Jaws-Droppingly Stupid

So over in Western Australia, the solution to humans and beasts sharing the planet is the same old same old - the onus is on the animals having to somehow (instinctively?) comprehend human society and understand that if they don't adhere to human rules, they'll be justly slaughtered.

In a program to make the beaches once more safe for the good citizens of WA, the first uppity shark was recently snagged by the drum lines and shot four times in the head. Obviously, it didn't realise that the shark mitigation plan was already underway:

http://au.news.yahoo.com/thewest/wa/a/21036468/first-drum-lines-set-off-wa-coast/

Maybe it missed the warning email sent out to all monsters of the deep by the government.

Anyway, scientists, environmentalists and folk from all walks of life who think it's a little unfair to cull a species because of communication breakdowns have signed a letter of protest, but to no avail.

Less blood thirsty methods of keeping our beaches safe - signs, tagging, patrols, protected areas, education-  have been tried and tested overseas, but they would be, well, apparently far more difficult to instigate than hunting down these nasty, vicious, amoral beasties to whom food is just food, even the talking sort, and slaughtering them. A lot less fun for some people too, I suspect. Drones patrolling a beach and people having to get their butts out of the water in the spirit of inter-species harmony is far too soggy-hearted a solution.

We visit the sea. We can come and go as we please. To kill the creatures born in the sea and who cannot leave  the sea and who are acting according to instincts that have kept their kind alive for millions of years because of our own paranoid belief that it's all personal and they're out to get us, possibly annihilate us, just makes us look a little silly. Our indignation at the way sharks ignore human specialness, and the resulting indiscriminate vendettas based on the fact that these "monsters" repeatedly refuse to understand that the supposed sanctity of human flesh automatically takes us off Mother Nature's great menu, merely show us up to be the ignorant brutes in this scenario.
 

Horse Riding Cures Almost Everything, Maybe.

I've had a few aches sneak up on me lately, and wasn't sure how well a day of horse riding would go down with my body, but being a great believer in not knowing how things will turn out until you have a go, I headed off with a pocket full of pills to meet my sister for a whole day of riding in Daylesford, just the two of us. If worse came to worse, I thought, I could always bail on the afternoon ride.

Good thing I did go. A couple of panadols was all I needed - which is, strangely enough, a lot less than I down to get through a far less physically exerting sit-still shift at the Arvo Job (go figure) - and a great day was had. My sister sneakily snapped this fab photo of me contentedly moseying along through the forest on my old friend M. with her phone, and I'm glad she did. See, you can miss out on much good stuff if you overthink what might happen. I actually feel really good, though tired, and I will, no doubt be sore tomorrow, and the day after. However, it's important, I think, to do things that make you feel strong when you're not well, even if you have to push yourself a bit - the positive feedback loop is worth a truckload of pharmaceutical products. My sister and I have vowed that we'll be getting back into our regular riding schedule again next year. We're over pottering along the laneways like old ladies and want to be hellions on horseback once more. It's our thing.

So yeah, beautiful weather, scenic countryside full of rolling hills, happy, green forests full of colourful parrots, good horses, fine food, fun company, a much appreciated lift home (thank you, Cindy) AND I snapped a few pics for my much neglected Foalwatch:

Quicksteps

I'm usually a one speed person when walking - zip, zip, zip with an invisible, soundless horn that I mentally honk at the sloooooow people who always seem to be blocking my path. This is still my default setting the moment I step off the train and hit the pavements of Melbourne, and the one I ratchet up when doing medicinal laps of the local botanical gardens, but I noticed about six months ago that I'd finally developed a second speed for living in the country. It only took four years, but now, when I head off for local doings, I positively amble.

I'm very conscious of the change and quite enjoying it. I schedule more time to accommodate this more relaxed state. I used to stress out getting to the train in the mornings, but now I mosey along thinking things and admiring the gardens that line the streets. I used to step off the train at night and rush home so I'd have an extra five minutes for doing domestic whatevers, but now I potter along enjoying the stars, moon, creek sounds, trees in the darkness and whatever wildlife decides to jump out and scare me. Now, when I head off for a bills paying and shopping trip, I simply cannot make myself pour on the gas. This is good, as it also helps me blend in - I once met a local woman in Melbourne who, though a stranger to me, said she recognised me because she'd seen me speeding between shops as I went about my business in town.

So yes, I did some local ambling today, and thought about that ambling and what it meant, and also did much chatting with the girl in the fruit shop. I'm a Wednesday regular now. I did writerly stuff too - writing, of course, subbed 3 stories (one was a recent rejection which an upcoming antho held for close to seven months, almost took, but in the end decided it didn't fit the tone. I'm really starting to dislike that phrase. What's so untoney about my stories? Ah well, onwards...) and wrangled content for the great, individual contributor pages Carrie Cuin is busily setting up over at Lakeside Circus. For now, my page reads: This performer is still getting ready for the show. While you wait, try your luck at a game of chance. We hear the ring toss is not quite as rigged as some of the other booths. Issue One is out on Friday, so you can view my efforts then.

And They Call It Space Puppy Love

To stave off unfair accusations that this might be a cat-and-chook-and-pony-favouring blog, and to add a little fun and cuteness to your Friday night, pop across to Tor. Com to watch a heart-warming clip from the upcoming, must-see, at least if you're a fan, Riddick 3 movie.

Why? Because there's a big, nasty, ugly as sin, slobbering, potentially puppy-eating alien, and the most adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid puppy - make that adorable, yapping, but (honestly) slightly stupid SPACE puppy - that's about to become an alien snack, but Vin Diesel shows his soft side and...

Don't worry, go watch, it's safe - there's not a single cat to be seen. Or chook. Or pony. Promise.

 

  



The Chook Who Keeps Me Guessing





GUS AND THE SUNNING CHOOK

It's well past 18.30 and evening will soon be upon us, but the Occasional Chook shows no signs of leaving. This does not seem to one of her usual Virginia Chook swing bys for a bit of peace and quiet away from the flock. She was already waiting outside the kitchen when I opened up the house at 9 this morning, and has been with us ever since, very coolly acting just like she did in the old days before her ungrateful defection to the chicken coop two houses up.



JENNY AND THE STARING CHOOK

She's spent the day being overly chummy with the cats and wanting to snuggle up to them as they tried to catch some rays in peace and quiet (both these pictures were snapped today. Yes, I know I need to tidy up those leaves), hanging out with me while I was working in the backyard, popping in for a chat while I was ironing, pottering around like she owned the place, taking dirt baths and endlessly sunning herself on the patio. She's very calm, very settled, and very much not moving on.

Oh well, who can say what the Chook is planning now? I just checked - yep, she's still here, right outside the kitchen door nibbling on my potted lemon thyme. When I asked her if it wasn't time she headed back to her homies in the coop, she gave me friendly cluck and snagged another leaf. Hmm...

***UPDATE. Sure enough, she is once more ensconced upon her old perch in the bush by the shed outside my kitchen. What has happened? A serious fallout with her erstwhile homies? Complaints about the food? Ah well, let's see how long it lasts. This footloose and deviously fancy free chicken may just using me as a stopgap while she ruthlessly scopes out another coop.

The Chicken Who Drops by for Cheese and a Chat

I've had to abandon my theory that the Chook is a secret crime fighter and/or international political fixer. The more mundane reason for her increasing absences turns out to be that she was slowly moving in with the chickens three houses up. In my heart of hearts, I suspected as much, for I would hear a great, fowlish hullabaloo in the distance, and about five minutes later, the Chook would turn up in the garden with ruffled feathers and an angry attitude. But she was lonely, I could tell from the way she smooched up to the cats all the time, and the call of her own kind was a strong one. As a most stubborn chicken of independent mind who usually gets what she wants, she kept at it and wore the flock down, much the same way she in the end had me jumping up to answer her knocking or clucking at the kitchen door each morning. Anyway, I think it's safe to say that after eighteen months of co-habitation, the Chook doesn't live here anymore.

She does, however, pop by to visit us once or twice a week, as she did this fine Sunday morning. I  heard her imperious call, and like any good hostess, immediately jumped to and put out the cheese and sunflower seeds. I suspect it's the cheese that brings her back - her new home might not be sufficiently catering for her deep love of dairy products. They're probably not even aware of it. It was her habit of bossily pushing in to nick Cooper's cheese cubes (and since he loves his cheese too, Coopie wasn't happy about sharing) that tipped us off in this household. That, and her practically diving into the cats' milk bowl.

A visiting routine is gradually settling into place. Once she's sufficiently fed and watered, the Chook then hangs around the kitchen for old time's sake, contentedly follows the cats about for a while, takes a quick tour of the house if she can sneak in, loudly clucks and complains about goodness knows what, checks the garden for tidbits, and after a final sip of milk and goodbye cluck, she slips away again, back to her new, and obviously more satisfactory (I'm not good enough any more *sniff*), life in the company of her feathered kin. Part of me is chuffed she wants to keep up the contact. Another part of me suspects, complicated creature that she is, that the Chook is just keeping her options open in case the new joint doesn't work out to her satisfaction. She's like that. Cute but devious.

Gypsy. Waif. Free spirit. Freeloader. Manipulator. Charmer. Warrior. Greedy guts. Whatever her guise, the Chook has always been the ultimate free-range chicken.

True Terror

On my weekly Wednesday medicinal walk today, I was divebombed by a familiar black-and-white shape. Luckily, it was a rather half-hearted attack, but it did remind me that it's swooping season here in Australia, a time when nesting birds become aggressively territorial and the worst of them, the razor-beaked magpies, have us humans scared stiff and skittering about to their tune.

When I was a kid living on the outskirts of a small coastal town that seemed to breed especially aggro maggies, this was the one time of the year when the children living on our long stretch of country road would put aside our tribal differences and band together. Our goal was simple: to get to school. There were three nests we had to pass, and no way to avoid them unless we wanted to add hours to our journey - those maggies had wide territories and flew extensive patrols.  And please, don't ask about our parents. In those long ago days, this kind of thing was kids' business, pure and simple. We would never have dreamed of bothering our parents with requests for protection or a lift in the car. It had nothing to do with them, and we had our pride to consider. That's just how it was.  

So, we set off each day, hoping the safety-in-numbers strategy would work, all bunched together, clutching our school bags like shields and wielding big sticks. My memory is no doubt faulty, as well as prone to dressing up the past, but I remember our formation as a rather ragtag version of a Roman testudo formation , and we kids as juvenile legionnaires bravely setting off to do battle every day, as deeply frightened by the thought of our eyes being stabbed or our heads being pierced by sharp beaks as our Roman counterparts would have been of barbaric, Germanic hordes. But we were also thrilled to the tips of our tiny toes by the prospect facing of real danger and testing our mettle. We scared ourselves even sillier as we went by recounting tales of the horrific manglings we had heard about, with tales of maggies plucking out eyes, maybe even two from the same victim, as perennial favourites, these vile tales acting both as encouragement to each other, but also as a mean-spirited attempt to reduce someone to tears or, even better, make them break ranks and run home. No-one ever did. To have been branded a coward would have been worse than getting a beak in the head. Or so we thought.

Our terror was deep and true and complete, and yet we went on, shrieking when we were divebombed and waving our sticks at the swooping monsters.  Each day that we kids made it to school without any blood spurting in great gushes from our temples was a triumph. Not that I recall anyone ever getting hurt. But there were enough close calls to legitimize and further feed our fears. When nesting season ended, our alliance fell apart until the next breeding season.

I mention all of this because it seemed to me today as I walked that those childhood adventures incorporated all the fundamental elements of a horror story - the terror that writers try to tap into and recreate in their protagonists and the delicious scares and primal thrills that readers seek when they pick up a book of dark tales. Then, of course, there was also the camaraderie of fellow travellers venturing forth to vanquish vicious beast, so we were also experiencing a daily quest. And anyone who thinks I'm exaggerating the menace of magpies obviously hasn't faced down one of those black-and-white monsters of the air.

It wouldn't happen nowadays, of course. Folk check out the location of swooping birds on the Internet, tweet updates on aggro birds, buy handy anti-swoop toolkits from the Department of Sustainability and Environment, and drive their kids to school. Not that I'm romanticizing getting your eyes gouged out or recommending that anyone send their kids into a lion's den armed only with a Bowie knife in order to prove themselves. I'm just saying it was a truly terror inducing situation for us children, but not one without its redeeming features, and that one often treasures memories of a little scariness as much as one does memories of happiness.

All the Fowl News That's Fit to Print

Front page local news that's rocking the community: only 10 days after acquiring their new chook Twinkle, the kids at a local preschool arrived to find that a thief had snuck in overnight and stolen their  much-loved egg layer.The police were called in, the crime scene was investigated (there were signs of breaking in, so it definitely wasn't just a case of a wandering chook gone MIA). The kids drew identikit pictures of the missing Silky Bantam for the cops. "Why would anyone want to take our Twinkle?" said the sad and confused littlies to local reporters, their tender young hearts hurting as they learn a harsh lesson about the human race. Later, the police returned with a replacement chicken called Flossie for the kindergarten kids to look after while the local cops continue to look for Twinkle.

So the hunt is on. I'd hate to be the chicken rustling crim nabbed for nicking this kindergarten pet. I, and everyone for miles around, I imagine,  ask you, what kind of a lowdown scum steals a small, fluffy hen from four year olds? The perp who finally gets nabbed for this fowl crime will face much animosity. I see shadowy figures with pitchforks and flaming torches gathering in the dark around the local lockup, and envision much booing, hissing and tomato-throwing as the dastardly chook thief heads for trial. However, as one recently converted to regarding chickens with affection, part of me worries that our cringing burglar, on the run and frightened by the publicity, might feel compelled to get rid of the incriminating evidence...

Poor Twinkle. One minute as safe and loved as a chicken can ever hope to be, the next nabbed in the dark of night and whisked away to some hillbilly hideout. Life can be tough for a helpless little hen. Indeed, it can be for all of us. We are Spartacus. We are Twinkle.

Here on the home front, the Chook is back after possibly saving the world, but is flightier that ever. She just pops in, demands food, then pops out again. I get no cute antics or clucking background noises in exchange for my sunflower seed investment, and am beginning to feel somewhat exploited. It could just be that she's roving further afield in this beautiful Spring weather - and who isn't tempted to go just one flower-strewn field further when the sun shines so brightly - but if she keeps it up, I might look at renegotiating our co-existence contract.

And in a final bit of chickenfeed news, my sister Cindy has joined the fellowship of fowl-loving folk by acquiring three terribly cute Isa Brown pullets. She calls them Noodle, Nugget and Narky (the one with attitude). Just twelve weeks old, they're still learning what treats they prefer, the intricacies of perching, the art of scratching and scrabbling, and how to flatten when dark shadows pass ominously overhead.

Alas, thinking of the 3N's good fortune at landing a gig at my sister's, and imagining their happy and contented lives, just makes me once more wonder about the fate of poor Twinkle. The life of one little hen might be a small thing compared with the terrible troubles of the world at large, but such everyday tragedies nonetheless have their own validity.

The Littlest and Featheriest Hobo

No sign of the Chook today, and the cats and I all missed her bossy presence. Usually on my Wednesdays off, because I'm mostly resting up at home, she spends much time sneaking into the house and sticking her sticky beak into every nook and cranny as she loudly voices her opinions on all matters. Last week she made it all the way into my writing room while I was working, and spent a goodly amount of time investigating my amazing floor-supported, filing system. Perhaps it was just me feeling a tad guilty about the mess (I will tidy it up soon, I promise) but her clucks definitely had an air of disapproval about them.

However, though I'm uneasy at her absence, and I worry about her being out there all alone in the world amongst predators of all types rather than safely roosting in her own tree by the hot water shed,  I'm not too worried yet. Not only is the Chook as tough as nails, she's also a free spirit, a vagabond who comes and goes as she pleases. She regularly wanders off on these walkabouts. The first time she vanished, I was quite sad, certain that she'd been gobbled up by a feral fox or the like. She also nicked off while I was in hospital and then convalescing at my sister's, though whether this was because she missed me or the cats, it's hard to say. Anyway, gone, gone, gone, was the verdict of my house minder, but the moment I opened the back door on my return and called out  a tentative hallo, Chookie,  there was a screech of welcome from somewhere in the distance (how sensitive is chicken hearing? I should find out.) and a fluttering of feathers, and there she was again, joyfully running around amongst the cats. She would have hugged them if she'd had arms, I'm sure of it. There have been a few other times when she's been gone for over a week as well, and I've been about to post a RIP in her memory only to have her turn up at the kitchen door loudly demanding food.

But I wonder, what does a chicken do when she goes walkabout? Head off down the highway like a hobo with a stick and bundle over her wings? Go visit relatives of the hopefully free range type? Hang out with friends in a local coop? Whatever she gets up to (maybe she's a spy of some sort, off on regular missions. That fits too.) this particular feathered little nuisance is free to do as she pleases, as long as she safely returns to us at some point. 

Done WIP and a Little Dog

Today was a particularly gorgeous, getting- a-headstart-on-Spring kind of day, good for my usual Wednesday off for sleeping in, writing, breathing, napping and walking. With trees blossoming all around the house, and daffodils and jonquils blooming everywhere, the hood was a lovely place to hang out in today.

I finished my "funny" travelling salesman WIP this morning, although I'm not sure I'll get it sharp enough and polished enough by Friday to feel confident enough to send it off to the antho I'd really like to get into. I really prefer to let stories sit for at least a week between first and second drafts, but I don't have that luxury this time. However, I don't like sending off sub standard work either. Whether I decide to sub it or not, at least I've got another new story almost ready to go, and my momentum is steadily building. I'm already lining up my next WIP.

After writing, I headed off for my usual medicinal laps around the local botanical gardens. Along the way, I picked up this very cute, but collarless and tagless companion. He came out of nowhere, was an energetic and friendly little blighter who acted as if we'd know each other for a lifetime, and I began to get that familiar sinking feeling that yet another animal had latched onto me and become my responsibly. After he'd followed me for a while and showed no signs of ever nicking off again, I doubled back in an attempt to find his home, hoping to run across some distressed looking person searching for him. No such luck. Just when it looked like I was going to have to head for the RSPCA, his little ears suddenly perked up and, without a goodbye or a backwards glance, he zoomed off and just kept on running, definitely a dog with a mission, presumably obeying the distant call of his master's voice. At least that's what I read into his body language.

 Now I find myself a little worried. It's raining buckets outside, so I do hope he's somewhere safe and sound in a nice warm doggie basket.

Fishy Advice

Since I am but a tiny minnow paddling about in the swirly waters of that vast pool called publishing, when it comes to writing advice, you're far better off taking guidance from experienced hands like Justine Larbalestier than following any suggestions I might post.

And on the topic of 'Write What You Wanna Write, Yeaaaaah, Well, Maybe, Maybe Not', you should pop over and read:

http://justinelarbalestier.com/blog/2012/07/23/becoming-a-brand-versus-writing-what-you-want-to-write/

and then:

http://justinelarbalestier.com/blog/2012/07/30/writing-to-the-market/

She knows of what she blogs.

Duck Weather

It absolutely bucketed down today, but eager to build up my fitness as much as possible, I nonetheless ventured forth with my mega-umbrella and embarked upon my daily shuffle.

And I'm glad I did, because I had the botanical gardens all to myself. Well, almost.  It was just me and a couple of ducks who'd vacated the lake paddling along the paths. Still, they were no bother and didn't take up much room, so I could have a good think about life in general and specific stories as I splashed along in peace and quiet. Best of all, the fresh air obviously cleared my head, and it occurred to me in a facepalming-at-my-own-denseness kind of moment that a certain story I wrote at the beginning of the year for an anthology (it was rejected) also fits the theme of another anthology, and so I promptly subbed it on my return.

Fowl Play

*sigh* I should be at the movies watching John Carter right now, but unfortunately the head cold that has been moving from desk to desk at the Arvo Job this week finally cornered me yesterday. Since I don’t appreciate other people sneezing and nose-blowing at the movies, I can hardly do so myself. Fortunately, it’s a quickie bug (I can already feel it winding down), so I should be right for Martian intrigues tomorrow.

It looks like something cornered the chook yesterday as well. She was fine when I fed her in the morning, but today she looks raggedy, and has only a single, pathetic plume for a tail. Under her hangout, I found enough feathers to build another chicken (better than she was before? Better, stronger, faster?) I have a possible culprit, or rather two culprits, but no direct evidence – the two young magpies that have been dropping by for chook breakfast leftovers for many months. They’ve grown into rather cocky adolescents. After I fed the chook this morning, there was an almighty ruckus, and I discovered the twin black-and-white terrors chasing the chook from her food. But could two magpies so thoroughly defeather a grown chicken? Anyway, I opened the kitchen door and let slip the cats of war, and my mighty moggies promptly chased off the magpies so the poor, put-upon chook could have some much needed peace and quiet.

Now I’m off for a bit of peace and quiet myself, with a box of tissues, a pot of tea, smoochy cats and a book. I’ve got just the thing for a blah-sickie day – The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. I’ve been saving this for just such an occasion, a day when I have the perfect excuse to read for hours and hours and utterly lose myself in the book rather than read it bit by bit.

I hope it’s as good as they say.

Crackered animals

So I'm seeing a lot more of these guys and/or gals now that I'm at home during the days:
The chook has taken to wandering into the kitchen and clucking indignantly for her breakfast when she arrives. She almost made it all the way to my writing cave on Tuesday before I realised what was happening. Cute as it is, this is definitely not a behaviour I want to encourage.

The blue-tongue keeps turning up by the Xmas swing while I'm reading, or is sunning itself on the patio of a morning when I open up the house. Right now, it's scurrying around amongst the dead leaves about the back shed, poking its head up every now and then to scowl at me. You didn't think skinks could scowl? Believe me, they can. Possibly there's more than one - I'm not adept at distinguishing lizardy individuals. Sometimes I hear a hiss and look down to see one at my feet warning me off, and once it's sure I'm suitably impressed, it arrogantly, and not too hurriedly, exits the stage. And just like the chook, they keep the cats entertained (my mighty hunters just plop themselves down next to any passing blue-tongue and curiously regard their every move.)

***Here's a freshly snapped (12.30 pm) update featuring Polly:

Crepuscular kangas

It still surprises me. I get off the late train, I'm walking through the very dark, empty streets, usually looking up at the amazing starscape we have out here without Melbourne's light pollution, I hear the ominous sound of cracking and crashing vegetation or a subdued but strange thump, thump, and suddenly a kangaroo comes hopping from the shadows, sees me, and without a pause, veers around me or off up a side street.

Tonight's late night bounder appeared on the footpath just meters from home, and we didn't see each other until the last moment. I'm not sure which of us was the more surprised. I just hope I don't see its corpse somewhere up the road tomorrow.

Running with the pack

So today I finished the first draft of a 2.5k werewolf tale. It is my one and only werewolf story. However, since the market is swamped with stories about these shaggy shapeshifters, it'll be close to impossible to find a home for it, but hey, there are some things you just have to do. Last year it was the vamp story, this year it's a lyco tale, and who knows what storytelling challenge 2012 will bring.

Anyway, I'm rather pleased with my vamp-human run Earth of 2175 and the werewolves who find a place to call home but do so in a most unwolvish way.

Killing kangas

In the local paper this week: the Kangaroo Industry Association of Australia is lobbying to replace the present system of government controlled kangaroo culling with a commercial harvesting plan. They say their program will ensure better animal welfare, and that they will closely monitor the population to ensure that no more kangaroos will be shot than is sustainable.

Put me firmly in the camp of the cynics who point out that when the destruction of wildlife becomes profit-driven, well, perhaps a few decisions might be made that are not 100% in wildlife’s best interests. Then there’s that old bugbear of commercial entities always wanting to expand and grow richer and more powerful. I don’t quite see mushy feelings about the fate of orphaned joeys influencing the board directors of a commercial harvesting organisation that counts the dead bodies of the mothers of those joeys as their source of revenue.

Yeah, I’m thinking seal cubs*, collapsed fishing industries...

Later: I mean 'pups' of course, though you can add bear cubs to the list if you like.