Early snowflakes feather the air, collecting on the broad window sill and bare winter branches. The day looks in as I stare out, separated only by the cool pane of glass against my forehead, while the bedroom’s fireplace simultaneously warms my back.

Summer and winter, warmth and cold, life and death; we drift between them until forced to pay attention and realise that something significant is shifting.

Nina is dying.

We have been besties from the start. Nina and Antoinette, or Ant, as she calls me.

“Inseparable” Mrs Moss would say, as she warmed milk for us both, atop her combustion stove.

I leave the window and settle on the bed, cautious lest I wake Nina. Sleep for her, lately, is more an “if,” it chooses to come, rather than a “when.”

The bedroom door creaks catching on the Aubusson rug Mrs Moss brought up to block the draught. It’s the sisters, I can tell. They exude a distinctive wet dog odour that precedes them, likely from what they affectionately call “the Staffies”. Nasty, yapping creatures.

Simone peers around the edge of the door, hesitant to enter, as if wary of catching whatever has stalked her mother. Someone should tell her that old age is not contagious but it is always fatal. Her younger sister, Cecily, sneaks in behind. Their attempts to disguise waiting as caring remains clumsy, but then they’ve only had the last two weeks to practice.

‘Mother?’ Simone’s ringless fingers lightly trace the blue veins on the back of Nina’s hand.

There is no response. The higher dose sedative has finally taken effect. Or, Nina may be foxing to avoid the drain of speaking.

Cecily hovers, peering around her sister. ‘How… ’ she pauses, before hope overtakes her, ‘Is she d…?’

‘She’s asleep, idiot. Can’t you see her breathing?’ Simone wedges herself between me and her mother. ‘Move over Ant.’ I shuffle further along the mattress to give her more room. As usual they have dismissed me with barely a glance.

‘Should we go? Cecily whispers, ‘Let her sleep?’ I sense her eagerness to stamp this visit “done”.

Simone snaps, ‘She needs to know we’re here, not that we’ve been here, dummy.’

Both have already mentally spent whatever they imagine Nina’s death will bequeath them. Simone, twice divorced from men with more debt than sense, and Cecily, who has already failed at life, but hopes an inheritance will provide her with a second chance.

However, they do not realise that I am the holder of all Nina’s secrets. I’ve always been the confidante of her midnight whispers. Her hopes, dreams, lovers and likers, and the great host who are neither. I was with her when she changed her will to leave the majority of the entire estate to WWF on condition, of course, that they maintain and look after me within this house until my own passing. I can already imagine what Simone will say.

‘What? She left everything to that bloody cat?’

SHIPS OF THE DESERT
by Melinda

Times change. We need to change with them. I would like to put myself forward as an example of how to adapt with the times.

My ancestors hail from the deserts of Australia and some even helped Australian ‘Camel Lady,’ Robyn Davison, and her dog, Diggity, on her epic 9-month, 2,700 km journey across the desert from Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean. That was back in 1977. And, long before that, 3000 years ago my ancestors, fondly called ‘the ships of the desert’ were instrumental in the spice trade – hauling incense and spices from Oman and Yemen through Jordan and Egypt into the Mediterranean where ‘ships of the sea’ could take them further abroad.

Many of the human tribes, in what is today called the Middle East, were nomadic. They moved with the seasons from inland towns to coastal settlements. For example, my great, great, great grandparents transported people from the inland town of Al Ain to the coastal town of Abu Dhabi. Camels moved family groups in what they called caravans – walking hundreds of kilometres, single file across the ever-changing orange, blue and yellow dunes. In the early mornings and late afternoons, we faced into the wind and walked at a steady pace. Overnight and in the heat of the sun, on the week-long journey, we stopped at Caravanserais where people could eat and drink around oases. We watched as women gave birth and as the old died along the way. We were privy to the daily lives of our humans. Locals said that horses could do the trip, but that they required a lot of care and attention. We, on the other hand, not only transported people, but we cared for them providing them with milk and warmth at night while requiring no attention ourselves.

But, times changed.

The spice trade dropped away. And by the middle of last century the nomadic lifestyle was on the decline. There was no longer a great need for our services. What was to happen to us, the camels that had once been so important in people’s lives?

We adapted. We had to. Traditionally, we had enjoyed racing against other camels to demonstrate our skills and pedigree. And so, after more than 1000 years of informal racing, and after forced redundancies in our world of work, we adapted. People formalized camel racing and now we have dedicated tracks and robotic jockeys. Robots are a bit odd, but I can’t say that I ever approved of their forerunner, the enslaved child-jockeys of the past.

So today, we excel in sport and help people to exchange goods and services based on what we produce … much as in times of old. Culturally, gambling is not allowed in most Middle Eastern countries, but race winners attract huge prize purses for our keepers. Here in Australia, the races are more of an annual event and a bit of fun, and gambling is definitely a feature. We are also involved in a new line of competition … camel beauty pageants. I used to shrink and quiver at this, but I’m adjusting. In the big picture, I guess … why not? Competitions have set-criteria such as the length and droop of the lip, the shape of the nose, health of our hair and the shape of the hump. This is all a bit cringy, but there are other criteria too such as grooming and comportment. I guess it all helps to ensure our health and physical qualities. Time sees all, we adapt. Though, I must mention … earlier this year, 2026 for those of you who are time-travelling, 20 camels were disqualified in a beauty comp in Oman due to the use of lip fillers and silicone injections. Beauty, perfection, a way of life … they are all so easily corruptible these days.

Perhaps the enduring thing about my species is love – our love of people and their love for us. Camels respond to the emotions of people we are close to. If you're sad, we are sad. We provide a genuine sense of comfort, love and companionship in what can be a harsh and inhospitable environment. A humble camel herder from Saudi, Ibrahim Al Duhaiman, summed it up best when he said, “To me, the camel is part of my family” and as a pedigreed camel I can attest that, “people are part of my family.”

We have adapted as the world has changed around us, but importantly, some features have endured throughout the ages - our love for people and their love for us.

Pardon me now while I touch up my mascara.

AN ANIMAL
by Julie

Mickey Mouse came into Michael’s life on his sixth birthday and was loved from the very first minute Michael held him. Mickey’s ears, body and limbs were of black velveteen, his pants red velveteen, face hands and feet were of yellow cotton, and his nose sticking out was made of black felt. The two were inseparable, and Mouse gave Michael much comfort and friendship. In times of stress Mickey’s nose was chewed and in fact he was often carried around with his nose between Michael’s teeth. He was rarely cleaned and so had a most peculiar smell about him ; not unpleasant, but earthy and boy smell.

Michael’s older sister Ann worked in a Mother and Baby Home where unmarried mothers gave birth and often gave their new babies away for adoption. Other small children were there too; those whose mothers could not cope, mothers who were ill, mothers who had died. There was always hope that these older children would find permanent families, but the older they became the fewer their chances. Two of these older children were Mario and Nicholas both four years old and both with happy endearing personalities and who had both won Ann’s heart. Had she been older and married there was no doubt these little boys would have become permanent members of her family. As it was she was allowed to occasionally take them out for the day, and was absolutely thrilled when she was allowed to bring the boys home for the Easter break.

We all fell in love with these dear little fellows and let them have whatever they wanted. We read to them, taught them songs, took them to the playground and let them have free rein with our toys. We would have liked to keep them.

However, like all good things that come to an end, their stay with us was now over. Michael was particularly sad to see them go and so was really having a very hard chew on Mickey Mouse’s nose. Poor Mickey. Just as they were getting in to the car which would take them to the railway station, our mother grabbed Mickey away from Michael and thrust him into the arms of the crying Mario.

Too bad for Michael who was so shocked that he could not even cry. Our mother was good at giving away our precious things – a new pair of shoes (a rarity in this family) whisked away and given to that horrible girl at number 15 whose house had just burned to the ground; the Wedgewood clock given to me by my grandfather now given to a cousin who was making a very rare visit to him. Mum said Leanne needed something to remember the old man by.

When Michael’s sixtieth birthday was approaching I discovered Mickey Mouse sitting in an antique shop. This one had his nose intact, but he smelt a bit the same and all else was as in the original.

When placed in the hands of the now 60 year old, tears flowed like a river. Had this Mouse been able to release all those years of pent up grief.

AN ANIMAL STORY
by Cindi

No, I don’t think so. Tell me an animal story that has a really happy ending. Accidents, neglect, ill treatment, short lives, Vet bills, dogs that bark continually, cats that kill native wildlife, goats that ate the roses, peafowl chicks that vanished one by one; it is getting

personal now! Beloved dogs, dignified cats; such love exchanged, and where are they now?

Put this page down now and walk away; you’ll wish you had.

There was the orphan lamb ... not yet. Times were tough, there were the old chooks that we couldn’t afford to keep as pensioners that our usual food provider refused to kill. "That’s Betsey,’ he said as he walked away. If you want her dead, you’re going to have to do it

yourself!” So, they did. Two women, one stretching raucously resistant scraggy necks out on a log, and the other wielded the axe. Both had their eyes closed at the moment of impact.

They did it, and amazingly the only blood spilled were the chooks’ I am tempted to go on, but you understand the lessons learned.

In disgust and pity, we listened to an old maudlin drunk confess to poisoning his own hungry cattle dog. The strychnine treated meat had slithered from his hands to be gulped down. The man whimpered in regret, but had still proceeded to poison his neighbour’s innocent bitch over a small disagreement. Great grief: there were several more harrowing dog deaths in our community, put down to his vindictive hands.

Back, reluctantly to Little Old Lambsie. It started with the best intentions from all the many participants. Veterinary students at Uni in Brisbane, shared digs, orphan lamb, middle of term, everyone’s project. LOL was kept warm and safe in a cosy nest, protected from

wandering off and urinating and pooing in their untidy digs by a square wooden baby pen.

One surplus to requirements elsewhere, I guess. Once he (neutered, of course, these were veterinary students, practice is valued) passed the bottle stage, many hands brought grass, which he treated with disdain, settling on guineapig pellets as his food of choice. Most of his days were spent alone, safe, but on his haunches, while everyone studied.

“Look what I’ve brought you, Mum! He will keep the grass down, no mowing.” LOL grew up to be a placid sheep with a will of iron and no concept of grass as an essential edible. Guineapig pellets or fresh vegies from the garden. To his credit he never strayed; there is a

totally different story about a ram who roamed. Tragically LOL gradually lost the use of his limbs on his right side, probably from his early days in digs. He lived long enough to be shorn and there is a handmade memorial shawl. So, animals: such love exchanged, and where are they now?

However, there is a Foxie puppy I have my eye on. Her delicate ears are translucently pink in full sunlight and her hairs are alert and twitchy. I reckon we could have a few happy years together.

FELINE FRIENDS
by Malcolm

My wife and I haven’t had a pet in fifty years of marriage, but we’ve had five feline lodgers, all Toms. The first was found abandoned in the Blue Mountains; and travelled with us to Adelaide when we moved there the next day. We named him Fang. I put a notice on the gate saying ‘Beware of Fang’ hoping people would think we had a fierce dog. Fang would sometimes disappear for days; then wander into the house and inspect his food bowl, as if nothing had happened. We moved back to Sydney after 3 years; and on to England. We considered taking him, but knew he would hate being locked in a cage for a long flight, and in quarantine for months, so we reluctantly put him in a home.

Just after we settled into our new home in England a friend’s cat was going to be put down, so we rescued the poor fellow. We called him Dom, short for domino because he was black &white. Dom wasn’t inclined to wander far, even with a cat flap in the door. Unfortunately, another cat decided to invite itself in one night. We were in bed; and heard crashing and loud squeals. I dashed downstairs, chasing the invader from the house and into the alley beyond. Some neighbours, hearing noises, peered from upstairs windows. It wouldn’t have bothered me, but the lights that lit the alley let them see that I only wore my birthday suit. Sadly, we left Dom in a cat kennel when we went on a holiday, only to find he had broken out and gone missing one night. We never saw him again.

Returning to Oz years later we built a house on a 2-acre plot. A lot of unwanted cats & dogs were dumped on our estate by owners bored with their pets. One day a sad looking long - haired cat appeared in the garden. We gave him a saucer of milk which he lapped up gratefully; we had another lodger. Puss was content to lay around the house; or honour us by curling up on our laps.

One day I found Puss peering into a tree near the house. A young cat had scrambled to the top, obviously to escape Puss. There was no coaxing him down, so reluctantly I scaled the tree. I finally secured the cat in one arm; and descended using one arm to hold on. Halfway down the panicked kitten clamped itself to my face. Unfortunately, my left eye was blind, and he was smothering the good eye. I finally found the ground, removed the furball from my face, and looked at my free hand to discover I had squashed a Huntsman spider on the way down.

The newcomer was a ginger cat, so I named him Meggsie. Puss abided the newcomer; but would tease him by lying on a chair and wagging his furry tail. When he tried to catch the tail Puss would swing around and cuff him. These two lived out their lives with us, and we’ve never had another feline friend.

CAMELEPHANTELOPELICANARY
by Trevor

The night before the Sabbath, when God sat on His throne,

delighted with all his efforts - that He’d turned the final stone.

He heard a little, muffled sound and a scratchy sort of shuffle,

so, He went and investigated what was causing this kerfuffle.

There, amongst the odds and sods He’d used for the Creation,

was this urchin, little creature, in appearance, no relation

to Adam, Eve, nor beast, nor bird He’d been making, all this week.

On all accounts, He’d come across the first known Earthly freak.

For all the fauna He had made, came from a single mould.

He just added extras: fur and feathers for the cold;

legs to help them walk or run; wings if they should fly;

fins and scales for swimmers, and eggs to multiply.

The only explanation was,” Here’s one I must have missed.”

But, He’d ticked off every animal He’d written on His list.

The birds were in the tree-tops … the bees upon the clover …

He couldn’t find a kit of parts, for the little one left over.

Time was now against Him … His workshop had been closed.

Tomorrow was his day off … a gazetted RDO.

He made a quick decision which He shared with this sad mite:

“Go out and choose your own parts … BUT, it must be done, tonight.”

“But, God, I cannot move around,” it cried with plaintive note.

God conjured up a miracle and taught it how to float.

It learned to zig and zag and spin, reverse and roll and whirl.

It left to choose its body parts, from corners of the world.

Scooting over Africa, his tour stopped with a THUMP!!!

“Hey! Watch out where you’re going!” growled a camel with a hump.

“W-w-hat’s that thing you’ve got there? That hairy sort of mound?”

“My store of excess fat. It’s food. It helps me get around.

“When times are tough and food is scarce, in all my favourite places,

I just take a hundred litre drink and walk, to the next oasis.”

“That’s just the thing I think I need – a pantry in a lump!

Please, God, if it’s okay, could you fit me with a hump?”

Floating along Zambezi’s side, again it stopped, KERFLUNK!!!

In a daze, it saw a massive elephant, with a trunk.

“Just watch it, small fry!” the giant squealed, with tears in its eyes.

“Go bully-boy somebody else, who is more about your size!”

“That thing that’s hanging off your face. Its use would you please share?”

“Why, sure. You see it’s called a trunk. You can use it anywhere.

I dangle it to get a drink; tear down trees to get my food;

make my trumpet; pick up nuts; spank little ones if they’re rude.”

“I’d like a trunk, God, if you please. My second wish to grant.”

“My goodness,” God thought, looking down,” I’ve made a CAMELEPHANT!”

It looked a sight, with its hump and trunk, floating here and there,

until it met an Impala buck, and gave it quite a scare.

It stamped its feet and lowered its head. From its throat it made a grunt.

“I say, old chap, could you help me out? What are those you have up front?

Perplexed, the antelope shook his head, “They’re antlers!!!” (in a rage.)

“They help me to defend myself … and they help to tell my age.

“Each year they’re shed, but new ones grow, with an extra spike to wear.”

“Please, God. I would like antlers. Could you fit me with a pair?”

“Your wish it granted, little one. I trust that you can cope …

for, from up here, you are a CAMELEPHANTELOPE!”

It crossed the land and forests, until it reached the sea,

where it saw a bird with an extraordinary beak. “I wonder what it be?”

When it saw it catch a silver fish, and store it in its flap,

our little friend was overwhelmed. Totally, utterly wrapt.

“Another little addition, God. If food I have to catch it …

I’ll need a bill.” “It’s a beak!” Snapped the bird. “And no-one else can match it!”

“There’s a little saying,” the Father said,” it’s beak can hold more than its belly can.

Bless me if I haven’t made a CAMELEPHANTELOPELICAN!”

A small bird whistled, “I agree,” from the top of the tallest tree.

The sweetest sound in all the world. “This voice was made for me!”

exclaimed our mixed-up creature. “Please, God. Equip me now.

It will be my crowning attribute, if this voice you will allow.”

“Of course, my child. If that’s your wish. A songster you shall be.

And you shall join the canary choir, for all eternity.”

And so, dear friends, if you go bush, be careful not to scare

the CAMELEPHANTELOPELICANARY, which might be living there.

ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MINERAL
by Robyn

So here I am, in a manner of speaking. Heaven sent and spent, and unfortunately in negotiations with God again. It didn’t seem that long ago since I had slipped through them Pearly Gates, but leaning too much, evidently, on the generosity of my host. Now it seemed that my ‘go straight to heaven’ card would not do the trick. God and Buddha had formed an unholy alliance and were rock, paper scissoring for said soul. It appeared the average punter now needed to make a few return trips to build up the necessary credits required for a permanent residency. Talk about changing the goal posts. Between them, they had made it abundantly clear that I was only an enlightenment novice,

with lessons still to be learnt. I regarded the reincarnation visa they slammed down on the table with dismay. No wriggling out of this predicament. But lucky for me my mind, rejuvenated since death on

the diet of fresh air, ran unfettered. You know, for all the faults that THEY chose to focus on, my aberrant dealings with the little woman and the like, MY thoughts had slipped to my pitbull, Bruiser. I sure knew how to treat that mutt and we were inseparable, living the life of kings amongst men. Their disparagement of my animalistic nature had given me a different train of thought. The perspective Heaven gives can be biased. So although there was not much choice with the species boxes I could tick, I bypassed the farm varieties in favour of the ‘man’s best friend’ selection. And I reckon I’ll make a first rate companion. A real mate.

So here I am, hurtling back, ready to slot into life number 2.

In the train, images blur through the sleeper window. I feel changed, complete, ready to meet the world with new eyes and an open heart. Gees, I sound like a frickin’ labrador already. Let me tell you, I certainly would’ve been happier if I could have cherry-picked my breed. I really didn’t want to end up as one of those stupid yappy lap dogs, sitting on some smelly old geriatric’s knee. Mind you, the tucker probably would be top shelf, gourmet dog food is a thing. I sit a little indulgently with that thought, and continue my musing, thinking of a good name for my new persona. I reckon ‘Nirvana’ has a strong ring to it, and a good omen of the mission objective to boot. I really want to make the

grade with this visit. I smile again and imagine a scenario where it might be my pittie that I see first while the train slows, approaching the end of the line.

The lines are drawn in sand.

We cross the fiction, nonfiction divide.

Noise, heat, carriages, walls of cages. The building is a hive of industry holding rows of despair.

Saws, torches. Burning flesh.

Carcasses hang, improving flavour.

The smell, the cries, the suffering. Words Indiscriminate, discriminate.

livestock, companion, conscious, sentient.

The moral compass wavers, momentarily, and then is still.

‘Bosintang’, dog soup in Korean.

THE CERATODUS
by Lesley

In this month of animalia I thought I’d have a bash

At dreaming up a ditty in the style of Ogden Nash

He breaks the rules of rhyming with such daring and such fun.

So hope this ain’t an animalia failure, badly done.

The Ceratodus

The Ceratodus confuses us. He’s not like other fishes.

He breathes through gills, but also fills his lungs up, when he wishes.

“What? Gills and Lungs?” I hear you cry. “That surely can’t be right!

Folk have lungs. Fish have gills. On that you can rely!”

O doubting Thomas, Unbeliever, Sceptic, Scoffer, You!

Everything I say is scientifically true.

When droughts are dry, and heat is high, and rivers turn to pools.

There’s insufficient oxygen to keep a lungfish cool.

That’s why you’ll see him surface, to take a gulp of air.

That’s what he needs a lung for, a vacuum hose affair.

So, yes. He has a big, long sac for air inside his Tum

And this is what he uses when he needs a working lung.

“What does a lungfish look like? Is it like a shark or whale?

Are they shiny like a goldfish, with flippers on their tail?”

They’re very fat , their head is flat, with beady little eyes.

Like a 20-kilo sausage that’s one metre long, in size.

They’re olive-green and dirty brown, with yellow underneath.

They’re covered up with bony scales, and yes. They do have teeth.

They have a tail that’s paddle-shaped, to help them swim along

In Burnett River reaches, or Mary River ponds.

When courtship season happens, noisy burps attract a mate

A snout-nudge of the lady, and the pair co-operate.

They partner-dive together into waving plants below,

Depositing their large and sticky eggs there, as they go.

Hatchlings just like tadpoles grow, to live for twenty years.

Some live even longer – past a century, one hears!

They’re our oldest living fossil, so there’s ancient history here

A survivor who has made it for 380 million years.

So if your mob’s in trouble, like the lungfish in a drought

The trick is to adapt, to somehow find a pathway out.

The ones who find that breath of air will flourish and will breed

Not because they’re strong or pretty, but because they met a need.

Nature’s Selection is … the Queensland Lungfish; neoceratodus forsteri.

A SHEEPISH TALE
by Sallie

We loved our 35 acres. Couldn’t see another house. The land was agisted to a local sheep farmer and all was well in the world. Sadly the sheep farmer passed and the family took the sheep away.

We decided that our own sheep would be the way to go so we invested in 5 dorper sheep. For the uninitiated, dorpers don’t need shearing as they shed their wool. We acquired Cecil, the ram who had huge curly horns. Sometimes he would rub against a small sapling which would become tangled in those horns and he would roam the paddock waving

the branch like a huge fly swatter.

Then Petal was my favourite the others were Bella, Betette and Sheepish One, so called because she was the epitome of what a sheep should look like.

Dorpers are renowned for having multiple births and one day we found a lamb abandoned by mummy at birth because she couldn’t count so we took her in and fed her using a Skipping Girl vinegar bottle upon which we put a teat. Her little tail would wag furiously at feeding time and she became Vinegar.

To start with we had her in the bathroom but soon relocated her to the laundry as she decided to get in the bath and her hooves didn’t do the enamel any good. Eventually, as she grew, she was outside in the home paddock with a long disused cubby as a shelter. However she decided she preferred inside the house and followed the cat in through the cat door. We put a stop to that with an enclosure.

Cecil and his harem would come running when I went down the paddock with treats for them. They would nuzzle me and take the treats from my hand which I thought pretty cool.

One day, giving them treats, Cecil got “a look” in his eye which I didn’t like one bit. Head down, he butted me with those long curly horns and I went flying, losing my glasses on the way. Staggering to my feet, I saw him coming again and I sidestepped. As he rushed past one of his horns caught my thigh. Ouch! Having done his worst, he seemed to lose interest, which was good for me and I limped back to the house to call my husband and together, armed with shovels we went back to try to retrieve the lost glasses. Needless to say trust gone, Cecil was soon re-homed.

Marking the lambs was quite a task for us. First we had to catch the little boys, then using an elastrator we had to put a rubber band around the testicles so they became wethers.

Of course they didn’t like that one bit and who could blame them. We had to make sure they didn’t retract the testicles which they were very good at.

Husband, Richard, would hold the lamb and I would do the deed. I missed one testicle on one of the boys so he became Hitler. Later he became the tastiest roast lamb we had ever had.

GEORGE
by Valda

George was a stalker.

He lived on a creek bank in a beautiful pristine area where the rainforest hung over the clear and unpolluted water. The water was the perfect temperature and a plethora of mud crabs, a tasty delight, lived amongst the mangroves. The forest covered the mountains with towering Thorntons Peak and where in places the rainforest met the reef.

George was fifty years old, five metres long, and weighed one thousand kilograms. He had many female friends close by to satisfy his sexual needs, he had made his mark on his territory, was admired and not to be tussled with. A young male who had dared turn up in his river and began mating with one of his ladies caused unforgivable anger, and he was proud to come out the victor of the fight that ensued, and to see off this brazen young injured male. George was the king in his territory.

On this particular day he decided to swim out to the ocean where the Coral Sea was home to many treats. The reef was home to turtles, and many large species of fish, his favorites being the Māori Wrasse, Sweet lip, and Parrot fish, never thinking this might be the last time he would enjoy these waters in this amazing giving ocean on his doorstep. Late in the afternoon while making his way home, he was distracted by sounds coming from the nearby beach. He decided to wait and spent several hours lying quietly in the warm tropical waters. George was a stalker and had plenty of time as he could hold his breath up to eight hours.

Two old friends spent the late afternoon chatting and enjoying the beautiful surrounds. ‘Cheers’ they cried as they enjoyed the last glass of their sauvignon Blanc. As the setting sun cast a golden glow over the water, one decided to stroll to the water’s edge and wade in a little. A scream, a splash and a small wave crashing on the shoreline. George had made his move, before silently making his way home with his prey in tow, leaving no more than a ripple on the water.

It took several hours before police, the rescue helicopter and news reporters arrived at the beach in this isolated area. With the rescue helicopter in the air, police kept advising the Press ‘We are undertaking a search and rescue operation’. It was an agonizing wait for those on the shore as the helicopter flew through the night making many sweeps with strobe lights, low over the ocean, the nearby creek and along the beach front, returning twice to base to refuel.

‘It’ll be that big bastard up Coopers Creek’ one of the gathered locals uttered.

George could hear the buzz of the low flying helicopter, but just moved deeper into his home confident with his day’s achievements. Several hours later the winchman on the helicopter radioed in. ‘We will now be undertaking a search and recovery operation.’

George’s life in paradise was about to end.

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