Dolphin dreaming

Please remember as you read this, I was not on any mind-altering drugs when I had this bizarre dream.

I dreamt I was on a whale-watching boat out at sea somewhere and there were a lot of other people on the boat too.

Some of these people I knew. They were either family or friends, but many were complete strangers.

We had all been gathered at the back of the boat for some time watching a pod of dolphins. There were no whales around and we were all happy to have dropped anchor and enjoy the dolphins’ company.

The back of the boat had been lowered to form two wooden platforms suspended by chains. The lower platform was covered in about four inches or so of water – which of course fluctuated a bit although the ocean was fairly still and flat.

After some time, people were beginning to lose interest in the dolphins and began drifting away one by one.

Then a little boy was sitting on the top platform while his father, a tall skinny man, ran back and forth along the bottom platform showing off to his son. All of a sudden he slipped and hurt himself as he fell into the water.

Those of us who had been watching him laughed and basically said he deserved it because he was being stupid when he should have been setting a good example for his little boy and a younger child who had been watching him.

As other passengers helped him out of the water, I comforted the little boy who was shivering and wet, and crying. I held him close and wrapped him in a soft blanket. He soon calmed down and the mother took him, the other child and the stupid father into the cabin.

The other passengers and crew where already inside. Some were lying on bunk beds and others were involved in a game of cards. I had followed the young family inside but decided I would rather be outside watching the dolphins.

When I returned to the back of the boat I stood on the top platform, which hung below the height of the deck. Most of the dolphins had gone and the others were slowly moving, all except one.

I watched this lone dolphin for a while and our eyes met a couple of times. Then she swam over to the boat and began to climb aboard. At this point she looked more like a seal than a dolphin. Anyway, she climbed aboard and I went to sit on the deck to see what would happen.

I felt a little scared but thought she wouldn’t be climbing aboard to attack me … she was probably just curious about us as we were about her. So I sat there and just watched as she climbed aboard and came to be next to me.

I patted her and found that she was not smooth like I had expected but furry, like a seal. I commented about it out loud and to my surprise she answered me.

She said most people reacted that way when she spoke. Then she produced from somewhere this orange thing that looked a bit like an oversized kazoo. It was about 15cm long and had a cord attached to one end. She put it in her mouth and inhaled. I asked her what she was doing and she told me she had asthma and that because she lived in the sea, she was unable to use Ventolin and used this orange device to deliver her medication.

I was surprised and asked where she had got it from. She looked equally surprised that I would ask such a stupid question and told me they had a chemist under the sea.

I left her while I ran inside to let everyone know that this wonderful animal had climbed aboard … and could talk.

But no one took any notice of me, so I went back to the dolphin and continued to chat to her. I don’t know what we talked about but we seemed to be in deep conversation for a long time.

Next thing I was aware of was that we were back at the jetty. For some reason the dolphin had to go somewhere on land, but we knew that if she just walked around, which she assured me she could, she would attract too much attention and if scientists knew that she could walk and talk, she would be locked up and studied.

Everyone else had left the boat and I began to look around for disguise. I eventually found a fisherman’s jacket, pants and hat, all bright yellow, and helped the dolphin to get dressed.

For some reason her face was more like a seal’s and there was no pointy nose, but we couldn’t let her go out with grey, shiny skin. I found some makeup and lathered her face with it so it looked the colour of human skin.

Then we walked ashore, along the jetty to dry land, arm in flipper.

Told it was a bizarre dream!

Portuguese Quarter Dogs and Long-Haired Pugs

As I drove into Clifton just after 9am on show day, the typically sleepy country town had come to life, brimming with the activity created by a multitude of people, cars, trucks, and the excitement of the day ahead.

People came from far and wide for an attempt to break the Guinness Record for the longest truck pull (which, by the way, was successful), some had come for the agricultural displays and animals, others were there for the horse events, and still more were there to experience the stalls, rides and displays of a country show.

But I was not there for any of those. I was there for the dog show.

I took my 10-month-old Maremma, Luka, along so we could both get a taste of what was to come, having entered her in a couple of shows in the near future and never having been to a dog show before.

We navigated our way around the town and into the showgrounds, and wended our way on a dusty trail past the cattle and other livestock on our left and the edge of the rides on our right until we came to the dog rings. As I was alighting from the car, Luka spotted another dog and began to bark … ardently. My first thought was one of dread, knowing what a rambunctious pup she could be and thinking she would prove difficult to control in a situation with so many dogs and people. However, I braved it and got her out of the car, then proceeded to the dog rings.

Within minutes, Luka went from being a plucky, fearless protector to a subdued, docile and obedient pup. I tried to hide my shock and walked proudly among the crowds of people and dogs as though this was her normal behaviour.

Weaving our way through the crowded ring-side in search of some friends who had invited us along, we stopped to speak with a few of the dogs and their people. I was surprised at the number of people there, not to mention the number of dogs. The variety of breeds was also amazing and ranged from the smallest of breeds, the Chihuahua, to one of the largest breeds, the Bull Mastiff, with just about everything in between. There were Afghans and Airedales, Beagles and Bassets, Collies and Cavaliers, Poodles and Pomeranians, Malamutes and Maltese, Schnauzers, Shepherds and Shelties, but no Maremmas.

The dog showing was a bit of mystery to me at first, but my friend Sandra patiently explained the basics of how things worked and the different classifications of dogs. I watched how the dogs were shown in the rings; how they were run and stacked, and what the different judges expected of the dogs. Sandra told me what sort of things the judges were looking for and the way this varied from breed to breed.

I continued my observations, talking to Luka and telling her it would soon be her turn in the ring. We chatted to one and all, and petted, with the owner’s permission, many of the different breeds.

We watched the way owners of the various breeds prepared their beauties in the hope of winning. The grooming, clipping, preening and the application of doggy products to make the hair sit this way or that, continued throughout the day.

After a few hours, I decided to get a bite to eat and was pleased I didn’t have to walk too far with Luka in tow. I had just arrived back at Sandra’s tent, Sandra and her friend Sue having gone into the rings with their dogs, when my good friend Gloria and her family arrived. They suggested I eat my hamburger while they took a walk around the dogs.

Pointing them out, I told Gloria to be sure to stop by and have a look at the long-haired Pugs.

I told her of my amazement as I had no idea, until now, that there was such a thing as a long-haired Pug.

Their cages were just across the way from us, I told Gloria, and there were two short-haired Pugs in the lower tier of the cage and the long-haired Pugs above. Gloria gave me a strange look as she walked away nodding, too polite to say what she must have been thinking.

Sandra and Sue (another friend) arrived back at the tent and I made a comment about these long-haired Pugs, pointing them out as I did so.

Sandra smiled broadly and Sue, before splitting her sides laughing, told me I was way out … there is no such thing as a long-haired Pug. The dogs on the top tier of the cage were in fact Pekingese! Oh boy, did I feel stupid – and that’s an understatement. Of course they were Pekingese…. I knew the breed or at least I did many years ago, but apparently my brain must have a breed blocking section and hence the long-haired Pugs.

Gloria and her family arrived back from their walk and laughed along with me when I told them about the long-haired Pugs.

So that was lesson number one.

My second lesson came later in the day when I was observing the larger dogs being put through their paces.

A dog came into the ring that looked very much like a Poodle, but it was too short for a Standard and too tall for a Toy; it was clipped in a similar fashion to a Poodle, yet stockier. I thought I heard it called a Portuguese Quarter Dog. “Hmm,” I thought, “that’s seems a strange name … Quarter Dog.” Still, perhaps it was called thus because of  the way it was clipped, with its hindquarters shaved bare.

Back at the tent, I ventured to ask my mentor Sandra about this breed and was rather coy about it after my earlier mistake. Again the pair roared laughing as they corrected me. It was not a Portuguese Quarter Dog, but a Portuguese Water Dog!

With so much to learn about the different breeds, and showing that I do indeed have blonde bones, the decision to keep my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself from now on was an easy one to make.

Still, the show did stand Luka and me in good stead for our entry to competition the following week, where, despite our lack of knowledge and practice, Luka managed to win Best of Breed, and Best Puppy in Group in the Championship, and Reserve in the Open competition – just as well the judges know what they are looking for.

Tipping the light fantastic

What a morning.

Getting out of bed was my first mistake. After being woken by one of the dogs wanting to go out, I read the time on the little, French-looking clock on the bedside table as 6.30am and thought that as I had to get up to attend to the animals, I may as well get dressed and start the day. I had so many things on my to do list and was determined to complete at least three of them before the sun went down.

I let the little dogs out (Zoe, Brady and Chester), and waited for them to return before letting the big dogs (Molly and Luka) out of the shed.

While I waited, I boiled the jug to make my first coffee of the day. I sat with this and had my first cigarette of the day (one of many I can assure you – I don’t smoke these days), while the big dogs settled so they wouldn’t bark and wake my son, who was ill, and the young girl who was staying with us.

My head was feeling a bit fuzzy and I was certainly more tired than usual, but put it down to some new medication I was on. It wasn’t until nearly an hour had passed that I realised I had got up at 5.30am.

“Oh well,” I thought, “at least I’ll get a head start on the day ahead”.

Job number one: collect all the rubbish that had been accumulating (in bags of course), since my brother and his partner had left for the UK nearly a month ago.

We were all living in a house on a couple of acres about 30 minutes from town…. No garbage collection here!

A bone of contention was that when the boys had left for their holiday, I had assumed they would the van so that I could take the rubbish to the refuse tip without having to put it into my car which was a little a hatchback.

Instead, they left the van with friends in Brisbane and left me the jag.

Now I’m not complaining about having to occasionally drive a Jaguar around the place but I could hardly take the rubbish to the tip in it, now could I?

So the first thing I did was to make sure all the bags of rubbish were sealed. Easy.

The next thing was to put them into the trailer and make sure they were secured so they wouldn’t fall out over the road. By the way, the trailer had always been there but I had been hesitant to use it because it was fairly big and my car was small.

Besides, it had a lock on it and I had no real idea where the key was. Needless to say I found the key before proceeding.

Back to the rubbish.

The aluminium cans were separated from the other household rubbish and everything was tied up neatly.

There was an elasticised net covers stretched across the top of the trailer so no bags could fly or bounce out.

Now to connect the trailer to the car.

I had always been pretty good at backing cars and trailers, but being unwell as I was, it took me about six goes to line the towball up with the trailer.

Having done that, connecting the two was easy. It wasn’t until then that I realised the connection for the trailer lights was of the round type.

My car had a straight connection.

But by this stage I really didn’t care. I would just use hand signals. In any case, I knew the car’s brake lights would be visible at all times so I hoped like hell that I wouldn’t have a problem or run into Mr Policeman.

While all this was going on, Chester, my brother’s dog with the personality disorder, had not left my side and was excited at the prospect of a visit to the tip.

Luka, a young maremma, had been watching me from her tethered post with angst lest I leave her behind yet again, and my son’s dog Molly, a shar pei, was watching through the open garage. So with two of the little dogs left in the house, along with the sleeping 23 year olds, I decided to take the other three dogs on a little trip.

Using one of their cable leads I set up a short run horizontally in the middle of the trailer to which I could tether the two big dogs. Chester could ride in the car with me.

The trip started out fine.

Molly was a little unsure of such an open ride, as was Luka, for the first few seconds. Luka looked like a Polar bear, with her black nose and eyes, and her white fur blowing back as I tentatively gained speed.

Molly looked rather startled with her normally rollie skin stretched back and her little ears standing to attention as the wind caught them.

By the time we reached the end of our road, about one kilometre, Molly and Luka were enjoying their little outing.

We drove another kilometre or so, me with one eye in the rear vision mirror constantly checking the dogs and the rubbish were OK and still on board, when suddenly rubbish started flying out the back of the trailer.

By the time I was able to stop the car safely, large amounts of rubbish had escaped and had left a trail along the road that would have been great for Hansel and Gretel, but not along a main road. The dogs had inadvertently ripped holes in a couple of the bags with their claws, releasing the rubbish and setting it free to blow with the wind.

It took me ages to move the big dogs into the back of the car before again securing the rubbish.

First I lifted Luka out of the trailer, and believe me, that was no mean feat. I had little choice but to lift her because I was afraid she would jump onto one of the cross bars at the front of the trailer, and it was too difficult to release her from the back.

Then I had to disentangle Molly from cover before lifting her out and into the car. Finally, after much fiddling, I had the dogs and the rubbish secured where they were supposed to be and we were on our way again. While all this was going on, Chester stood on the back seat looking out at all that was happening.

There was a few bits and pieces of rubbish that I had missed but I planned to collect those on the way home because they were a fair way up the road.

We were off again.

Down to the main highway – I didn’t know the back route at that stage – and turn right, then I had to look for a right turn saying ‘refuse tip’.

I dared not drive much over 80kms for fear the rubbish would work its way loose of its elastic restraints only to fly into the windscreen of the huge Kenworth B-double, which, although it was nowhere in sight when I pulled onto the highway, was closing in fast.

Now I began to worry.

What if he couldn’t see my car blinkers? Or perhaps he would only be looking at the trailer lights and not even notice the car lights. Great! And he was so close that if I did happen to see the turn off I would never be able to slow down quickly and safely enough to take the turn without the dogs getting a much closer look at the grill of a Kenworth.

“Yep, that was the turn off,” I thought as we cruised on past. I wondered what the truckie was thinking as he continued to hug the back of my trailer.

I found a place about 2kms down the road where I was able to pull off the road and turn around. After a few short minutes, we arrived at the tip.

There were signs everywhere – all hand painted – with arrows pointing here there and all over the place … or so it seemed to me at first glance. The tip was similar to those I remember visiting with my dad when I was a kid. There was not a weigh bridge in sight and no fees to pay for residents.

At home we always keep the aluminium cans separate, so this was already done. However, what I did not know was that you had to separate the tin cans, plastic and glass at the tip too. So much of my time at the tip was spent pouring through the rubbish that I had so carefully sealed before leaving home, and sorting the recyclables. Not that I minded, I just hadn’t thought about it and it was just an added hassle.

That done and the big dogs safely tethered on the trailer, minus the rubbish and the elasticised cover, our return trip was uneventful except to say that I did take an empty bag with me to collect the rubbish that had escaped the trailer. I would like to say that I stopped and picked up every piece of fugitive paper, but alas I cannot tell a lie. By the time I returned, the rubbish was nowhere to be seen – the wind was particularly strong and must have scattered it near and far … well far anyway.

Back home it took me several tries before I finally succeeded in backing the trailer into its original position. Backing trailers was never a problem for me … ‘was’ being the operative word here. I had been doing it since before I got my licence. My father taught me to drive and backing a trailer was, in his eyes, an essential part of driving. And I have been forever grateful to my dad for thinking that way.

Anyway, I unhooked the trailer, got the dogs safely off, looked the trailer, returned the elasticised cover to its spreadeagled position across the top of the trailer and went inside to get myself a well-deserved cuppa.

It was now just after 9am and all there was not a sound to be heard in the house.

The adventures of a not-so-young YGB

I met Pete through some friends. Pete was a mad biker who used to race Sporties (Harley Davidson Sportsters).

Pete and a few of the boys had a bit of a thing about members of HOG (Harley Owners’ Group) in our area. They were obligated to become members of the group because they all worked at the local Harley distributor.

A group of us were joking around one day about what hopeless riders most of HOG were and how little they knew about their own bikes. They were more interested in the image. Pete and the boys couldn’t stand riding with them because of all the rules about who was to ride where and all that sort of thing – a poor attempt to imitate the patch groups.

So there and then we decided to form our own (secret) anti-HOG bike club – the Hog Slayers. We started throwing about suggestions for rules and guidelines for our new club. There was to be only one rule, which was there were to be no rules.

We did draft a few tenets though and one was that for a person to be nominated for membership to this exclusive club, they had to have done something crazy on a bike, witnessed by at least one Hog Slayer member, or verifiable by two reliable witnesses.

Sadly, I was told I couldn’t become a member straight away because I had never ridden with them or HOG.

Pete was voted in as inaugural president and each of the founding members were given club nicknames – not a difficult task given most already had a nickname they had earned during one ride or another.

Soon after this initial meeting I received a desperate phone call.

“Marg, how about coming for a ride with me tomorrow? The wife and kids are due back on Monday and I’ve been working the whole time they’ve been away and haven’t been for a ride other than to work and back, and you know Jen won’t be impressed if I’m itching to get out when she’s only just got back,” Pete implored, then took a breath.

It didn’t take much to persuade me.

We met at his place and began wending our way south along various back roads enjoying each corner as we came to it until we came to the freeway just north of Mount White.

Pete hadn’t ridden much down that way and wanted to take him on a bit of a tour of the lakes and coast instead of going on boring the freeway. We hadn’t discussed any particular route and at this stage Pete was ahead of me.

We were approaching the freeway entry. Pete had his left indicator on and was clearly heading for the freeway. I kept hoping Pete would see where I was going, but finally realised he hadn’t read my mind and at the last instant, I decided to follow Pete.

I didn’t take into account the patch of gravel protruding from the pointed corner of the traffic island that separated the freeway entry from the main drag ahead when I turned my bike sharply to the left.

As I hit the gravel at 80km/h, fear gripped me and I started to freeze, but in that instant I told myself to get a grip, be calm and take control of the bike.

“Yes,” I thought to myself, I’ve done it, as the bike straightened up. Then the front wheel hit REALLY deep gravel. At that point I knew I was gone. All I could do now was try to minimise the damage to myself and my beloved Sportie.

As the front wheel hit the island I remembered two things my dad had drummed into me. He said that if ever I lost control of a vehicle, never look at a tree or post … because the general rule is that where you look is where you will end up. The other thing was that if you were going to be thrown from a vehicle, relax your body and curl yourself into a ball to minimise the impact of the fall by rolling. Mind you, I thought this bit about relaxing was a bit of a fantasy on my dad’s part.

 

With my dad’s advice firmly implanted in my panicked brain, and a massive metal sign looming threateningly before me, I tried to focus on the grass. The bike was flipping over on an awkward angle with the handlebars turning of their own accord, ignoring my vain attempts to direct them. The bike and I were flying through the air and I suddenly realised the bike was flying on a different plane – not higher, but horizontal. I knew that if I didn’t relinquish my hellish grasp on the handlebars, the bike would probably land on top of me. So, out of sheer self-preservation, and against all my instincts, I parted company with my air-borne Sportie, diving clear of it as I went.

(All this happened very quickly, but it’s true what many say, that when one is in such a situation, time almost seems to stand still.)

I landed, vaguely aware my dad’s advice had worked because I missed the sign and was on the grass. I tried had desperately to relax as I tucked my chin into my chest as I landed – no easy task when wearing a full-face helmet. From the corner of my eye I could see my purple beauty landing partly on the tar road, partly on the solid concrete of the traffic island and sort of bouncing before coming to rest.

Then we were still.

I got up as quickly as I could – and dared. I was afraid a car – not one of which stopped by the way – would hit my bike causing it greater damage than I had.

Meanwhile, Pete was battling his way back against the one-way traffic on the freeway on-ramp to reach me. He had a look of deep concern as he scrambled off his bike and tore off his helmet.

As I ran to my bike Pete was yelling to me, “Are you alright Marg?”

“Did you see it Pete?” I yelled back at him.

“Yeah mate, saw the whole thing in my mirrors.”

“Well, did I roll Pete, did I roll?”

As he strode towards me he held up his fingers. “I give you a nine!”

We cracked up.

Pete stood before me and instructed me to take my helmet off slowly. I did as he said and was bending down to help pick up my bike. He told me to stop, looked at me and said, “Are you sure you’re okay?” and urged me to take a minute or two to make certain.

I did a quick check. I felt a little sore in places but nothing to complain about. Then I took my gloves off to examine my hands.

“Bloody hell!” I exclaimed.

Pete rushed to my side asking, “What Marg? What’s the matter?”

“Bugger,” I said, “I’ve broken a fingernail.”

“That does it,” a relieved Pete said. “No one can object to you becoming a Hog Slayer now. I hereby christen you Hard-As-Nails.”

A few days later Pete turned up with my Hog Slayer badge with my new nickname proudly embroidered smack bang in the middle.