Monday, February 27, 2012

The Macarana

There are few people more insane than my male staff. After all, he's a travel agent and he supports West Ham United Football Club. Does that sound rational to you? No, of course it doesn't, but then you're playing with a full deck. However, I do know at least one person who is madder than my male staff and that's my male staff's mad sister. This is how mad she is. She works for the Post Office and doesn't even carry a gun.
Anyway, she and her long suffering husband are flying out to Australia and bringing my male staff's dad with them, though what he's done to deserve that God only knows.

Last time Mad Sister and Long Suffering Husband came to Australia they were almost stranded in Dubai. Apparently they nearly missed their connecting flight and had a flustered, sweaty sprint from one end of the terminal to the next, and then were only allowed to board because Mad Sister threatened to do the Macarana if they didn't let them on. Naturally they were quickly ushered onto the aircraft and upgraded to business class. So, if they only just made it last time, what chance will they have this time? They'll be slowed by my male staff's dad who walks about as fast as an arthritic two legged tortoise. They're going to get him a wheel chair, dress him in one of those skin tight Lycra suits that track cyclists wear and stick one of those silly tear dropped shaped cycling helmets on his head to reduce drag and enhance his not so aerodynamic shape. Then they'll shove him in the wheelchair and push like hell. If they get there too late this time Mad Sister says she'll threaten to make my male staff's dad stand up and do the macarana in his Lycra suit. That would not be a pretty sight and the gate agent would be sure to let them on, even if the plane had left and was belting down the runway at a hundred and fifty knots.
 "Captain bin Linah. Captain bin Linah."
 "Roger. Bin Linah responding."
 "Funny, I've known you for months but I never knew your name was Roger. Abort take off! Abort take off! There's a woman here armed with an offensive father." At this point Mad Sister will snatch the radio handset from the gate agent.
 "Listen bin Linah. If you don't abort take off and let us on the plane, your gate agent is going to get an eyeful of an eighty four year old man in a Lycra suit doing the macarana. You wouldn't want that on your conscience would you?"

Really though Mad Sister shouldn't be allowed on a plane. On a night flight she once called a flight attendant over to look at another plane that she thought was flying dangerously close to theirs. It turned out to be their own wing tip light. Then there was the time when she'd had a couple of drinks on the plane and was holding the empty plastic cup over her nose with her teeth so that it looked as though she had a pig snout. She then turned and snorted at Long Suffering Husband, except that she'd forgotten that Long Suffering Husband was sitting on the other side. The good looking young chap next to her was a little surprised.

Ah well, it'll be nice to see them all if they do eventually make it to Australia. For one thing it'll make a change to have three different laps to pee on and we all need variety in our lives. It get boring peeing on the same old laps all the time.

Sometimes I accidently pee on my own feet.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Bad Bird

Badger and I had a really good laugh this morning. My male staff was out on the deck cleaning up bird poop and the nightly ration of possum wee when we heard a high pitch yelp coming from the bathroom. It went sort of like this. "Eeeeeeeeearrrrrgggghhh!" This was followed by "Peter, Peter, come and help. Quick!" Being ouside on the deck my male staff didn't hear this plaintive appeal, and was so wrapped up in the enjoyable task of scraping up animal excrement that he remained blythly unaware of the drama being played out in the bathroom. Either that or he'd rather shovel shit than be in the same bathroom as a naked human female.  Either way, when he came in to wash his hands he received the "Where the hell were you when I needed you?" routine. Apparently there had been a six inch long centipede on her towel, and it fell unseen to the floor as she dried herself. She then trod on it. Feeling something under her foot she looked down to see the back end of the centipede wiggling about, struggling to escape - as you would if you had something that weighs ten thousand times more than you do resting on you. It was at that point that she yelped, leapt four feet in the air and called for help.

When my male staff finally came in to wash his hands, my female staff said, "Where were you? Didn't you hear me calling for help? I wanted you to help me catch a bloody great centipede." Because it was still early and my male staff isn't too sharp in the morning, (Or the afternoon, or evening for that matter.) he said "Of course I heard you. I just chose to ignore you." This was probably the wrong thing to say in hindsight. My female staff has never been a great fan of sarcasm. The death stare she gave my male staff would have put Badger - the death stare king - to shame. She'd just finished explaining what had happened (with surprisingly few expletives) when a movement on the tiled bathroom floor caught my male staff's beady eye.
 "Is that the centipede in question?" He asked, pointing to the creature which was twelve inches from my female staff's bare foot and approaching fast. This time the sound she made was more of an "Aieeeeeee!" Fearing that he was about to be attacked, my male staff retreated to fetch the two litre icecream tub that they normally use for catching large spiders. Gingerly my male staff ushered the creature into the tub. Gingerly, because a bite from one of these things can be very painful and even put a human in hospital.

My staff have a "no kill" policy whenever possible as far as captured wildlife goes. So on this occasion my male staff took the centipede in his icecream tub out to the now poop and pee free deck. "Did the nasty lady frighten you?" He crooned to the creature. "Never mind, you're safe now. I'll put you in the garden." With this he opened the lid and tipped the centipede into the garden below the deck. It had barely landed on the lawn when Thomas the tame kookaburra swooped down from his favourite perch in the paperbark tree and gobbled the wringling animal in a matter of seconds. "Bad bird!" Scolded my male staff, but Thomas just laughed. So the whole rescue proved to be a waste of time and my male staff got a death stare for nothing.

Still on the subject of creepy-crawlies, what a bizarre soap opera the Australian Labor Party has become. In 2007 Australians finally realised that John Howard had become an embarassment and dumped him in favour of Kevin Rudd. In 2010 the Labor Party caucus finally realised that Kevin Rudd had become an embarassment and replaced him with Julia Gillard. Now in 2012 Kevin Rudd has decided that Julia Gillard is an embarassment and is going after the job that she snatched from under his nose in 2010. Of course the only winner in all this is going to be Liberal opposition leader Tony Abbott whose colleagues have obviously bound and gagged him and locked him in a broom cupboard to keep him quiet. The Liberals don't have to say anything. All they have to do is sit back and watch the Labor government destroy itself. They last thing they want is for Tony "Look at me. I can put both feet in my mouth at once" Abbott stomping around the press gallery at Parliament House yelling "Stop the Boats." and "Climate change is a load of crap." Oh boy! I think our next Prime Minister is going to be very embarrassing, if they ever let him out of the broom cupboard.

None of my feet have ever trodden on a centipede.

My Male Staff's Mum's Eulogy

Today is my male staff's mum's funeral. For the last few days I've been helping him to write her eulogy. If you don't mind, I'd like to post it here on my blog site. I'll be posting my usual blog post a bit later today.

Rest In Peace Frances Sylvia Kearns Emery
24 May 1932 - 18 February 2012.

My male staff's mum's eulogy.

Every child wants a mother that they can be proud of, and Suzanne and I were fortunate enough to have one such mum. She had courage, compassion, a sense of humour and was utterly selfless.  She served her country as a nurse in Aden in the WRAF, where she met Dad. Photos of that time show her as a very beautiful young woman, small wonder that dad fell in love with her.  She worked for the Salvation Army at their Whittington House aged care facility, and most notably at a council run aged care home in High Wycombe where her courage, compassion and determination were instrumental in weeding out abusive staff.

Towards the end of her life she displayed astonishing courage and fortitude when confronted with the fact of the tumour that finally took her from us.  There were no histrionics, no anguished shouts of “Why me?” Her main concern seemed to be that whoever was pushing her wheelchair didn’t get too tired.

I would have been five or six years old the day the barn that stood next to our bungalow in Oakham caught fire. With no thought for their own safety, both Mum and Dad rescued several panicked cattle from the blaze. I stood and watched, terrified, but not really understanding the danger they were in. It was only when I grew older that I began to comprehend the heroism of this act.

Mum loved animals you see, Suzanne and I have inherited that love and I can’t help but judge people by the way they treat animals. Around the same time as the barn fire I had a hamster – Jenny. I loved that hamster, but one freezing morning Mum found her lying very still in her cage, obviously close to death.  She took Jenny back to bed with her, gently warmed her and massaged her little heart until it’s beat sped up and finally returned to normal. Then she fed her copious amounts of brandy with a dropper. Jenny survived and went on to become the first non-human member of Alcoholics Anonymous. 

Mum’s favourite song was “Morning Has Broken.” One day whilst we were living in Gibraltar she recorded it on a cassette tape and played it so often that Suzanne and I became utterly sick of it. When she caught us eyeing the tape with a view to wiping it clean she wrote on it “Morning Has Broken. And so will your neck be if you erase this tape.” I think she was joking but I didn’t want to risk it.

In the nineteen eighties she taught herself how to make wine; and my word that wine was good. Mum and I were particularly fond of her rose petal red and her elderflower white.  We’d sit and play Scrabble together in the evenings, just chatting and enjoying a glass or six of her home made wine. I nearly always beat her at Scrabble – I think she let me.

She loved her garden and had the greenest of green fingers. My wife, Jacky, a farm girl from Australia was always astounded at the productiveness of Mum and Dad’s garden. Mum could grow anything.  Once she even grew a banana tree in the dining room. This thing was massive, it even grew a small bunch of bananas. This was in deepest tropical Buckinghamshire. The local newspaper came and did an article on Mum and her banana tree. There was a photo of her with the tree under the headline “FRUITY FRANCES”.

I still have the newspaper cutting. Another memento I have is our wedding video. Jacky and I were married at her parents’ farm in Australia. Mum and Dad came – their first visit “Down Under.” Before they returned to England I asked Mum what she thought of Australia. “It’s very nice,” she said. “But there’s so much of it.”

So, what do I think Mum is doing now?  Well, she’ll be up there, wherever and whatever “up there” is, making “beige cake” for one of the other resident’s birthday or anniversary.  She loved making celebratory cakes and always managed to source an appropriate greetings card, no matter how obscure the occasion. If they made a card that said. “Happy Halloween To My Next Door Neighbour’s Sister’s Cousin” she’d have found it.  Once the cake is baked and everyone has a cup of tea she’ll go out and throw a tennis ball for her much loved dogs – Jonathon, Petra and Hannah. This will be followed by a spot of gardening, an afternoon tea of scones with jam and large dollops of clotted cream and finally a game of scrabble and a couple of glasses of her own elderflower wine.

Mum, if you’re listening.  You spent your life courageously, selflessly and compassionately making life more comfortable for others, in particular Dad, Suzanne and I.  Now it’s time for you to kick off those smelly old slippers of yours and put your feet up. 

Monday, February 20, 2012

Utter Bollocks

It may come as a surprise to you but I have a degree in pigonomics from Cavybridge University. I don't like to talk about it because it tends to intimidate people when they realise that are in the presence of a superior intelligence. Now it has come to my attention that various politicians around the globe are taking a "Back to the Future" approach to the human equivalent - Economics. It always gives me a really good piggy giggle when I hear them say that the way to prosperity is to give tax cuts to the rich and big business. This will, they say, encourage rich to spend more and big business to employ more people, thus stimulating the economy. There is just one problem with this theory of "trickle down economics" - it is utter bollocks.

Reagan and Thatcher tried it in the nineteen eighties and made matters worse and George Dubya tried it more recently with the same result. Why doesn't it work? It doesn't work because the rich and big business has no need to spend the extra money. The rich have what they need and already have a high disposable income. Big business doesn't spend the money on employing more people. Why would it? The tax savings they make simply go towards a healthier bottom line which in turn finds it's way to the shareholders. Who are the shareholders? Mostly they're the afore mentioned rich with the already high disposable income.

Now, I may be just a carrot crunching cavy, but if there are tax breaks to be handed out wouldn't it be more productive to give them to the poor sods on low incomes? People on low incomes WILL spend the extra money that a tax break gives them. They will buy more food and all sorts of other consumables that suddenly become more affordable for them - cars, televisions, fridges, clothes, you name it. They'll go to the cinema, they'll go on holiday. They'll buy toys for their kids that they couldn't previously afford. It's a far more effective way of pumping money into the economy. The extra demand will create jobs and mean a bigger bottom line for big business and shareholders alike, so everybody wins. Now then, apart from the fact that any politician trying this approach will immediately be labeled a card carrying Marxist by certain sections of the mass media, can someone please explain to me why this is a bad idea?

On a rather sad note, you'll have to excuse me for not being my usual jovial self today. You see my male staff's mum passed away a couple of days ago and my fur is wringing wet from soaking up his tears. Once I've finished this blog post I have to help him write a eulogy for a funeral which he is unable to attend because he contacted a deep vein thrombosis and can't fly long haul until April at the earliest. On behalf of my male staff I would like to thank the many, many people who have passed on the condolences to my male staff and his family. Their thoughts and prayers are greatly appreciated. Once again I'll leave the last word to Badger's footnote.

I have three black feet and one white one.


Thursday, February 16, 2012


My staff had a day off today. Well, sort of. They still have to tend to my needs of course, but my female staff didn't have to go and work in her health field, which is just as well because it was raining, and my male staff had little more to do than drink coffee and eat muffins. This being the case, they decided to have a sleep in, having fed Badger and I first of course, and Paolo and Biggles the budgies and half the wild birds in Australia. A couple of hours later, my female staff was in the shower and my male staff was still dozing when the phone rang.

It was the National Australia Bank's credit card fraud department and they wanted to know whether my male staff had authorised a payment of $861.28 to the Apple website from a South East Asia location. My male staff walked with the phone to the bathroom where by this time my female staff was involved in the lengthy process of applying various strange things to her face.
 "Did you go to South East Asia and buy something from the Apple website this morning?" He asked and received a glare that he interpreted as 'no".
 "Why would I go to South East Asia to buy fruit on line when there's a perfectly good fruit and veg shop in town?" She added. "Anyway I like to feel what I'm buying before I buy it." My male staff tried to think of a smart-arse answer to that but decided that it would be safer to say nothing. Instead he told the man on the phone that the transaction was nothing to do with them. The man told my male staff to cut up his credit card and another one would be sent out along with a "disputed transaction" form which he needed to complete and return.

With that little drama out of the way, my male staff plucked me from my cage and took me to the office where I balance on his shoulder and dictate my blog for him to transcribe to the laptop. He types like a dyslexic baboon but he has broad shoulders which are comfortable to sit on, which is the only reason I haven't sacked him yet. Our first job of the day is to catch up with all my overnight correspondence on Twitter. This can take half an hour or more because I have over eight hundred followers from all over the world now. Once this task is complete I allow my male staff to check his emails. Sadly this morning there was one from his mad sister saying that their mum had taken a turn for the worse. She now has no feeling at all down her left side and is having trouble swallowing. Last time my male staff was in England, his mum's doctor said that this last symptom would be a sign that she is approaching the end. My male staff sat very quietly for a while having read this news and then plopped me on his lap for a stroke and a cuddle. I though it was the least I could do to allow him that brief pleasure.

On a more cheerful note, it's time to sell your gold stocks and invest in rubber futures. Why? Because here in Australia the demand for inflatable dolls rises by two hundred and forty percent year on year. I saw this in my newspaper, the one that lines the bottom of my cage. This means that by the year 2015 there will be more inflatable sex toys than humans in this great country of  ours. The next step is to elect one of them as Prime Minister. Demand for these thing apparently peaks in the days running up to Valentines Day. This must mean that all around Australia, Crocodile Dundee types are taking their blow up partners to romantic restaurants. This poses a bit of a dilemma though. Should one inflate one's date before entering the restaurant and risk knocking another customer's soup onto their lap with an outstretched leg as one makes one's way to ones reserved table, or should one discretely blow up one's doll at the table once one is seated?

My male staff once dated one of these lovlies. He took her to a plush, expensiveInflation open air restaurant by the beach. It was a lovely, balmy evening. The stars were out, a gentle breeze stirred the palm trees and there was the gentle hissing of the small waves as they broke on the shore. My male staff and his inflatable date gazed at each other across the table and since his date's mouth was open he assumed that she was hungry, so he stopped the small-talk and ordered their meal. He had a Quarter Pounder with fries and a chocolate thickshake, while she just had a BigMac. She was watching her weight you see. Then tragedy struck as it so often does where young love is involved. My male staff leaned across the table and lovingly popped a chunk of BigMac into her realistic, inviting, vibrating, fully washable mouth. Sadly he'd forgotten to blow on it to cool it down and it melted a hole. At which point she let out a tremendous fart and flew into the ocean scaring a flock of dozing seagulls who flew raucously into the night air ensuring that everyone in the restaurant turned to see my male staff's somewaht deflated date bobbing jauntily towards Hawaii..

By the way. Badger has asked if he's mind writing a foot note at the end of my blog. I've agreed to this in return for half his daily ration of parsley.

My feet are fine thanks.
Love Badger.

Monday, February 13, 2012


My male staff's mum is back in hospital again. You may recall that she was there at the beginning of November. That was when my male staff went back to the UK to help with her care and ended up in intensive care himself due to a deep vein thrombosis which subsequently filled the silly bugger's lungs with blood clots. You may also remember that his mum was in hospital due to symptoms related to her terminal brain tumour. Symptoms which were finally alleviated enough for her to be released from hospital by the administration of enough steroids to keep Sylvester Stallone going for a month. It certainly made my male staff's mum feel so much better, but she kept wanting to wrap a bandanna around her head, don a khaki vest and carry a heavy calibre machine gun around with her, which was somewhat alarming for the neighbours. Her grandchildren have started calling her "Ramb-ma."

This time she's in hospital with a circulation problem in her left leg. Apparently it's gone all purple and cold. It may be a clot similar to my male staff's because she has to sit for long periods of time. poor old thing. That's all she needs. She gave birth to one clot more than fifty years ago, now she may have another. This time there's no chance of the first clot going back to look after his mum because he's grounded for three months.
He can't fly until April at the earliest. That will be eleven months after her doctors had given her nine months to live.

My male staff and his mad sister often reminisce about the time they played a practical joke on their mum who used to leave a saucer of milk in the garden at night for the local hedgehogs. Giggling softly behind their hands they placed an upturned broom head by the saucer and dashed inside to tell their mother that she had a visitor. Peering through the curtains into the darkness, their mum saw a vague prickly shape next to the saucer of milk and said to my male staff's dad "See, I told you they like milk." More soft sniggering. An hour later she looked again and was surprised to see that the "hedgehog" was still at the milk saucer. She watched for about fifteen minutes and then declared "I'd better go out and see if he's alright." Still more sniggering. So out into the garden she went, slowly creeping closer to the "hedgehog" and gently talking to it. "Hello little one." She said. "Are you okay? I won't hurt you." Sniggers from the watching brats at the back door. Only when she stooped down next to the "hedgehog" did she realise that she'd been feeding and talking to a broom head for the last two hours.

My male staff justifies this act of cruelty as payback. When he was about ten years old his mum and dad went shopping, leaving him alone in the house. Once they'd gone he started searching for illicit snacks in the kitchen and came across a glass of amber liquid on one of the kitchen benches. He sniffed it. It smelled okay, so he took a really good swig - very tasty, but half the glass was gone. Still he was sure that his mum wouldn't notice. A hour or two later his mum and dad returned while he was in the lounge innocently watching porn. Actually, that's not true. The closest thing to porn on the TV in those days was The Benny Hill Show.

Anyway, my young male staff heard muttering in the kitchen and then his mum's loud, somewhat theatrical voice saying. "Hey, what happened to that rat poison we left on the bench? Half of it's gone."  My male staff suddenly felt very hot. RAT POISON! He thought he'd better own up so that he could get to hospital. He ran to the kitchen, where his mum and dad were looking at the half empty glass of amber liquid.
 "Did you drink some of this?' Asked his mum.
My male staff gulped. "I only had a small sip mum."
 "You stupid boy. It's rat poison."
 "Wha.....what's going to happen to me?" He whimpered.
 "You're going to die of course, it was rat poison. What do you expect?" Not surprisingly that started the waterworks.
 "Shouldn't I go to hospital?" He bawled."
 "No point." Said his mum. "You'll die anyway." My male staff started to wail louder. "And if you're going to make that noise, you'd better go to your room to die so we can get some peace and quiet."

In hindsight my male staff thinks that it wasn't the fact that he thought he was going to die that upset him the most. It was that his mum and dad seemed so indifferent that their only son was about to suffer a horrible, painful, gut tearing death. In any case, he never sampled the cooking sherry again.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

A Small, Fat, Furry Thing

All guinea pigs are interested in politics and have their own political views. Badger for example, like his hero Margaret Thatcher believes that greed is good (As evidenced by the size of his butt.), Ronald Reagan wasn't senile for most of his second term and that Augusto Pinochet should have been given a Knighthood. Whereas I hold somewhat more liberal views. I'm particularly liberal with distribution of my bush chocolate for instance. This deep seated political interest inherent in all cavies stems from the time when the Incas held sway in our native Peru. A private members bill put forward by a member of the Inca parliament proposed that it should be compulsory for every family in Peru to eat a guinea pig at least once a week. A heated debate followed. I say "heated" advisedly because the heat was coming from three hundred cooking fires prepared by the honourable members in anticipation of the inevitable "YES' vote.

Still on the subject of politics it appears that our dear Prime Minister's greatest enemy (Other than the Kevin Rudd - her own Foreign Minister.) is Julia Gillard. Just before the last general election she told the nation that there would never be a carbon tax on mining companies in any government she leads. Then straight after the election she changed he mind and introduced a carbon tax. Trouble is she then allowed the opposition party to convince the electorate that the tax was to be levied upon them rather than the mining companies. She should have taken a lesson from John W. Howard.  (The W stands for Winston by the way - Just so that we all know where he stands on the Republic debate.) He said that there would never be a Goods & Services Tax before the general election. Then Hey Presto! before the next electoral term was up we had a Goods & Services Tax. Quite right too. It was what the country needed and if he'd promised it before the election nobody would have voted for him. However, he certainly didn't allow the opposition to dictate the debate afterwards. The same applies to the carbon tax. It's good for the nation, but all of a sudden Ms Gillard is as popular as a porcupine in a condom factory for introducing it.

Now she's done it again. To retain power at the last general election Ms Gillard needed the support of a number of independent MPs, one of whom required a promise from her Australian Labor Party (Why Labor, not Labour by the way? We're not yet the fifty first state of the USA despite Mr Howard's nose once being  firmly wedged up George Dubya's bottom passage.) that they would introduce legislation to limit poker machine gambling. Julia made this promise, won the independents' support and so remained in power. Now she's reneged on that deal saying that there isn't enough support for the reform bill to pass through parliament.

Obviously she knows that more than half the members are in the pocket of the casino/gambling lobby, but all this has done is given the Liberal opposition party more ammunition. Why not introduce the bill anyway and test the numbers. That way, if it did fail to get through you could blame the opposition. Or are you in the pocket of the casino/gambling lobby too Julia? Still, what do I know? I'm just a small, fat furry thing who's testostricles drag along the floor when I run. Kind of like Bill Oddie.

Finally today, I couldn't help but notice that the newspaper lining the bottom of my cage had a "Letters to the editor." page jam packed with people whinging that Australia has become a "nanny state." It's apparently a nanny state because drivers are forced to wear seatbelts and cyclists to wear helmets. Well, listen you lot. When you crash your car and fly through the windscreen at one hundred and ten kilometres an hour or fall off your bike and smash your dumb heads on the road, who do you think pays for your three months in hospital, your electric wheelchair, all the other special equipment and your twenty four hours, seven days a week carers that you need because your brain is so badly damaged that you can neither walk, nor wipe your bottom passage? Yep. That's right - my staff and all the other tax payers. So, try to spend less time whining about "nanny states" and more time considering the possible consequences of not buckling your seat belt or wearing your helmet. You might want to start wearing a cricket protective box too because next time I hear someone complaining about this I'm going to run up their leg and bite their dangly bits.

Monday, February 6, 2012

Shall I Bother With Tomorrow?

I'm terribly sorry, but my Monday blog post is about to become my Tuesday blog post. This is because it's becoming too much to help my male staff write his Wildlife & Wilderness blog and help him with his reverse people smuggling business as well. So in a rare concession I have allowed him to publish his blog on a Monday while I move mine to Tuesday. In any case most of my readers are in the USA and Europe where it will still be Monday anyway. Here in Australia we are a day ahead of you (Except here in Queensland where it is still 1955.) which means while you are working, we on the underside of the planet are sleeping, hanging upside down like bats, and while we're desperately trying to eke out a living during the day, clinging to trees and rocks and stuff so that we don't fall off you are sleeping comfortably in your beds, unaware that half of the world's population has all their blood rushing to their heads.

In actual fact I am thinking of starting up an on line advisory service for those of you living in the past on the wrong side of the world. For a small fee you will be able to go to my website on a Sunday night and see what's happened on Monday. You will then be armed with all the information you need to make your day a success. For example if Monday has been terrible in Australia, the stock markets have crashed, the Australian cricket team has lost and John Howard has made a political comeback, you people in the USA and Europe might want to consider stying in bed and giving Monday a miss. It's a brilliant concept and I think I stand to make an absolute fortune which I intend to blow on basil.

This morning my male staff fetched our carrying cages down from the top of the laundry cupboard. This usually means just one thing- a visit to the vet. I've had enough of vets. It seems every time I go there one of them pokes a baseball bat sized thermometer up my bottom passage and then, to add insult to injury, weighs me and tells me I'm gaining weight. They did it again today too - not the baseball bat treatment thank heavens, just the weighing thing. We were only there to have our nails trimmed. The moment I saw my female staff approaching with that "I'm going to grab you and stuff you in your carrying cage." look on her face I started to squeal like a girl. I knew what was coming. I'm not as stupid as I am hairy. I hate that damned carrying cage and I always make sure I huddle in the back of it looking as miserable as possible to make sure that my staff are well aware of how I feel about it. Annoyingly Badger doesn't seem to mind. He's had the baseball bat and weighing treatment before too, but he either enjoyed it or has some sort of  memory problem. In any case he always sits at the front of his carrying cage, giving everybody death stares through the bars.

So anyway, as we sat in the waiting room waiting for the vet - Auntie Kara - AKA Doctor Friggin' Doolittle to call us in, a possum entered the room. I don't mean he came in on his own, strode up to the receptionist and said "I"m feeling a bit off, can I see a vet?" No, he was being carried by a lady in a box, that is to say he was in the box, not the lady. That would be silly. If the lady was in a box she wouldn't be able to see where she was going. The possum was covered by a blanket and had evidently been hit by a car. The lady had found him by the side of the road and he seemed unhurt apart from being a bit dazed. He must have been dazed because no lumping great human is ever going to catch a healthy possum. The receptionist took the possum from the lady and took him out the back of the surgery. That's the great thing about Aussie vets. They will treat injured wildlife at no expense to whoever brings the animal in. When the animal is well it then goes to one of many volunteer wildlife carers who look after it until it is well enough to return to the wild. You are even welcome to call the carer to see how the animal is faring.

Why then, would you not stop to help an injured animal? Especially in the little town close to where we live where there are two good vets and nothing is a long drive. It's a two minute detour at the most. My male staff came across a dazed baby possum a couple of years ago as he was on the way to his office. It was staggering across the road and cars were taking detours around it but not bothering to stop. My male staff pulled over, wrapped the possum in an old towel and took him to Auntie Kara. The whole thing took barely two minutes. My male staff later found out from the volunteer carer that the animal was alive and well and was soon to be re-released. Even if you see an obviously dead marsupial by the road you should stop. If it's a female there may be live babies in her pouch. Anyway, my male staff says that if he was lying injured by the side of the road, he'd hope someone would stop and take him to Auntie Kara. Though these days you never know.  

Friday, February 3, 2012

A Kilo of Basil

To get this blog written I have to balance on my male staff's right shoulder as he sits in front of the laptop and whisper the words I want him to write in his ear. If his grammar is incorrect or he makes a spelling error I bite his ear lobe. It's a system that I find works really well. He rarely makes the same mistake twice, but he does have sore ears and enough ear piercings to hang dozens of earings from. He never utilises the ear piercings though. He says that because they're all on one side it would make his head unbalanced. Of course in my opinion his head is already unbalanced.

Then the other day just as we were settling down to write a new blog post the Nortons anti-virus thingy pops up on the screen to say that it has detected two threats in my blog and had therefore blocked it. I could neither see my completed blog posts nor write a new one. Prompted by several bites to his earlobe my staff made further enquiries and discovered that it wasn't my blog that was the problem at all, it was Blogspot - the blogging medium run by Google. However, as you can see from the appearance of my blog they managed to sort things out between them. This is the trouble with technology, unless you have a degree in computer science you feel so helpless when things go wrong. The only reason my male staff didn't throw the stupid laptop out of the window was that it might kill an ant or something, then there would be tears and feelings of guilt that would last until his next lamb vindaloo.

Now I'd like to draw your attention to a charming fellow by the name of Nigel Franks. This animal loving young man ran over a kangaroo and then dragged it behind his car until he reach the town of Wodonga, where he then dumped the animal in the main street. He was charged with aggravated cruelty and his car was confiscated as this was his fifth motoring offence. This seems pretty lenient to me. What happened to three strikes and you're out? I ask myself why Mr Franks would do such a thing. Well, apart from being an utter dickhead he obviously has no respect for life. People who have no respect for an animal's life are also a danger to human society. I'm willing to bet a kilo of basil to gram of Badger's bush chocolate that this individual will be up before the beak within eighteen months on a charge of assault or something. Animal abuse is so often an early symptom of violent and sociopath tendencies and it's time it was taken more seriously.

It has come to my attention that things are become tense between Britain and Argentina over the Falkland Islands again. "How does this come to the attention of a guinea pig?" I hear you ask a little sceptically, as though you didn't believe that a guinea pig really is responsible for this blog. Well, don't forget that I sit on my male staff's shoulder and sometimes when I'm thinking about what to tell him to write he checks out the BBC website in order to catch up with the news and find out how many goals his precious West Ham United Football Club have lost by. Both the British and the Argentinian governments must be be deeply unpopular at the moment so they're rattling a few sabres at each other to try to distract the unwashed masses at home from the fact that they neither have a job nor any prospect of getting one anytime soon.

Meryl Streep, er sorry, Maggie Thatcher and General Galtieri took it too extremes in the eighties. Back then Maggie was left with no option but to fight those dastardly "Argies" because unemployment had topped three million and she was as popular as python at a guinea pig convention. Then BANG! Down goes the General Belgrano and suddenly she's the best thing that happened to Britain since Sir Francis Drake frightened the Spanish Armada away with his bowls. Maggie says it was a matter of principle and she couldn't let those dastardly Argies get away with invading the Falklands because a dozen or so sheep farmers there wanted to remain British. Principle? Hah! She's the one who said "There's no such thing as society." In other words it's every man for himself. Oh well, at least we know that Mr Cameron won't be invading the Falklands because he had to privatise the Royal Navy to pay for bailing out the Bank of Scotland.