STORY GALLERY - AUGUST 2023

The four old timers sat contentedly around the blazing fire, the days work finished and dinner over they sucked on pipes and swigged on stubbies of beer

“Did I ever tell you about young Billy Simpkins?” asked one as he gazed dreamily into the leaping flames. He kicked a log sending a shower of sparks skywards. Without waiting for an answer he began his tale. The others leaned back in their chairs and waited to be entertained.

“Well young Billy came fresh from the city,” he began. “ ‘e was keen as mustard and a very willing worker. Trouble was ‘e didn’t have that much in his brain box, if you know what I mean.

“ ‘E were good with his ‘ands though and as I said, very willing which were important to the boss. Well one day, they were working away from the ‘ouse and the boss were expecting an important letter so ‘e tells young Billy to ‘op on the motor bike and go check the letter box whilst ‘e finished the tidying up.

“ ‘But ‘ow will I get there?’ asked Billy gazing across the paddocks. ‘Just go straight as the crow flies and don’t deviate’ he was told. No more than 2 mile’ away is the road and the box is on the corner. Should take you about a quarter of an hour all up.’  Billy’s eyes followed the pointed finger, nodded and climbed on the bike. ‘See you soon,’ ‘e called over his shoulder as ‘e revved the bike and set off.”

The old timer gave a chuckle. “Famous last words,” he chortled,  took another swig and continued with his tale.

“Well Billy sets off, straight as a dye ‘e goes.  'E’s ‘aving fun ‘e is racin’ across the paddock. Playing games with ‘imself ‘e was. “E takes a little rise at full tilt and – straight into a dam ‘e goes. That were something the boss forgot to mention. But then again  maybe ‘e thought young Billy would have the nous to go around it. Whatever, Billy goes into this dam, the bike grasped tight between ‘is legs and ‘es gripping the ‘andlebars like grim death. It were a pretty deep dam too. As Billy told it, ‘e let go quick and as the bike sunk to the bottom, he managed to scramble out of the water.  Dripping ‘e was, disorientated, but glad to be alive. Trouble was, by the time ‘e got out of that dam, ‘e were facing a different direction and couldn’t remember which way ‘e was supposed to be going.

“‘E thought ‘e remembered going towards some trees, but as ‘e gazed around, ‘e could see a few stands of ‘em.  Taking a punt, ‘e sloshed towards the closest. ‘E thought, and for once ‘e did think, ‘e might climb one and get ‘is direction that way.

“So ‘e comes to this cluster of trees and sure enough there was a likely looking one so ‘e starts to climb it.  Bit ‘ard going ‘cause as I said ‘e were very wet and ‘is clothes clung to ‘im like a limpet they did. ‘E didn’t get far up when ‘is wet shoes slipped and he starts to fall. Lucky for ‘im ‘is braces caught on a broken branch not that far off the ground, but far enough. Well ‘e went up and down like a yo-yo on them braces. I reckon ‘e was a bit stunned, ‘cause as ‘e told it, ‘e must ‘ve been ‘anging there for a while. Bobbing up and down. Wonder ‘e didn’t get giddy,” and again the old timer gave a laugh.

“Anyways, the boss, ‘aving finished what ‘e was doing and wondering what the ‘ell Billy was up to, ’cause it must ‘ave been a couple of hours later by this time, climbed into the old ute and set of in search of ‘im towards the road where the letter box were.

“ ‘E told me ‘e saw this thing going up and down in the distance and wondered what the ‘ell it were. As ‘e neared, ‘e saw it were Billy, who ‘earing the ute started to wave violently and  yell “’elp” – not that it would ’ave done much good because the old ute made a racket you wouldn’t believe. What with Billy waving and shouting, it set ‘im spinning like a top. 'E wore that glad to see the boss.

"Well, the boss goes to investigate and sure enough, there’s young Billy, ‘eld up by them braces, swingin’ in the breeze. Must ‘ave looked quite a sight.

"‘E stops the ute, gets out and scratchin’ ‘is ‘ead ‘e surveys this ‘uman yo-yo. ‘E arsts Billy what the ‘ell ‘e thinks ‘es doin’ up there and where’s the flamin’ bike?

“Well Billy, a bit giddy, an’ no wonder, starts yellin’ for the boss to get ‘im down.

“Anyways the boss gets back in the ute an’ drives the ute up under where Billy’s ‘anging and standing on the tray, manages to grasp Billy by the legs. Them braces must ‘ave been about to give way, what with Billy’s weight and the boss pulling because as the boss grabbed, they broke and the pair of them fell backwards in a tangle of arms and legs into the tray of the ute.

“I reckon Billy ‘ad a bit of explainin’ to do. I ‘ears that the motorcycle stayed in the bottom of the dam until the drought of 1967, the dam being 20 feet deep, and it weren’t much good by then.

“Not sure if the boss ever did get that letter.” 

He took another swig as his tale finished.

It seemed a good idea at the time when my sporty friends suggested that I do the swimming leg for a half iron man in Cairns.

“Where do we swim?” I asked. Trying to remember where a swimming pool, large enough to take many competitors to swim their two kilometers is situated near Cairns and how one would tag the next competitor in the team.  No one swims in the sea because of the irukandji and crocodiles.

“That should be ok, I swim two kilometers every morning.” So, fool that I am, I agreed.

“No, no, oh no, they laughed, you have to swim in the sea.”

Will I be brave enough to do this? Wet suits are being provided but that is not going to help with a crocodile attack. First things first, let me get the wet suit fitted.

“You need to have it fitting very snuggly,” the guys handing them out told me.

 I felt Lucky I had my wife with me to help me squiggle and squirm my way into it. The legs were easy but then the tugging started. 

“Perhaps if you lie on the ground, I can pull it up?” she suggested.

 I am now on the ground with it pulled up to my waist endeavoring to get one arm in, rolling around on the grass as she yanks at the neck of the bloody thing trying to get it up over my shoulder. Now, the next arm, again much rolling and yanking until both arms are in and the suit is up to my neck but still not zipped up.

I roll onto my stomach to try to get into a standing position.  She helps me get onto my knees but that is as far as I can go. I feel like I’m in a straight-jacket, I am in a straight-jacket! Then with a mighty effort I manage to get onto my feet.  My wife zips the wet suit up.

“Now I can’t breathe," I gasp, "how will I swim?”

 My heart is beating wildly. I cannot go into the sea without a wetsuit for protection and I can’t let the rest of the team down at the last moment. I will have to do this.

I waddle, like tin man, down to the starting area where the other hundred trussed up swimmers are waiting to start. Those more competitive swimmers are pushing to the front in a bid to get a head start. Much to my horror there is a lot of pushing and shoving.

All I can think is, if they push me over, I might never be able to get up again!

 Floatation is what I need as I make my way to the centre of the pack. I have watched enough wild life documentaries to know that the outliers and those left behind are the ones that get eaten. No crocodile is going to get me amongst these more delectable beings.

The horn blows and we are off.  I think I should have brought a snorkel as people swim over the top of me but my wet suit keeps me buoyant and I find myself getting into a rhythmic stroke. The better swimmers have moved ahead and there is a bit of space but I check that I have swimmers on either side, front and back. At last, the swim is completed and we slip and slide up the bank as we try to run, as best we can, to tag our team mate and that is when it happens. A root, just above the ground and I am flat on my face, blood gushing everywhere and looking as if I have indeed been attacked by a crocodile and maybe not able to get up again until someone, anyone, yanks and pulls this wet suit off me. Please!

There exists a general consensus that having pets contributes to the health, well-being and longevity of life of their elderly owners. Whether the pets have feathers, fur, bristles, wool, scales, hair; or whether they bark, meow, snort, grunt, whinny, bellow, whistle, roar, or even talk, their oft times unconditional loyalty provides many positive therapeutic returns.

The mood of a significant human is appropriately changed by the hungry meow, the tail wag, a loving nuzzle, the eye contact, the “Polly wants a cracker.”

“If you touch me, you’ll understand what happiness is,” echoes through theatres across the world, when the show “Cats” is being performed.

Pets we bond with, are truly good for the soul. Well, that’s the theory. Sometimes, reality exposes a different slant on things. 

Let me tell you about Butch, our loyal, pampered, prize winning pet British Bulldog. Butch wants for nothing. His diet is healthily programmed; he gets groomed regularly; there’s ample room in our house yard for a dog his size; we have provided him with an environment to keep him interested and stimulated; he’s had all his vet shots, is registered and micro-chipped. He even gets to sleep on the end of our king size bed. He is usually a picture of health. 

His one demeaning feature is that he is a real sook when it comes to change. He hides from visitors, trembles at loud noises and cringes whenever he thinks he might be in trouble.

Well, a few Saturday mornings ago, I was shocked to see him doing skiddies, across the lawn. I couldn’t believe the pus that had built up in both eyes. He had only recently been wormed, so I was dumbfounded, as to why he seemed to be ailing so badly. I decided to take him to the vet.

After leading him to the Volvo I covered the front passenger seat with a large beach towel and lifted him into the car. I didn’t want his slobbers dripping all over the new cashmere seat covers. He’s a pretty big brute of a thing, so I just fitted the seatbelt around him, thinking that he’d just lie there. I gave him a pat, and told him that he was a good dog, and that everything would be all right. He just lifted his eyebrows, as if to communicate a doggy thanks.

The veterinary clinic is several suburbs away, so I decided to use the freeway. Hardly had I merged into the one-way traffic, when Butch started whimpering, moaning and groaning. Somehow, he twisted out of the seatbelt, and started rubbing his arse up and down the edge of the seat. The look on his face suggested that he was getting some relief from this. So much for the white seat covers which were now being stained dog poo brown.

I tried to push him down, but that was a dangerous manoeuvre in traffic, so I spun into the first parking bay I came to. Not thinking, I left the car idling, not even putting on the hand brake, and raced around to the passenger side. I told you he was a bit of a sook, so, sensing danger, he bounded into the driver’s seat. I don’t know how he did it, but in his rush, he knocked the gear stick into drive and the car began to roll forward, towards the left lane of the motorway. Luckily, I had the front side door opened a bit, and I was able to grab onto the seatbelt and crawl inside, with my main intention to move Butch and grab the steering wheel. 

Butch moved faster than I anticipated, dived under the steering wheel and jammed his backside on top of the accelerator pedal, 

“Come to heel,” I yelled, as I lunged towards the steering wheel, sounding off the horn in the process.  

“Jesus, Butch. Get out of there before we are both killed.”  

My wordsevaporated!

At an angle of forty-five degrees and looking over the centre of the bonnet, I managed to steer something like a straight course. At the same time, I inched my way towards the driver’s seat.

“You’ll surely be dead meat, if/when we get home, my boy. No doubt about that.”

The traffic flow was light, so, even under my precarious situation, I was able to merge left and right, but we were exceeding the speed limit. All my birthdays seemed to be have come at once. My teeth were clenched in fear, in anticipation of an imminent crash. A kaleidoscope of possible, tragic images, flashed past my eyes. 

A hippie flicked the bird at me, as I cut him off in his Wicked Van, narrowly missing the back of a Ford Falcon. A pair of tandem bikers nearly stacked it, when they saw that there was no one at the wheel. I whizzed past a Cadbury’s truck and Australia Post, and nearly wiped out a Main Roads gang, doing repairs to the road. I sucked in and held a deep breath, as I hurtled through a red light. God knows how I missed a shuttle bus full of pensioners.

I couldn’t look into any mirrors to see if I was being followed by flashing disco lights, but I certainly could hear sirens getting closer. I gripped the wheel white knuckle tight and, jumping scissors style, landed in the driver’s seat.

Guess what sooky Butch did, when I landed. He flew out of his refuge, back to his own seat. He bumped the bloody gear stick, again, and knocked it out of gear. Why the hell didn’t I think of that!

I obeyed the copper’s order to pull over, knowing full well I was in big trouble – big fine and loss of licence, for sure. He let me babble on about what I had just gone through, told me it was a load of bullshit, booked me and ordered me to front the beak, at the next Tuesday morning court sitting. That was last week.

Amazingly, I got justice. The court officials were totally bemused at my story, while His Honour nearly chewed off the end of his pencil, taking it all in.

“Guilty as charged,” he said. “However, if you can tell that tale again, I’ll suspend all pending penalties.”

In the meantime, we convinced the vet to make a home visit. Butch’s condition wasn’t as serious as I feared it might be, and after an injection, a couple of pills and an application of ointment, he is back to his old self, again.

We could not get the stains, nor the smell, out of the cashmere. That, plus having learnt a lesson from transporting an unrestrained dog in a sedan, prompted us to part with the Volvo. We’ve ordered a Nissan ute, so Butch can be ferried, in the back. That will be a win, win for all of us.

Not sure now, about pets and longevity. This event must have shaved at least six months off my life!