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Things up with which I must put.

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1.   A wife whose breakfast-time summaries of TV programs she watched last night take longer than the actual programs.

2.   The only two-legged grandsomething I’m ever going to get from my daughter will most likely be a foul-mouthed kleptomaniac cockatoo or an unbalanced double-amputee wombat which she has adopted from Animal Welfare.

3.   Timmy the new kitten and Kebba our dysfunctional pig dog are shamelessly flouting the laws of nature.

It’s very fortunate that at least one person in this family is devoid of peculiarity. You may consider me to be like an electronic room deodoriser…… spurting out fragrant poofs of wisdom and sensibility ad libitum all over my fiefdom to overpower the foul absurdities which surround me.

It is hard being normal.

Now if you don’t mind I’d like to go now and finish writing my current academic gift to mankind; “Digital procedures for estimating core temperature and determining textural anomalies in fresh cassowary faecal deposits.”

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Type 72 textured cassowary poop

Type 72 textured cassowary poop




Kebba aka Vacuum

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Kebba at 4 months showing no signs of wanting to return to the animal shelter.

Choosing a new family dog is a more risky process than finding a human partner in life.  At least with the latter you can tell him/her that he/she is the fattest, laziest, most useless, obnoxious, farting and belching life form in the known universe, and chances are that sooner or later they will pack their bags and find another person upon which to endow their special gift of insufferability.

Dogs, however, just don’t take the hint.  One hour later they’ll be back with tail wagging, and licking you until you’re shiny all over, then asking how long it will be before dinner is served.

Accordingly, Mrs GOF and I put all the responsibility back on the dog. If anyone needs to feel guilty for making a poor selection then it might as well be the dog. Pets have to choose us. Not vice versa.

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Two weeks before faithful old dog Nelson departed for doggie heaven last June, we picked up 4-month old Kebba from the same animal shelter that Nelson came from 12 years earlier. The hope was that Kebs would acquire some of ailing Nelsons good character traits.

Mrs GOF had her heart set on a rather pretty and regal-looking little terrier imprisoned in one of the shelter’s cells, but at the selection audition in the bonding yard Mrs GOF got rejected by “the unappreciative little aristocratic mongrel”.   Kebba, on the other hand, held onto both of us with a four-legged rugby tackle around the ankles and wouldn’t let go. Then she looked forlornly at us through the wire mesh fence when we eventually broke up the scrum and left to attend to the paperwork.

Kebba is a Bull Arab cross. Basically a nose and mouth on legs.
Very big legs and very big mouth.  All the better to hold onto you with my dear. Bull Arabs are specially bred for tracking and holding onto feral pigs, but because she’s such a good-natured dog I half expect her to invite pigs into the yard to share a midnight plate of dog food.

We could have named her Vacuum.  She’ll suck up anything at all off the kitchen floor. To date she has not rejected a single item of  food.  Apples, oranges, salad, teabags, plus other slightly less acceptable items like well-buried cat shit in the garden beds.

Kebba brings great happiness and entertainment into our lives, along with the stench of dead animal at least once a week.

After five months we are a very happy family.

Kebba chose well.

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Kebs at 8 months.

Trainee coconut dehusker

Too big to fit through the cat window.