Summer heat, the bedroom air conditioning system is going flat out against the Bureau’s advice that it is unlikely to drop below 25 degrees overnight. At 8 pm it’s still 35. The north wind is bringing Central Australia to town. Even the vegetable patch is withdrawn, wilting to preserve some hydration.
Our breeding program is also under severe threat, with sprinklers constantly misting their enclosures, but I fear the girls might abandon their egg production. That would put us back nearly six months! We have Pet Shop contracts that are due to be delivered in the next couple of months.
We are stretched after three days of constant, howling winds. Broken sleep, even with the AC; dry, croaky throats, dust everywhere, and the air – crackly, almost electric. Tempers are short. I can’t remember a wind like this. Julie sits inside, nursing a bottomless glass of Chardonnay.
Was this climate change? No doubt industry and the pollies would be prevaricating; splitting hairs on the explanation first espoused by that ‘unflushable’ man the populace elected back in the 90’s. “This is just a passing faze! Nothing to do with human intervention.”
I’ve been running around like a headless chook. The water in the breeding ponds must be held below 30, proving to be the issue. The wind’s evaporative greed means the misters are on constantly, but are no match for these conditions.
Why hadn’t we enclosed the shed properly, and installed the air conditioner we’d discussed last year? I argued for the installation but Julie got her way and the bedroom now has a reverse cycle split system.
Things are going pear-shaped, rapidly unless; unless … to be honest, I was running out of ideas! The girls were starting to voice their discomfort, and the blokes were certainly not holding back: their ruckus filling the shed, a deafening crescendo long into the evening. But their calls are changing, the pitch more constrained, choked, a distressed growl.
I voice my fears with Julie over dinner and am quite surprised at her lack of empathetic concern. “You give them more attention than you do me”, she bitterly throws across the table. “Come on”, I counter, “surely you don’t mean that.” “I certainly do. I am starting to wonder why on earth I moved in!”
We had been together for almost two years, since that chance meeting at the Show. I thought she was as keen as me, but as I reflect back on the intervening months, I realise her program engagement has only ever been begrudging. She increasingly retreats into that damned green bottle!
The shed is dangerously overheating. I surmise most of the stock won’t survive another night of this! I need to cut my losses.
I collect my best breeders into a small, portable container and retreat into the air-conditioned bedroom.
Julie packs her bags, throwing the keys on the table before slamming the front door.
My Pobblebonk frogs and I breathe a little easier!