Category: Animals

It’s strange how quickly some relationships develop. Claude and I had only met about three weeks ago. He was scurrying across the workshop, carrying some edible titbits: he later explained – the ‘elevenses’ for the crew. And me? Well I was a recent transferee from another part of the factory, an involuntary refugee, moved as part of a reorganisation of the workshop floor.

But we quickly bonded, finding common ground in our love of flying, our svelte, dark uniforms that we wore ‘on the wing’, meal preferences and humour. We quickly realised that we were also neighbours, living only a few crevices apart. How had we never crossed paths before?

We lived in the wonderfully aromatic darkness of the workshop’s cellar, with plenty of space to fulfill an adventurous existence. Above us, when the light was strong, the Big Ones trod; backwards and forwards, their never-ending movements raining dusty motes down across our space. We didn’t mind, as the vibrations often brought down edible scrapes.

Our style of humour, some might say ‘gutter-humour’ brought both of us near to tears. A whispered scenario, usually coming from Claude’s over-active imagination, would see us corralled in some dark corner, hushed discussions, giggling and a final agreement on an approach to our latest foray. It sometimes involved interaction with those above –these were far more dangerous escapades. But most times, we just did things to annoy our brethren.

There was a popular light-time resting hole that many of the crew liked to use. Claude, again, came up with a plan. Above the entrance to the space was a paper box. He and I secretly worked on that box for several days, nibbling and excavating one side of the box. We unbalanced it, and while the crew were at rest, we managed to send the box down across the entrance, trapping our colleagues. We thought it a hilarious joke, while angry, hungry and thirsty friends finally chewed their way out at the end of the dark time.

There was this huge jar of sweet sticky stuff, sometimes left open on the counter at the back of the crib room above. In the quiet of the night, Claude and I would crawl through the cracks in the floor above, then launch ourselves up and onto that jar. Care was needed to avoid the semi-hard blobs on the neck of the container – Claude once got his wings caught on the jar’s neck and spent an uncomfortable and anxious night attached. By nibbling the edges of the sticky stuff, I was eventually able to free him, just as the morning light arrived.

Another upstairs foray, again heading for the jar. This time our timing was bad. We had just launched ourselves when a Big One started yelling, a wad of paper swatted furiously. A lucky blow caught Claude and knocked him for a six. As I flew into the darkness, I had a fleeting glimpse of Claude impaled, needled and the Big One heard to curse “Bloody cockroaches.”

How often do you see a sign advertising Cockroach racing? I reread the aging, fly-spotted notice. Half of it is missing but still advises ‘Thoroughbred Cockroach racing … BYO ‘roaches. $1,000 prize pool. If interested, call this numb…’

It is dark, late Autumn and I’m being kicked out of the Empress of India for pissing against the bar. OK, yer, not nice, but in the crowded space, we frontline ‘bar-props’ are loath to vacate for the dunnies. We all do it occasionally, more so as the clock ticks towards six. We no longer think it is controversial or unusual!

Flo’s professionalism barely misses a beat as she plonks six pots down onto the bar in front of Bluey, Billy and Gerry. She glares momentarily at me and then orders me out! I reckon she has seen my telltale arm movements, wrestling with the bloody buttons of my fly!

Tongues click in sympathy as I’m unceremoniously ejected from the warm, fuggy space. “Bugger it”, as I realise I’m goin’ to miss my final couple of pots.

I stumble along Scotchmer Street; not my usual route home. The missus is gonna be surprised to see me home early. The ‘roach racing idea swirls. I could certainly use the cash! I wonder what’s involved in training a cockroach?

I’ve a dodgy prostate: I desperately need another leak. It’s dark and I smile as my bladder drains. I nimbly sidestep the slipstream off the wall and circuitously continue towards our cottage, tucker and bed.

Enormous cockroaches swarm. I’m in the maw of a monster and with a single swipe, it has my entrails strewn across the pavement — the bedside clock’s alarm erupts.

Over breakfast, I’m thinking about that $1,000. The factory crawls with ‘roaches – any stray scuttling sees lethal footwork! I’m wondering about what I do after I catch one, how will I train it?

It’s Saturday morning, with meat, veg and groceries straining the trusty old shopping cart. The café provides our usual tea and scones, and I casually scan the nearby Community notice board. Here it is again: ‘Cockroach Racing Saturday 24th, Flemington, BYO cockroaches. That’s it. I’m in. I’ll have three weeks to whip a winner into shape.

On Monday I snare a beauty – about an inch and a half long, sleek blackness, feelers another inch, at least. If I could find a small saddle I’d have a Melbourne Cup starter. I place ‘Claude’ into an Old Holborn tobacco tin and add a few crumbs. They’re gone when I let him out for a run later on. He has cake for dinner.

Over the next three weeks, he eats regularly, and richly. Leftovers off my plate, snacks from the ice chest, lunch crumbs. He continues to impress, every inch a winner. Svelte condition, I reckon; no excess baggage, muscles toned and ready to fly.

Saturday 24th and we’re at Flemington. I’m pumped. We’re at the Mounting Enclosure, I open his tin and he is away. I never see Claude again!

“I am over on the Island. Are you able to get over here and finish our bishness?” That is the reason for me being in this bloody predicament: a rushing, outgoing tide, our boat stuck on an ever-widening sandbar, and a monster, my nemesis, nearby!

I charter Steve and his 17’ Seamaster for the two-hour run down the McArthur River and across to Vanderlin Island. Leo, a senior Yanyuwa man has an island shack and is forever finding reasons to be out, ‘on-country’, fishing. Council Presidential duties can always be relegated down the priority listing when the Threadfin salmon are running! He wants to discuss his ideas for opening a tourist camp on the island.

The incoming tide is no match for Steve’s 45hp motor. We glide down the waterway, the wake splitting the river gently, patches of last night’s dewy mist battling a new day. The trip is uneventful. There are a few saltwater crocodiles on the banks, recharging their batteries in the warming sun; we see a couple in the water and the Barramundi are jumping at the low-flying insects. We pass by the Garawan community of Dinny McDinny, another local wanting to discuss ideas for tourism – in his case, the idea of horseback trail rides along the river. He is casting for Barra, and waves, as we pass.

Steve has a line and is suggesting we ease the throttle back and troll for a bit, too. I scotch the idea, reminding him Vanderlin is my focus.

Three hours later, and our discussions conclude, the paperwork is inked. I find Steve casting his lure off the beach, and eight salmon already fileted and cooling in his esky!

As we depart, Steve offers knowledge of a shortcut around the bottom of South West Island. “It will save us 30 minutes on the run back up to Borroloola, but.” “OK. You’re the skipper.”

The ebb tide is starting to gather momentum as we enter the channel below the island. Sandy, shallow patches appear, and there are a couple of scrapes with the outboard, but Steve is finding the deeper channels. We are making headway, that is, until we run aground. We get out of the boat and desperately drag and push, trying to beat the outgoing tide.

Ten minutes of this and the tide finally has us. The little remaining water drains away. The sandbar grows inexorably and we sit, stranded, about a metre above the river, on a bare islet, two hundred metres long, fifty metres wide and growing. The distant water, on either side of the bar is provocatively rushing off towards the Gulf of Carpentaria.

“Fucking great short-cut, Steve”, I proffer! It is about one in the afternoon, the temperature has got to be 50 degrees, we’re in full sun and stuck here until the tide turns, in about six hours! Shit. “Maybe we can get some shade by turning the boat over,” he suggests “and prop it, using the oar.” We grunt and strain and eventually overturn the craft with the two oars deputising as verandah posts.

As I settle in the shade, I am mentally writing up my report, listing the qualities that will ensure I and/or my colleagues never engage Steve’s services again. I don’t think things can get any worse. Then the sandflies arrive, clouds of them, delivering bites to every exposed bit of skin.

My eyes register a movement. As I turn, my blood runs cold, my sphincter contracts tightly, and I confront my worst imaginable fear. I know we are now in deep shit! Its snout, those teeth, connected to a gently swaying tail. The yellow eyes are unblinking, calculating, doing the maths. Gesu mio!

I nudge Steve’s foot and point. I heard his sharp intake of breath and he leans in and whispers “This could be tricky, but!” An understatement, as I wonder if I can outstare those piercing, yellow eyes. What does it see – are we a welcome snack, a diversion in an otherwise humdrum day, a threat, an intruder in his watery world?

I mentally scroll through what I know about Crocodylos porosus. It was not a lot; limited in the main to salacious newspaper reports of human interactions. I did remember that several people had disentangled themselves from those enormous jaws by poking fingers into the croc’s eyes!

Steve whispers again. He is wondering about the efficacy of kicking the oars out from under, with us underneath the boat! Mmm, I consider the weight, the difficulty we had in turning the bloody thing over, and I visualise an alternative to the croc’s attack: us pinned underneath, while the tide returns and drowns us!

The croc is motionless, unblinking, continuing to concentrate on the unusual something on the sandbar in front of it. We quietly discuss our options. Are the fish filets a temptation? I wonder if their smell makes us more of a target and whether or not we might use them as a distraction.

Steve heaves six of the filets in a low arc, dropping them at the water’s edge downriver from us. The animal’s attention finally shifts. With surprising speed, it is up on all fours, moving down the sand away from us. We’re up, adrenalin pumping and flip the boat back upright. It jiggles a bit, from side to side along the keel, as we clamber over the gunwale, but we immediately draw comfort from our metre-high defense.

“Did you see that bastard move? It must be four or five metres long. So bloody fast, but” Steve whispers.

Only five hours or so, until the tide returns. I am already sunburnt, thirsty and I am a bit surprised to realise I am also hungry. From the tumble of things still held under the bow, Steve starts to untangle our survival gear. There is an old blue plastic sheet, a rope, with an anchor attached, a couple of old plastic buckets, a boat hook, a bottle of brown liquid, and lastly, he pulls out a two-litre water bottle, half full!

“That’s brown vinegar, but, in case of sea-wasp stings,” he explains. I look over the gunwale and realise our two oars are still out on the sand, croc-side of the boat. The beastie is still snacking as I jump overboard and retrieve them.

We settle and start to consider things. We jury-rig the blue tarp. It flaps a bit, but we have shade, and we both take a slug at the water bottle. My belly starts to direct its attention to the remaining fish filets – raw fish, a Japanese delicacy. But that vinegar. Pickled fish would be more appetising! Namas, it will be basic, no limes, oranges or onions to sweeten the brew but yep, it will work. Steve is keen. I pick up the smaller of the two buckets. “Not that one, but” Steve insists, “that’s me piss bucket!”

Gordon bloody Bennett … as I drop it back onto the deck. I rip up two of the remaining filets into bite-size chunks and drop them into the other bucket, having been assured it was just used for sluicing water. I pour a goodly measure of the rather rank vinegar over the fish. “Dinner in an hour,” I declare.

A sudden, substantial bump on the hull brings us instantly back to the here and now. The bloody croc has wandered over and is investigating the boat. We tense and wait. It is a monster … and it smells. It must be almost the length of the boat.

A couple more nudges around the hull and the animal is deciding that the metal is inedible. It lumbers awkwardly, but meaningfully back towards the water, slides in and disappears. We look at each other, mixed emotions pass between us – relief, hope, eventual thirst and hunger resurface.

We settle in for a wait. It is only another four and a half hours!

The pickled fish was edible and appreciated. Our last water went with four hours still to wait. Steve nodded off, stretching out on the deck. I maintain a watchful presence, but eventually, I too nod off.

The sun is low in the west and the sandflies are making way for the mosquitoes. There is a glow through the eastern trees, as the forecast full moon starts its climb into the quiet evening sky. There is a reduction in the size of our sandbar and as we watch, the water continues to edge up our beach at a surprising rate.

But there are now two crocs at the water’s edge; watching the boat, unblinking, focussed. They are keeping pace with the tide, moving closer as the tide advances.

The water is only twenty metres from the boat: the crocs are fifteen! Water: ten metres; crocs: five. We feel and hear the wavelets licking the boat keel. Ten minutes later, and the boat starts to swing with the tide, the crocs maintain their watchful presence, albeit not coming any closer.

Another ten minutes and we are definitely floating and being pushed upstream with the flow. Steve tentatively lowers the motor back into the water. The last of the sun’s rays competes with the advancing moonlight, the motor roars into life and we have an hour of very careful travel up to the Rocky Creek landing, just below Borroloola.

Twenty minutes later we pull up outside the pub. Steve’s brother Joel greets us. He looks like he is midway through a session. “Where ya been, Bro?” “We’ve just been down to the Island. Jees, the salmon were biting sumptin fierce, but!”

We had been planning our visit to the Lower Glenelg National Park for weeks with texts, emails and calls zipping between us. We had two sites booked at the Forest North campsite, and arrived mid-afternoon, keen to settle in, set up camp and relax for the next four days. Tents were efficiently erected, gear unloaded, the billy boiled, and a cuppa consolidating our arrival!

We were contemplating a dinner menu when we were surprised at the arrival of a rather scruffy old guy at the site. He just appeared and sauntered up. I must have been busy and missed any introductions but his appearance reminded me of Norman Gunston, minus the cigarette papers. He had cuts and scrapes everywhere around his shoulders, neck and face, but seemingly oblivious of his wounds.

‘Norman’ wandered around the site, inspecting our efforts but offered no assessment. He sat companionably for half an hour or so, and then disappeared, as inexplicably as his arrival!

“Did you see that red neck” I proffered. “Looks like a loser from the Coliseum”, somebody quipped. We decided his Alpha Male status had been effectively overturned and an ex-communication dictating a lonely existence!

We busied ourselves with the evening meal, a warm Chickpea salad, to be followed by stewed blood plums, custard and chocolate chips. Shadows lengthened, another cuppa was brewing and again we had visitors, unannounced, unnoticed, just there, in front of us!

The party was being led by this quite burly little bloke, sporting an unmissable, almost cobalt blue vest. He had four girls with him but had perched himself on a pole near the fireplace, the elevated stature achieving some dominance over the rest of his mob. There was some banter, some etiquette being established as ‘Blue Vest’ hopped down from the pole, and directed the group to tidy up the area where the breadboard had been wiped down.

It was hard to ignore their antics. Blue Vest appeared to have a favourite from his concubine, and they never strayed far from each other. At first, it appeared as though he was tempting her with titbits, but as we watched, we saw them all finding and feeding each other from the detritus of our dining table.

Breakfast the following morning was a busy affair. Norman joined us early and found a pear from a bag on the tailgate to munch, while Blue Vest and the girls found the toast crusts particularly appealing. The meal was interrupted by the arrival of a larger, Yellow-breasted Robin, who without much ado, muscled in on the feast. In the trees overhead, ‘Arrk, Arrk’ announced an interest in proceedings and the call had all on the ground, instantly alert. A “Murder” noisily flapped past as we tidied the site in preparation for the day’s outing. On the drive out, we narrowly missed a close encounter with a mob of striding, gawking emu!

It was all a-twitching on the Glenelg! 489 words

It’s early, forecast heat still behind the dawn. Daylights’ dissolving darkness. Branches move, as the breeze plays along the street. Tweeting amplifies the quiet, my new day shared.

Blackbird’s gardening, raking, stepping back, probing … breakfast. Galahs above, pass noisily. Off somewhere, kookaburras laugh, apparently signalling rain: I wish. Crows share my scepticism as two maggies swing through close, chortling as I duck, a bloody cat skives across the road, “innocent, your honour, just out for a poo!” The wires above host Mynahs; pointy, shiny, black evilness.

Four thousand steps. Now five. The home straight, and a long-black reward beckoning.

“Look at those monsters”, an awe-struck Thomas said. We were lying down on the lawn using the new, hand-held magnifying glass I had bought, looking at what lurked beneath. Thomas saw a small ant busily racing along a pathway. Several more passed, all intent on ‘something ahead’. Thomas suggested that if we could see their faces, they would probably have a ‘worried look’. “Why do you say that”, and he replied, “Look at the way they are hurrying. It must be because they are late for something.” A considered, 5-year-old observation.

One of the ants found a crumbly bit of pastry from the pie we had shared for morning tea. We watched. It didn’t like the tomato sauce splodge, but there were tentative, exploratory nibbles, on one side, around to the other, back to the original side and then away it ran. We decided it was off to spread the word about the pastry.

Sure enough, there were now three of the little blokes working the crust. They cut it up, each holding some, before, on some unheard instruction, trundling off along their highway, crumb fragments held high. Thomas thought they were going to be a huge birthday party, at a friend’s place.

We saw several slaters mooching along, much slower than the ants, lots of legs frantically working, feelers twitching, some going in one direction, others just milling around. There was a shiny trail on the grass near the ant-path. A small snail slowly slithered along.

“Yuck” said Thomas. “Mum doesn’t like them, ‘cos they eat the veggies”, he declared.

We rolled over onto our backs. The dampness seeping into our clothes could be felt – but the sunshine was far too enjoyable to worry about wet clobber. Our eyes were scrunched tightly shut against the brightness. Tom had the magnifying glass up to his face and I could see enormous eyes through the glass. I put the glass to my face. We both giggled.

We heard a nearby buzzing. We peaked around but couldn’t see the bees. There were several large, flat rocks forming a garden edge. As we looked, we could see several small black shapes flying into a dark crevice, beneath one of the stones. We established that actually, there was a lot of insects flying to, landing on and then walking underneath the stone. We looked closer.

They were dark with lighter stripes on their bums. Little native bees. We watched them, noting patches of yellow ‘gold’ on their hind legs as they approached the entrance. It was gone when they flew off. There was a constant flow of traffic and Thomas again passed one of his delightfully observant comments about an airport! He wondered where the flight controller sat. I suggested maybe in one of the nearby plants. For my troubles I received a withering look of disdain.

I pondered briefly of telling him about my adventures with native bees and their ‘sugar bag’ produce when I lived and worked in Arnhem Land. He postured that the bee-bank must be chock-a-block full of gold, and they needed to be careful in case people tried to steal it. I kept my lips buttoned, content within my memory of that thin, sweet, syrupy gold, oft times collected by the bucketful.

It was one of those oft-repeated family stories that just wouldn’t go away. My parents loved me dearly, but did they have to tell the neighbours, repetitiously, at every opportunity? “Moloch is so clever”, “Moloch never misses his classes”, Moloch this, Moloch that, blah. It was an embarrassment and as I got older, I took on the added baggage of my surname. Moloch Horridus, it was like I was carrying an extra tonne on my back.

We lived in the Outback desert, 600 kilometres northwest of Alice Springs. The days were warm to hot, nights usually cool, although when the sun was away off in the north, things changed dramatically. The ground would freeze overnight and the family usually spent long periods in our underground cave, avoiding the worst of the weather. We even retreated there on the hottest summer days. It was like the family was embalmed – we all just slowed things down, hunkered, and waited for things to moderate!

I had a couple of friends to play with, we took lessons together every day of those first few months. But one of my mates, the guy sometimes called a rogue by the elders, suddenly disappeared. One moment we were in class, the next, there was a great commotion, a big black presence swooped, and he was gone!

You might think drinking water would be a problem in the desert, but the family had developed tricks. Generations of my forebears had learnt to harvest the dew, dew settling on the plants, even dew that condensed on our skin, with a method honed over the millennia, of increasing the water’s viscosity, so enabling it to be channelled, without loss, towards our mouths – problem solved.

We learnt how to avoid potential enemies. There were several elements to learn, my mate had been too smart to learn them! They were clever. I was taught to inflate my body to look bigger, also to duck my head down between my front legs, exposing a headlike bump on my neck, as a decoy.

Then there was the trick of changing my skin colour. This was the one I liked best, surreptitiously watching the look of irritation on the faces of my attacker. One moment a light yellowy-orange, then with a flick of a switch, I could change to dark greeny-grey. While my nemesis was contemplating the camouflage, I was slipping away! I learnt that we borrowed this trick ages ago, from our distant cousins, still living in South America.

Hang on. There’s more. I also learnt to adopt a staggered gait. If threatened, I was to walk slowly, stopping often, swaying back and forth and again, creating bewilderment, as the cover for flight. Easy peasy.

And tucker – mobs of it. I was taught to plant myself adjacent to an ant trail – they were everywhere – extend my sticky tongue, and hey presto, thousands of ants, every day, just for the taking.

For a Thorny, problems were a distant consideration. If lessons are followed, life’s good.

“Turbulence! Did you say turbulence, young fella? By God, I’ll tell you about a turbulence that’ll have your scales standing upside down and turning white at the tips!” Mmph. A phlemy expectoration, she used a subtle, sideways slip to steady a sudden, slight instability. “Where was I, ah, yes – there we were, our tightly assembled three hundred and forty thousand, facing an enormous abyss.” Rheumy eyes took on that scrunched, semi-closed disposition, and peeked back through the watery past.

“Our school had only recently drawn together. Discipline dictated our survival, and our every movement, our ordering, our turns, left or right, up or down, from the front, at the rear, or resting in the mid-sections practiced, over and over. We were uniformly sized, kitted and experienced.”

“Training was a series of endless drills. The Drill Sergeant was a mean Spratt, brooking no dissension. Over the generations, instruction had been reduced to jargon, scarcely understood through the junior ranks, mostly non-verbal signs that had the school moving en masse, this way, and that, one moment a silver phalanx, dense, solid, immense and in the flick of a fin, gone! On and on we practiced! Moving at ‘operational’ speed and in one flick, a turn and in that same instance, effectively achieving ‘escape’ speed. Wonderful!

“A manoeuvre that I took personal delight in, occurred when the school was moving northward, a bitterly cold, sparklingly blue above. For the trick to work, there needed to be shafts of silvery wonder coming down and through the school. With conditions aligning, the Maestro would give the signal, a sharp left-hand turn and we entirely disappeared. My God, I just loved it, and I chortled, bubbling as I pictured the rows of hungry, expectant mouths snapping shut, mostly empty!

“But the endless training paid off. We were a disciplined pack, and I participated and survived many potential devastations.  I remember one time when our navigational leaders miscalculated. Instead of the open world, we were in contained, deep but narrow confines. Deputations of senior members sought manual observation to correct our navigational snafu. It meant moving up to where the silvery shafts appear. I was a member of one of those teams, and vividly recall the green steepness on either side. Everything tasted different too, things were warmer, stiller.

“And I saw them too. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, maybe they were ducks, in a row, and in the instance that our team members saw them, they saw us too. They rose as one, squawking in an echoey chorus. They wielded, dove, sploosh, beaks at the ready, following our panicked escape down into the darkness.

“We mostly survived. The turbulent energy generated as we turned and fled provided a safety shield, a barrier that both confused the birds and provided a slipstream for the school to ride into the depths.

A few months after the birds, the school was moving south, away from the world of ice. Warmer climes, plankton, better pickings. The school relaxed somewhat, maybe our guard slipped a notch, too! One moment we were cruising, the next there were beaked mouths at every turn, snapping, grabbing at the flanks of the school with frenzied success. There were turtles (or were they tortoises) coming at us from below, launching into our junior, central ranks from above, so many that our flight-turns were ineffective. Surface turbulence was attracting giant Pacific gulls and albatross. And when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, up from the deep arrived a pod of Blue whales. Talk about turbulence! They circled, tail-slapped, breached and scooped, baleen filters guiding thousands of my comrades into those dark vortexes.

Attempts to regroup were being tried, largely unsuccessfully until I noticed what I thought was a fixed, dark recess coming up from the watery depths. Assuming leadership, I gave the signal, our depleted force moved left suddenly, right and down maximising our collective forces and swiftly entered the cave.

The beaks continued for a while, snapping, some successful attacks. But with our rear and flanks largely protected, we were able to mount our own forward actions, collective and sustained nipping at flippers, eyes, legs. They wearied and retreated, while the whales were left to move over the battlefield, scooping up the remains of dead and broken bodies.

That was my last battle. When the school moved on, I decided to stay in the cave, moving out occasionally when hunger dictated. I had eggs to lay, youngsters to raise, a new generation of anchovy to nurture.

Maintaining the wet-season grass on our five-acre Darwin block was a constant battle. It grew a metre per month, so it was akin to painting the Sydney Harbour bridge. It was mid-December, the humidity outrageous, rivulets of sweat and me hanging on for dear life, behind our huge, self-drive mower. It dragged me around shrubs and trees, below overhanging branches and overexposed roots and rocks. I tried to avoid the worst of the paperbark wasps.

I launched the mower towards a high pile of mixed grass and old branches. At the last moment, I desperately hauled left, but too late to avoid a large head that had suddenly appeared. “Oh shit, oh hell, nooo!” I cried, as I killed the mower and dragged it off the pile to reveal the headless, quivering body of a huge, beautiful, Olive python. She lay, her coils still surrounding a clutch of eggs. My emotions were in turmoil, I whimpered, as the tragedy sank in.

I rushed into the house; a glass of water bought me time to think. There was nothing to be done for her, but I started to wonder about her eggs. I gathered an old pillow slip and a box from the laundry and went back. I gathered her heavy coils, apologising and sniffling, as I slid her into the sack. I then picked up the soft, slightly sticky eggs and with some material in and around the clutch, put the box on the lounge room table.

Practical thinking returned. I gathered the pillowslip and went to see friends from Maningrida, who were temporarily living in town, away from their central Arnhem Land home. “Gidday Balang, Gamak?” “Ma-a, gamak” but my voice broke as I lifted the grim parcel and explained what had happened! Wamud looked inside, and a wide grin split his face. “Bush tucker, ma-a! No worries, she’ll be right.” We exchanged a few pleasantries, but … but, I had to retreat before my mind’s eye detailed the evening repast, in too much detail.

In the following days, most of the eggs turned blue and cold, but on January 2^nd, out popped Olive, a 12” long, wriggling mass! Parental instincts dictated nurture but Google was still 30 years away! I rang the Wildlife Park, and they suggested mincemeat; I was thinking milk! I compromised with a saucer of mince, Weet-bix and milk. She never looked back!

Over the months her saucer was replaced with an old camp oven. But the menu has pretty much stayed the same. Birthdays included additional Weet-bix (a whole box) and a haunch of buffalo, or wallaby. A vet check-up meant that Olive became Oliver, but gender reassignment wasn’t about to become an issue in our family.

There were minor adjustments to be made too; rules about who slept outside on their custom-made wooden frame and not in the bedrooms, toileting and the number of coils allowed when cuddling. But generally, we all just happily hung out together.

Tomorrow is the best day. She doesn’t go off in the car early. We get to sleep in, and if I am extra careful, I can sneak up onto the bed and cuddle up against her back! It is not like other days when I am rudely woken, pushed out the door, usually spending the rest of the day asleep on the old couch in the courtyard. Yes, it is dry, but I’m lonely, and the cold wind sometimes sneaks in around the corners!

Tomorrow starts late, and there are lots of chin scratches and smooching. I love it when she idly tickles my head, we laze there, blankets rumpled, the warm fuggy smell of the room.

When we are both up, I get weet-bix and hot milk for breakfast! Sometimes there is a dollop of golden syrup. And there is no rushing around. We plan our day together, and we always include the park!

One glitch might be the hose! It was just lying on the ground yesterday. That orange, hard bit at the end was too tempting, and yes, I admit, I did just give it a bit of a chew! I wonder if she will notice it?

My Great, great, great – a lot of ‘greats’ – Grandpa, Emperor Marinus arrived in Australia in 1935, following the decision by North Queensland cane growers to engage his expertise and experience with the Cane Scarab beetle. I think it was seven generations ago that Great Granpa participated in the trial.

He received a one-way ticket on a tramp-steamer, travelling from Hawaii to Cairns. He recorded that it was top shelf travel all the way, plenty to eat and drink, and although not seen, he noted the unmistakable odour of females, also on the boat! He was travelling with two other guys, each selected for their strength and agility, good looks and anticipated breeding prowess!

He used to laugh at this lastly-listed selection criteria, quietly revealing to subsequent family members that he was a virgin when he boarded that boat! But upon arrival, his capacities were quickly engaged. He met thirty young breeding females.

His first offspring arrived on cue. He was then kept in isolation from his fellow male travellers, while one of the guys was selected and encouraged to mate with the emerging second generation of his offspring.

Emperor related in some detail those early days in Far North Queensland. Each of the three males arriving from Hawaii was manipulated, in terms of access to the female offspring. He thought it might be to do with jealousies between the males, but he was never able to pin this down.

Within a year, they moved, one to Innisfail, another quartered at a Gordonvale cane farm, while he went to Ayr. There was a bevy of females stationed with the guys, he thought about forty in Ayr. You can imagine the goings-on!

The chronicles noted that Emperor had died, but that his Grandson, Caesar Marinus was now primarily outside of the ‘program’, free to wander into the creek systems off the Great Divide. Caesar recorded that by 1955, he and his harem had conquered the mountains, adapting diets to forage the drier tablelands better. He chronicled the delights of gorging on dung beetles, on good days sometimes eating hundreds at a sitting.

He and the family also learnt to adapt their defences, noting the insects and animals that would be poisoned by their toxins, educating younger family members about the pesky meat ant colonies immune to their poison. He also noted that they were growing much bigger and stronger than their earlier kin!

The onset of the rainy season was a time for moving forward to new estates. It was Caesar’s great-grandson who crossed into the Northern Territory, at Wollogorang. Tsar Marinus reported a young station boy with a penchant for using a golf stick! Thwack, thwack, thwack – a nasty ending for some!

Tsar continued to chronicle the family’s travels as the hugely expanded empire moved up along the Gulf. Moving forward was no longer a simple logistical instruction, but dependent upon scouting parties out ahead, bringing seasonal intelligence back on terrain, water and food resources.

The delights of the Roper, the rocky uplands of Arnhem Land, the raging wet season torrents and the myriad shelters with the ochred walls of other occupiers. Rex Marinus recalled contemptuously efforts to build an “exclusion-wall” across the Cobourg Peninsula. Rex was the first to broach that barrier.

The many branches of the family were now unstoppable. They crossed the coastal wetlands adjacent to the Arafura Sea. They moved past Darwin in a couple of wet seasons, continuing to devastate wildlife as they moved down around the Bonaparte Gulf.

My father, Premier Marinus took the army across into Western Australia. It was somewhere near Kununurra that I was born and later called to lead the nation. I, President Marinus led the horde magnificently into Broome.

The next forward movement will consolidate our position as the Greatest Blight of all time – “all hail, the greatest, ever President Marinus”. A rump sticker, emblazoned “the great President Marinus” has been printed and distribution continues.