Trivial tales from someone who’s always in it

Your Correspondent lives in the region of Australia that’s solely responsible for keeping the country out of recession. It’s often been described as “the power-house that drives the nation’s economy”. Pretty damned florid and impressive, eh? So I can’t help but wonder why it took three fucking months to get our phone connected.

Oh, there were excuses a-plenty: it rained for eight minutes; the sub-contractors didn’t approve of the site’s feng shui; someone’s dog ate someone’s car keys. There were messages to and from assorted toadies at Telstra. One of them — our Case Manager from Telstra’s “Centre for Customer Experience” or some such wank — had a great time leaving messages on my mobile phone with instructions on how to contact him and then making sure he was never there whenever I tried.

It could be worse. Women still die in childbirth here. I shit you not.

Anyway … now that we actually have phone and internet connections once more: Happy New Year to you.

Lots more to come and I’m sorry to say it won’t be pretty.

Popularity: 71% [?]

Our dog has a criminal record. It’s been logged on a database. And I, as the mother of a criminal, am also on a database … not to mention $100 poorer.

Before we go any further with this story, let’s just pause for a minute to consider the Jack Russell terrier. What is the point of Jack Russell terriers? Who was Jack Russell and what did he do to have these wee shits named after him? They’re ugly, they’re yappy, they’re incredibly territorial and they have serious dominance issues. I’ve never met one that didn’t want to hump some part of my anatomy and they’re always owned by people who indulge them utterly and think it’s cute to watch as their foul little genitalia rub feverishly up and down on my sleeve/shin/head.

I can’t stand them. I’m sorry if you’ve read this blog dedicatedly for years and have just decided never to come back because your Jack Russell is your best friend and I’ve wounded you irrevocably but hey, it would never have worked out between us anyway. Not once I’d learned that you let one of the DEVIL’S COOTIES sleep on your bed.

Fans of these dogs tend to use flattering adjectives to describe their pets’ vile temperaments, such as ”plucky”, “fearless” and “spirited” (all used here) or “tough” and “intelligent” (used here). That’s fine. Continue to do so, owners of Jack Russell terriers. The rest of us know better.

I should’ve known that the vehicle for poor Buddy’s downfall would come in the form of not one, but three Jack Russells. We were at the park. Buddy got into an altercation with one of them. The owner panicked and tried to separate them. Buddy’s teeth grazed one of her fingers. She scooped up her dog, Buddy jumped up to reach it and bit one of its back legs. This left a single small, pink mark. No blood. The owner’s finger was bleeding.

The JRTs weren’t really to blame. The fault was mine. I had let Buddy off the leash. This was incredibly stupid, given that we’d only had him nine days and he was a four-and-a-half-month-old puppy who still didn’t really know his own name.

The incident was reported to the ranger, who visited us last week. I was let off with the fine and the warning because the couple who owned the JRTs didn’t want to take the matter further. I’d paid their vet bill and shown sufficient empathy with their dog’s plight to convince the woman that I was genuinely sorry. It was also apparent to the ranger that Buddy is a baby and none of it would’ve happened if I’d kept him on the lead.

Don’t get me wrong, I still hate Jack Russell terriers but I’ve learnt my lesson. I’m training Buddy according to the principles explained in this book and it’s working very well. I keep him on the lead in public. And every now and then our eyes meet in a kind of understanding that only partners in crime can recognise and share.

 In other news: we’re moving house tomorrow and won’t have landline or internet access until 12 December (says Telstra)  … so that’s it from me in the meantime. Probably.

Take care til next.

Popularity: 83% [?]

The new puppy has been with us a week. He’s gorgeous but very different to Tongi in every respect. This guy has a definite mind of his own and will be something of a challenge to train. Like all puppies, though, he’s eager to please.

I think he’s smarter than Tongi but he doesn’t have the same energy levels or sense of fun. The upside of this is that he’s better behaved. He’s much more independent and “grown-up” than poor Tongi ever was. He’s a one-man dog and and has well and truly latched on to the Dreamboat. (They’re a bit alike, to tell you the truth. I suspect the same could’ve been said of Tongi and me.)

He’s only four-and-a-half months old and beautiful-looking, with his part Boxer, part Rhodesian Ridgeback heritage. He’ll be a big dog. He has the Boxer build, coat and black face but he doesn’t have the usual wrinkles. I wanted to call him Botox. The Dreamboat responded quite negatively to this. When challenged to come up with alternatives that were every bit as fun and creative as my own, the list he produced was, quite frankly, fucking gay. Hence, the name bestowed on puppy by the pet haven — Buddy — has stuck.

Of course, he’s fascinated with Buffy, the cat. (The fact that there’s only one consonant’s difference in their names hasn’t escaped me, which is why I STILL THINK BOTOX WOULD’VE BEEN A GREAT NAME, HUSBAND OF MINE). He frisks around her, barking his puppy bark and you know what she’s thinking just by looking at her: I’d only just managed to teach that other freak who’s boss around here and now I’ve got to start the whole fucking process again with THIS cocky little bastard. I’ll claw his frigging eyes out, so help me Cat God, I will.

My cat is a foul-mouthed little guttersnipe. Please accept my apologies. And I’ll put up some photos of Buddy soon.

Popularity: 62% [?]

… this.

Popularity: 59% [?]

Thank you for your messages.

We went camping on the weekend to a spot we’d been to only once before, far up one of the area’s biggest rivers. It was wonderful … quiet, no rubbish lying around from other campers, just the Dreamboat, the dog and me.

We spent the afternoon swimming and reading. After dark, over a bottle of red wine, I turned to the Dreamboat and said, “These last three years have been so bloody hard … but you know, I’ve got the feeling that things really are starting to get better.” He nodded.

Jesus Christ.

We took our time packing up the next day. The tent was in shade all morning so I lay inside reading. The dog sat outside on guard. Occasionally he’d get up, lean against the mesh windows and try to lick me. Then he’d throw himself against the walls and I’d yell at him to go away.

We stopped at a big water hole for a swim on the way back and decided to linger there for lunch. While the Dreamboat was getting the food out of the truck’s fridge, Tongi trotted towards me with something in his mouth. It was the desiccated corpse of something that looked very much like a stoat. I called the Dreamboat who took it away from him while I kept him distracted. Earlier, I’d caught him chewing on something else that was dark-coloured and had called him away.

We arrived home and everything went as it usually does after a camping trip. The Dreamboat unpacked the truck, I shoved a load of washing into the machine and Tongi dozed in the living room. The Dreamboat put him to bed in the laundry just before ten o’clock and we went to bed ourselves.

This is where I start sounding like a nutcase. I was lying in bed, waiting to fall asleep, when I suddenly experienced an overwhelming feeling of dread. There was no reason for it; I just became more and more convinced that something awful was going to happen. The feeling grew so powerful I almost woke the Dreamboat but I resisted the urge because it seemed so stupid. (This has only ever happened once before in my life … and it coincided with this.)

It took me ages to get to sleep. The phone woke me up around 11pm. I didn’t get to it in time. The caller left a message. It was my mother-in-law in Scotland, confused by the time difference with daylight saving. I went back to bed and once more lay there, fearful. Again, it took at least an hour to fall asleep.

We were woken by a terrible racket coming from the laundry: howling and yammering. The Dreamboat jumped up to investigate. I looked at the clock. It was 12:38am. I got out of bed and padded down to the laundry. The door was closed and the Dreamboat was standing outside it.

“He’s peed on the floor. He must’ve woken up, desperate to go, and couldn’t hold on.”

I looked into the room. The floor was covered in urine. It looked as if it had been sprayed out of a high-pressure hose. The dog was still very agitated, barely in control. He seemed absolutely terrified. The only thing I could think of was that a snake had somehow got into the room. The Dreamboat wondered aloud if there was an intruder in the back yard.

We couldn’t calm the dog down. I said to the Dreamboat, “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I think we should let him outside.” I opened the door. Tongi charged out, screaming and howling, and started running maniacally around and around the back yard along the fenceline. The Dreamboat and I stood and watched, horrified and worried and very aware that it was nearly one in the morning and our dog was waking up the entire neighbourhood.

He ran and ran and screamed and howled and I realised he was losing his mind. The Dreamboat kept calling him and the poor little bastard tried to respond, he really did. He’d stop briefly, the Dreamboat would stroke him and try to soothe him and he’d quieten for a heartbeat and then he’d take off again, running as fast as he could and making that terrible fucking noise. I ran to the other side of the house and tried to intercept him. He dashed past me and sprayed my feet with urine.

Then he started trying to jump the fence. He leapt on top of the compost bin and launched himself from there. He fell. He tried again and fell again. I could hear him panting, harsh and strained. Then he ran to the front gate and tried to throw himself over it. He fell down. He tried again. And then the convulsions started … violent, wrenching fits.

I couldn’t bear to watch. I ran inside. (And how I regret that now, pathetic coward that I am. I should’ve been there with him at the end.) The Dreamboat tried to hold him still. The seizures were so violent that his head was banging on the concrete and the Dreamboat was afraid he’d knock himself out. He’d already bitten through his tongue. The Dreamboat called to me for a towel so that he could stretch it across his throat in an attempt to pin him down.

It grew quiet. The convulsions became weaker. I stood just inside the door, thinking, Please die. Just die and get it over with.

After a minute or so, the Dreamboat called to me, “He’s gone.” I went outside and looked at our 14 month-old puppy lying dead on the concrete, mouth open. The Dreamboat said, “I felt his last heartbeat.”

The whole thing had taken just over five minutes … eight months to the fucking day since we first got him.

We didn’t know what to do. We stroked him and then we covered him with towels and left him where he lay.

“I think it was poison,” the Dreamboat said. I thought about the dead rodent and the other thing I’d caught Tongi eating, then jumped online and googled “1080 poison”. And sure enough, everything matched.

The river where we camped runs through a pastoral station (cattle). The stations don’t own the land they’re on; they lease it from the government. And I could be wrong here but my understanding is that the river itself  isn’t part of the lease, which is why people drive and camp along it even though they technically shouldn’t be there.  

I wouldn’t be surprised if the station had been laying 1080 baits — the last time we camped at that spot, we saw a pair of dingoes on the track back out to the main road and wild dogs are the main reason behind any baiting program in this part of the world. If the 4WD tracks that everyone uses to get there were public roads in the truest sense of the word, either the Department of Environment and Conservation or the station would be obliged to post warning signs, depending on who was carrying out the baiting. Maybe they still should have. I don’t know. I’m not blaming anyone and even if I was, it wouldn’t bring our dog back. But I do want to say this:

Anyone who considers 1080 to be a “humane” method of killing pest animals should feed it to their pets and then sit back and watch.

What we witnessed was the violent and hideous death of a gentle, goofy, dear little soul who tried so very hard to please us. Who, only hours earlier, had been ecstatically racing up and down along the water’s edge, chasing tiny birds he had no hope of ever catching. I really didn’t realise how utterly we loved him. I didn’t realise the extent to which our lives had come to revolve around him. I had no idea how massive a hole he’d leave.

I can’t get past this. I can’t sleep. Half the time, I still can’t comprehend what’s actually happened. The rest of the time, I cry. Hard.

We’re getting a new dog. He’ll arrive on Friday evening. We deliberately chose one that looks very different to Tongi and will no doubt have a very different personality. We don’t expect him to be a perfect replacement. We just can’t bear to continue feeling as desolate as we do now.

Popularity: 47% [?]