). And usually I am practical soul... but I am here to tell you I was absolutely NO match for the adoring pale grey-green eyes that gazed into mine, the desperate little pink tongue trying to lick whatever bit of human skin he could reach. He snuggled into my shoulder and I was lost. Dear God, a Great Dane. He was definitely our unplanned “child”.
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We called into a friends baby shower on the way home from the pet store. I think he probably stole the limelight completely from the mum-to-be (who was luckily a dog-lover and unfazed by being upstaged). He posed and looked cute until the effort wore him out and he fell asleep curled in my lap – and they “oohing” started all over again. He was seriously, seriously cute.
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We doted and snuggled with him, and took him to puppy school where the instructor warned us that a Dane’s attention span was kinda short. No kidding. He was all legs and enthusiasm and no intent or direction. He would bowl into the little house SSB and I shared in the Brisbane suburbs, desperate to find us after a good five minutes without our company. Legs flailing, paws and little claws grappling and skidding on the polished floors, tail wagging furiously in anticipation. We laughed til we cried at his floor skating antics and christened him after Cosmo Kramer (think: Seinfeld).
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We would swear that he grew an inch a day while we were away at work in the city; such was the incredible growth spurt he put on. His complete and utter adoration for us never wavered, and too quickly I grew accustomed to seeing his great boof-head peering joyously over the fence as we arrived home. He would leap and bound and gallop in furious circles of disbelief that we had not abandoned him. It’s hard to resist that kind of love. Impossible.

Over the following years he would feature as a special guest at our wedding, survive the intrusion of not one but two little humans into his domain with hardly a murmur. He would let them hang off his ears and gleefully ride on his back as he lay still and quiet for them on the floor.

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He would also provide the kind of silent, steady support his mum desperately needed when her “real” firstborn was chronically ill, pushing his great head under my hand every time I left Dash’s room, and leaning against my leg in support. He would shadow me to the clothesline and back each time I hung out another load of cleaned, vomited-on bed sheets and grow suits. And he never minded a moment of my crying into the top of his shiny, spotted head. He thought I was a great mum even when I was sure I was the biggest imposter of all-time.

He was also incredibly, incredibly gentle with Dash, and endlessly patient with most kids who (at first) freaked out and then cuddled and played with him. Not all were gentle with him but he looked at me with long-suffering eyes to assure me he would be good with whatever kid-torture was to be bestowed today.

I have a million Cosmo stories – and most have watermelon-sized smiles attached. He was BLOODY big but the gentlest dog alive, and we never EVER had to worry about security with him around. He only ever barked one-at-a-time but it came from his boots. No-one ever looked like trying the locks at our house.

He also made a pretty amazing reindeer for numerous annual Christmas card.

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So even now, a year after Cosmo left our lives for the great backyard in the sky, when I ache thinking of him; I remember his goofy grin, his loving eyes and the joy he took in us. And I smile through my silly tears.
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I was the luckiest pet owner in the world. But as Dash says: Mummy, we need another Cozzie Dog in our lives.

Yes indeed. I’m very nearly ready.

Bush Babe

Doggone Love

This is Cosmo - our "firstborn".
This is Cosmo with our "real" firstborn.

This giant pooch (hip high to me and weighing in at around 70kg) was unbelievably gentle with him. They were best friends.
This blue merle Great Dane was so much part of our lives that he even featured in the images on our wedding invitations.
He was magnificent - my shadow.
I miss him so...

Television – My Own Twisted Reality

I try hard not to indulge in too much naval-gazing here. But last night Desperate Housewives was on TV while I was doing the mountain (try Swiss Alps) of folding accumulated in the corner of my living room. And I watched it with the glee and guilt that always envelopes me when I watch Completely Inappropriate TV Shows. I should explain.

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Now some of you may not think Desperate is a really inappropriate show – others will be shocked (Hi Mum!). However, if you grew up as I did – a 70’s and 80’s child; in the bush with no “real” TV (read colour and offering something other than ABC) until I was about 13 years old; with a mother who is brilliant and literate and fairly high-brow in her entertainment tastes (with the vivid and unexplainable exception of The Bill) – then you will see how the naughtiness and vulgarity that is DH would be an aberration.

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We were only allowed to watch half an hour of TV each day as kids/teenagers – and that was heavily-censored. It was a wildly exciting moment the day I was allowed to watch Count Down (to which I quickly became utterly addicted, confirming Mum's suspicion that I would be easily led astray, entertainment-wise. How right she was!).

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But back to DH. God I love it… and I adore Susan over all others – she is an extremely anorexic (and very glamorous) version of me. All elbows and good intentions and disaster. And I love, love, love the fab one-liners. And the insane storylines. (“For heaven’s sake, who in their right mind would do THAT?" Mum asked one day, as she endures DH on a sleepover. "Has anyone seen any NEWS around here lately?")

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The poor thing rolls her eyes when I implore during an after-dinner phone chat: "Can you call me back later Mum - Desperate is on” (have you ever watched The Bill?), and my father and husband follow suit and bag my choice of TV when she is around. But I am here to tell you a Fact: when they are in my house, and DH is on the tube, they are GLUED. Dad (my burly, alpha-male, old school Bloke of a Dad) has been even known to enquire off-handedly: “When are those Desperado Women on?” Ha!
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One of my other faves is McLeod’s Daughters. At first glance, to the uninitiated, this would seem like the totally appropriate show for a girl who has returned (voluntarily) from the City to the Bush. It's about girls, and the Australian country and animals and fashion...

MD has lots of glam womenfolk and lots of horseflesh, some appealing man-flesh (Alex (above) with no shirt is a real feature of this show!), romantical storylines, gorgeous houses and fab scenery… it has it all.

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But any self-respecting Bushie will tell you the show is the biggest load of garbage – the storylines just don’t hold water. (Does anyone see a common theme in my chosen shows?). They ask in consternation: But surely you can't watch that - it's outlandish. It's ridiculous. It's NOT REAL! (Damned straight, I think, that's why I love it! But I am not quite game to say it out loud)

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So I must try and hide my fascination with McLeod’s wayward but sartorially splendid Daughters – in their ludicrous mustering outfits, their fully made-up faces as they shear sheep, their insane decisions to ride a horse to the nearest neighbour rather than take a vehicle (how on earth can they ride off with tresses flowing, into the sunset to impress the neighbouring hunk otherwise?). I love it that at least half of them clearly cannot ride a horse (a noticeable lack of shots with both face and legs of the actresses). This is half the fun – it’s a comedy as well as an “Australian Drama”. Double the value, I say…
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And while I am on a roll, did anyone ever hear of Last Man Standing? It was a wonderful, witty Aussie drama/comedy set in Melbourne starring one (or two) of the cute dudes from McLeod’s:

Yummy!

(Not as yummy as you SSB, if you are by some bizarre chance actually reading this!)

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It was sort of like an Aussie Sex in the City with blokes in the main roles. Of course, I and about three others were the only souls who found it before Channel 7 (or was it 10?) buried it so late at night that only shift workers could watch it!

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There is one other disturbing link between my Completely Inappropriate TV Shows. They are all either cancelled or in their last season.
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I’m not quite game to say that my other CITVS is Grey’s Anatomy. Shhhhh. Don’t tell ABC.

And don’t tell my Mum.

The Real Bush Christening

I have realised that many of those reading this blog (from OS) will have no idea of the references made to a 'Bush Christening'... the phrase stems from a famous Australian verse, by the poet AB (Banjo) Paterson who recorded some of the more colourful aspects of the Australian lifestyle in the late 1800's...

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My father always loved to recite this particular poem, usually as we walked the cattle back to the yards after mustering. We would be riding on our ponies at the back of the mob and he would break spontaneously into "song". So have in your minds a scene from the 70's, with a burly cattleman and his kids on horseback, ambling along in the dust in the Aussie sunshine. (And remember to use a broad Irish accent for the voice of the priest - it adds definite flavour to the tale). Enjoy.

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A Bush Christening

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On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,

And men of religion are scanty,

On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,

One Michael Magee had a shanty.

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Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,

Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;

He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest

For the youngster had never been christened.

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And his wife used to cry,

`If the darlin' should die Saint Peter would not recognise him.'

But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,

Who agreed straight away to baptise him.

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Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,

With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',

And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,

`What the divil and all is this christenin'?'

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He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,

If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,

It must mean something surely like branding!

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So away with a rush he set off for the bush,

While the tears in his eyelids they glistened

`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me,

I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'

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Like a young native dog he ran into a log,

And his father with language uncivil,

Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste,

`Come out and be christened, you divil!'

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But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,

And his parents in vain might reprove him,

Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)`

I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.'

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`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;

Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him,

'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,

As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

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`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name

Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?

'Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout

`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!'

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As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub

Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,

The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head

That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!

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And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,

And the one thing he hates more than sin is

To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,

How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!

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(First published in the Bulletin, 16 December 1893)

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BB NB "Snug as a bug in a rug" is one of my favourite sayings to this day...

How to freak me out!

I like to think of myself as a calm, together kinda woman - years of being a journalist (I like to tell myself) hardened me to the little phobias and fears afflicting the everyday person.

I loved heights (soaring over Noosa in a motorised hang-glider taking photos while being held aboard by only a seatbelt worried me none), had faced down crims (being threatened outside a courthouse by a convicted felon as I took his photo barely raised my heart-rate), and adored each and every adrenaline-charged job my sadistic editor could think of to send me on. Fire-walking, mad-cat lady encounters, hideous long-winded political interviews... I even managed to hide my fear of snakes, after encountering a massive albino python while interviewing Steve Irwin at Australia Zoo.

But there was one thing that no-one knew about. A thing guaranteed to send me cowering into the nearest corner, a quivering, quailing mess. And I am going to share that one thing with you here, today, just to get it off my chest. Maybe even somehow come to terms with it. Maybe. Cause I have kids now, and I cannot pass along to them my ridiculous, wussy, lily-livered fear.

(Deep breath) so here it is. I saw one here at Granite Glen just the other day. And I freaked....

Aaaaaarrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

I'll get back to you when I can breath again...

BB

Hondo's Hero

We have two pups here at Granite Glen - not pet pups, working pups. There's a difference.

Working dogs are not soft and cute and allowed in the house, or even the house yard - they don't carry too much weight and are fit and mean (well, they look it to cows anyway). They are Serious Dogs.

But when you have kids, working pups tend to get a bit more pampered that usual. And they are sometimes not cut out for the playtime they find themselves encountering...

We had a run in the river recently (try saying that fast three times) and took the kids to check out the flow by the old bridge. Our two kelpie-cross pups, Jet and Hondo, came for the ride.

This is Hondo - he was named after the first thing his Mum's owner saw when he was born (a Honda bike).

Here is Hondo and Jet (named by Dash because he is black ...der!) looking longingly at the groovy flat area below them. Can we jump? Can we, can we? Ah, c'mon...why not?

But being pups, they couldn't just look. They had to explore. Out there. Only thing is, they didn't understand that the glass-like surface onto which they galloped was not actually solid. Hondo went in first.

And after some frantic splashing around in the murky, muddy, weed-ridden, rat-infested water - and much laughter on my part (I am a sick, sadistic woman!) - SSB decided to rescue the adolescent canine from his own stupidity...

Up you come Hondo, you silly mangy moron...

By the scruff of your neck, my friend!

Sigh... my hero. Well, Hondo's Hero. He was very grateful and showed it by lying all over SSB's leg in adoration.

And then, to prove that doggy dumbness isn't a one-off thing, Jet decided to show his little white buddy how it is done...

See Hondo - this is how you swim... through... the... water

(HONDO) Yes, I'm watching Jet - you are Sooooooo smart.

(JET) ... aaakkkk... what touched my foot!

(HONDO) Jet... Jet... what's wrong?

(JET) Ah, it's OK. I'm alright. Just watch and learn kid.

JET: Really... Just..a...bit...stuck... accckkkk!

(BB note: note the bubbles showing the path of Jet's swim ... in typical kelpie logic, he decided that getting into strife on-shore, was less preferable than the monsters of the deep, so decided to change tack at the last minute...)

After a few more minutes of thrashing around, Jet finally gave in and asked for help, so being the patient boss-man that he is, SSB agreed to a little more tights-and-cape action (now there is a mental image!) and finally hauled the second of our wayward canines from the weed and the water.

No, it's OK really... don't mind the scruff of the neck thing at all!! Yo' the Boss!

The pups were remarkably well behaved and subdued for the remainder of our river watch, and meekly followed their human friends home at the end of the afternoon.

And you should know that our puppy pals slept like little logs that night! Dreaming perhaps of Loch Ness water rats and Weed Octopus, and Hondo's Hero in a cape and tights...

Til next time

Bush Babe