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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




Losing my marbles…..and a bloody big pipe.

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I consider myself no more or less prone to senior moments of forgetfulness than any other living relic of the baby boom.

There have been a couple of incidents which admittedly don’t bode well for the future, such as accusing Mrs GOF of misappropriating my spectacles, only to have it pointed out that they were residing safe and sound just north of my eyebrows where I had put them.
Then there was that other occasion when I forgot to put trousers on before I went off to church, but that, as they all said with a degree of Christian forgiveness and understatement, was no big deal.

The following incident did however send me off to check that my emergency euthanasia stock of Xanax was still where I had hidden it.
(message to self; the ‘hidden’ aspect needs to be urgently reviewed)

I lost a twenty foot long, four inch diameter, heavy duty,
PVC water pipe.  

Just before smoko (morning tea) on Christmas eve I extracted, with considerable difficulty, this pipe from amongst all the junk stored in the workshop roof space and placed it on the floor.

Fifteen minutes later, after enjoying my patented concoction of decaffeinated coffee mixed with powdered milk , cooking chocolate and hot water, I returned to find it had disappeared.  Poof!  Vanished.  No more. Absent.
Totally gone.

Then I heard what I thought was an aboriginal corroboree going on in a distant corner of GOF’s Empire. There was the haunting ‘didyontheoinking’  sound of a didgeridoo being played.  Perhaps the ancient spirits had disapproved of all the naked nymphs cavorting on their land ever since Mrs GOF departed for her PNG holiday. Maybe they only took offence at the seven grossly overweight ones whose frolicking probably caused earthly tremors of such magnitude that they were disrupting the peacefulness of the afterworld. God knows, they certainly were playing havok with my sleep pattern.

Be that as it may, I followed my ears, and discovered…..





Kebba the frigging dawg.

She’d carted my pipe 120 yards down the paddock and discovered along the way that she could play a didgeridoo by shoving her nose into the end and snorting into it.
She was last seen beating down the regrowth and giant brambles and heading south east with the pipe in tow. The nearest neighbour in that direction is 20 miles away, so if you live in Innisfail and discover a $400 dog attached to a $100 pipe would you please kindly return the pipe.

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Probably culprit

Probable culprit

Kebba the didgeridoo player

Kebba the didgeridoo player


Heading for Innisfail

Heading for Innisfail

Move, you bastard pipe, why should I have to do all the work.

Move, you bastard pipe, why should I have to do all the work.

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.

Vale Nelson

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Chief of Homeland Security.
Loyal protector of Inga, Mrs GOF and GOF.  (in that order of priority)
Feral pig annoyer.
Poisonous snake killer.
Respectful admirer of pythons and carpet snakes.
Coconut dehusker.
Silent fart manufacturer.

Passed away peacefully surrounded by family on 20 July, and is now at peace with Calli, Molly and Rosie.

No comments by request……instead please give a moment of appreciation and affection to your pet.

Thank you.

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A granddaughter named Roman

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Great joy.

Behold, into the GOF Family a grandchild hath come.

My family does not discriminate on the grounds of ethnicity, religion or, it would seem, species.  I now have a rabbit granddaughter.

Inga  and her most recent arrival are domiciled at the other end of Australia down towards Antarctica. The adopted grown-up bunny-child is so technologically savvy that she was able to send Mrs GOF the following communication on her mobile phone the other day.

"Hi Grandma"

What did I get?  Zero.  Zilch.  I was beginning to think that little fluffy nerd-ears had probably already accessed and discovered that Grandpa GOF half a century ago was responsible for exterminating a very large number of her ancestors.

So yesterday it was a great relief when I received the following email from little Buggalugs.

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Hi Grandpa,

Mama Inga is letting me use the computer tonight while she tries to find every one of the 534 pellets that I hid around the house while she was at work today. It’s lots of fun seeing her down on her hands and knees looking underneath the tables and couches with a torch and mumbling lots of foreign words that I don’t understand yet because I’m too little.

Everything is good here except for one thing that I don’t really understand. I was christened ‘Madonna’ and that’s what everyone at the rabbit shelter used to call me, so why is Mama Inga now calling me ‘Roman’ all the time?

Is her memory shot?
Does she do weird things like this very often?

Your fluffy little granddaughter,


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My dear little Buggalugs,

Nomenclature is a very complicated adult business.  
Your Mama Inga had to find a name for you that she liked, but which was also acceptable to the Bunny Refuge people who were looking after you before.  You see, some humans give their offspring really stupid names like;

Pilot Inspektor                (Actor Jason Lee)
Sage Moonblood             (Sylvester Stallone)
Diva Thin Muffin           (Frank Zappa)  
Audio Science                  (Actress Shannyn Sassamon)
Globet and Musmus    (unattributed)

Mostly names are no big deal and they don’t unduly influence or predict the child’s subsequent behaviour.

Johnny Cash’s boy named ‘Sue’ got up and slugged his Dad right in the moosh as soon as he was able, which was extremely unladylike behaviour.

‘Chastity’ didn’t work out too well for Cher’s little one either and the kid’s still unchastely frolicking around decades later trying to discover whether she’s Arthur or Martha or something in between.   If only Cher Could Turn back Time.

So you see, Mama Inga was faced with a difficult decision.
She couldn’t name you ‘Fridge Magnet‘ or ‘Mophead’ or  “Squeegee” or ‘Bathtub Backscratcher’ or ‘Door Stopper’ because this might have rung some alarm bells with the Refuge management.

Mama Inga didn’t like your original name because people might have confused you with a couple of other famous ‘Madonnas’ in history, although you’re not really very much like the first Madonna because you are deficient in the ‘child’ department to the tune of one.

Inga was also a little bit frightened that you might be influenced by sharing a name with the second one, and the last thing Mama Inga needs right now is to come home after a long day in the office to find her very own Madonna squatting over a mirror having risque photographs taken for publication as Wanton Wabbit Centrefold of the Month in Playbunny Magazine.

So there you have it my little one.

Trust your Mama Inga. You won’t find a better one.
Or a more loving Grandma.  
Of other family members I am less certain.

Love from Grandpa.

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Man’s best friend???

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Nett benefits

I’ve recently had need to ponder
As far as my mind will permit,
Do the pets in my house, I wonder,
Provide an overall nett benefit?

Nelson the dog I did’st shampoo
To dispose of his fleas and the nits.
Coiffured with his movie-star hairdo
Expecting some nett benefits.

He rewarded me furious and fast.
Drove me totally out of my wits.
Putrid stench left me  aghast
And oblivious of nett benefits.

The bandicoot died four days ago
From the shovel with which it was hit.
Then exhumed by Nelson today
He’s got bugger-all nett benefit.

Another bath, good while it lasted.
Then dog finds a pile of cow shit,
“Nelson, you  ******   ******* bastard”.
“You’re ******** useless, no nett benefit.

The cat meanwhile contemptuously
Thinks, “GOF’s a complete disgrace
Criticising his pets deprecatingly
We moggies have nett benefit.

I’ll just lie in my basket all day
Deliberating up to my limit.
And wondering if humans today
Provide the world with any nett benefit.


"The Cat"

Answers to the missing word competition.

******          =  damned
*******  (1)  =  useless
*******  (2)    =  very

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The Chief Coroner investigating Mr Bandicoot’s death found that the deceased had breached a bandicoot-proof fence by burrowing underneath it into Mr GOF’s vegetable garden, and accordingly handed down a verdict of “Death by Misadventure.”
Very wise coroner.



The following is a photograph which I took last week of a rare event.
It shows my backyard on a cloudless day when I could actually see the mountain.  Even during the 180 days each year when I can see no part of it at all, somehow the world seems a safer and more serene place just by knowing that it’s there.

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