Friday, May 31, 2013

Eddie

Meet Eddie.  He’s the white one.
Eddie and Kibbim had just met .Kibbim had rushed home from school to meet our new (temporary) family member.
     Eddie has the use of only three legs, but moved faster than my Jack Russells. He loved to sprawl on our veranda and most of all, loved cuddles from me and the kids.  When we called his name, his bony tail would wag, click, click, click, like a stick against the timber decking.
     On Monday, 19 May, I received a panicked call from Hannah who, when she isn’t working full-time at Col Jones, is rescuing neglected animals in the Torres Strait and sending them to Cairns for much-needed medical treatment and the hope of finding a loving home.
     Eddie, it turned out, had history.
     In April, police had given Eddie’s owner a notice to provide medical treatment for his leg, useless since he was hit by a car in December!  
     On 18th May, Hannah found Eddie, AGAIN, in a desperate condition; bony, limping and sporting some seeping wounds.  She called police and they had to convince the owner to sign Eddie over to Rescue Foster Adopt, the Cairns based group coordinated by Laney that helps neglected animals from the Torres Strait
     Eddie was then taken to a foster carer on TI, pending his transfer to Cairns.
     However, someone untied him from the clothesline and voila! Eddie was back where he’d come from.
     The police arranged to pick Eddie up, AGAIN, with the dog catcher.  Hannah figured if the dog catcher impounded Eddie till Saturday, he’d be safe, especially since council had tightened up security at the pound after assisted break-outs, say no more!  So Hanna asked the dog catcher to keep Eddie inside.
‘I’ll have to ask the council if I can lock the dog up,’ said the dog catcher, who, it appeared, didn’t get the opportunity to do much dog catching because he had no place to keep caught dogs.  This was when I received the panicked call from Hannah.
     So, to help her and reduce her rising frustration, I became a dog foster carer.
     First thing Tuesday morning, Eddie arrived in the cage of the dog-catcher’s ute, with a police escort.  He was cowering, was rigid with fear and refused to budge when the police officer tried to coax him out.  And it wasn’t because he had a fear of uniforms.  Eddie had to be carried to the backyard. 
     His hip and shoulder bones were prominent and I figured he’d been starved.  
     His rear right leg was withered and the toe nails and skin were white rather than pink which suggested something serious.  A weeping sore dominated the inside of his dodgy leg, probably from dog attacks.  The edges of his ears were jagged, like the lace hem of a dress, no doubt also from dog attacks.
     The police officer said he’d been told the ripped ears were from an attempted crocodile attack at Waiben.  A croc of … more like it and I bet the owner came up with that one.
     Plus Eddie was covered in fleas and ticks which, if you don’t know, cause severe anaemia in dogs, especially since the sort of dogs who don’t get de-ticked are often the sort of dogs who don’t get fed regularly.
     It took me nine hours to convince Eddie he was allowed on the veranda where he stayed until he flew out on Saturday morning.  And he scoffed two large bowls of dog crunchies when he’d finally settled.
     The kids fell in love with Eddie and no wonder.  He had a beautiful temperament.  He submitted to Ziggy and Gina Rose though I can’t imagine Eddie would ever claim the title of alpha, beta or even gamma male.  Omega male, perhaps.  My kids lavished Eddie with love which is how I have brought them up.  People who love animals are generally loving people themselves and have great capacity for empathy. 
     Eddie made it safely to Laney at Rescue Foster Adopt.  He needs to be desexed, have his shots and his leg amputated.  He has an infection in the bone of the injured leg which is being treated with antibiotics before surgery.  And there won’t be much change out of two thousand bucks, thank you very much!  That's not including the cost of the crate and flight.
     Without Hannah and Laney helping Eddie, he would have died a very slow and painful death over six months as the bone infection spread throughout his body.  
     

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

"We can't use bare feet."

Third son came home from school yesterday, hysterical. 
     Between sobs and sniffles, he managed to tell me he didn't want to run in his school's cross-country and he wanted to stay home that day.
     Something was amiss.  Third Son loves running. He is my only child who will come walking with me when I go for long walks and half the time he runs.  So I asked the obvious question.
     "Mum, we gotta wear shoes.  We can't use bare feet. I can't run in shoes.  Them white kids, they can, they used to it.  But us black kids, we can't run in shoes."
     He pleaded with me to let him stay home. I struggled to keep a straight face (and ignore his grammar).
     "We'll work something out," I said, giving his tear-stained cheek a big kiss while wondering if the guidelines for competing in Olympic track events might apply to the annual cross-country run in a small primary school on a remote, tropical island.  
     After all, Zola Budd ran 'using' bare feet.


Sunday, May 12, 2013

Mothers' Day

I simply love it when my kids draw me pictures and make me a cards.  I think of the time and effort they put into cutting out and sticking on shapes, drawing little hearts for the borders and painstakingly penciling in the block and bubble writing (a recent favourite of my youngest two).  
     I was chuffed to receive this card from my daughter ... 
     ... until I realised I had taken my eyes off two balls, both of which were equally confronting; my daughter's appalling grammar and the fact I've developed Tuckshop Lady Arms.  First Son was delighted to advise they are also known as Elephant Ears!

     I felt better when I read Third Son's card.  No more gruesome realities. 
By the way, I only ever smack Third Son and not nearly as often as I should.

Saturday, May 4, 2013

Her beauty and her terror!

When the dogs and I don’t feel like a long walk, we amble five minutes up to the Green Hill fortress.  I think of it as the top of TI with panoramic views of a seascape that has captivated me for almost 20 years.  Every time I mount the rise of Green Hill and gaze over the expansive ocean, Dorothea Mackellar’s words spring to mind.
I love her far horizon
I love her jewel sea
Her beauty and her terror
     And I have to stop.  There’s no wide brown land for me!

     I am oh, so familiar with the beauty and terror of this sea, especially the way it can snap from beautiful to terrifying. 
     It was beautiful the day Tony and I sailed from TI in our seven metre, six-eighths steel, 46 hp Perkins fishing vessel, Parledee.  There was the faintest breeze and a few cottonwool clouds, the kind young kids draw, on the horizon.  The water was glittering in the morning sun exactly like a great, liquid sapphire.  The islands, Wednesday, Tuesday, Double and Naghir, were a shimmering, dreamy green. 
     We were headed to Stephen Island where there were big mackerel to be caught.  Tony and I toasted our good fortune with cups of instant coffee. The day before, I was rinsing the grounds from the Bodum and it slipped from its steel frame into the TI harbour.  Had I been superstitious, I’d have considered this an omen.  But Tony and I, and our dreams, had been lulled into a false sense of good fortune by the auto-pilot and the gentle, pulsing rumble of the Perkins. Ain’t love and wise investment sweet?
     The next day, we were riding an angry ocean, a bucking bronco of a thousand different greys.  All we could do was hold on.  The auto-pilot was stuffed and the engine had been playing up (always the bloody impeller!).  I curled up in the focsle, bit my nails and prepared to die. I didn’t care what Tony did behind the wheel.  And I didn’t care that we’d made a really bad investment with a fishing boat that was far too small for the unpredictable and violent sea of the Torres Strait.  BECAUSE WE WERE GOING TO DIE!
And the next day, things calmed down and I nursed a couple of bruised finger stumps as we found anchorage on Darnley Island.   
     A week later, a low formed in the Coral Sea or Gulf, always one or the other, and the Torres Strait was besieged by raging winds and mountainous seas.  Our life became a ritual of checking anchor, drifting, finding new anchorage (or motoring into a squall till it passed) and then finding a part no longer worked or was burnt out.  And so on and so on.
     On the good, calm days, either something broke down or the current presented problems – it could stop our boat in its watery tracks.  I remember moving anchorage from the village at Darnley to a spot further east, a fifteen minute steam.  After half an hour at top speed, it appeared we hadn’t moved at all.  We took bearings and continued.  We weren’t making any progress.  The current was moving against us at the same speed we were travelling. 
     We met up with other boat owners and compared stories.  It turns out, our experiences with faulty engines, dodgy freezers and the elusive safe anchorage, were normal. 
     I started to hate the ocean, with passion.  She was a nasty, vengeful maiden, never at peace.  If she wasn’t raging, she’d be the reason something would stop working, so I thought.
     We spent a lot of time on anchor (when it held) and I started to think about my predicament.  I realised a life at sea - calm-one-minute and mad-angry-psycho the next, and the omnipresent need to repair something that was broken or have a part air-freighted up at top dollar - was not for me.  
     Tony and I settled back under his parents’ house and eventually sold Pareledee in favour of a trailer boat (no anchorage worries, thank you very much).
I continue to be captivated by the sea, but I much prefer experiencing her beauty and her terror from the solid, safety of Green Hill fortress.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

The Boy Who Loved Fish

                                                                                                        By Detta

"This fish keeps tickling me," said the boy who loved fish.

"Well, my friend," said the boy, "if you want to come home with me, I'll have to ask my mum and dad." 

"Stay hidden under the water while I ask them."

"Yippee!  They said you could come as long as you bring a little friend for my sister."

"Perfect."

 Homeward bound.






A tiny invertebrate, a big thank you

Special people have been immortalised in many ways. 
    Anna Pavlova and Dame Nellie Melba became namesakes for desserts.  Abel Tasman did quite well.  He had a state, a tiger, a devil and a sea named after him.  Captain James Cook didn’t do as well.  In far north Queensland, he has a highway, a town and a shire and probably a few streets, also. 
    The Greek demigod, Archille had a tendon named after him and his heel is a metaphor for a person’s weak spot. Friedrich's, Huntington's and Hansen's have become names of diseases.
    As an important personality, even an infamous murderer, you might be cast in wax.  If you are a famous actor you could have your name written on a flash, shiny tile on a footpath in Hollywood.  Mel Gibson has one of those tiles AND he has a cocktail named after him – The Bi-Polar.  The mention of Hugh Grant still provokes thoughts in many of stolen moments of ecstasy in vehicles. 
    It’s probably a good time to mention that Tony named our brand-new, 2001 Toyota Camry sedan taxi after me, Lady Cathrine
    None of these compare with my darling husband’s immortalisation in the world of marine science as Nuuanu titaseyi, a new species of small crustacean discovered in the Torres Strait.
    ‘Nuuanu’ is the genus, named after the area in Hawaii where the animal was first recognised.  And the ‘i’ after Titasey is Latin and indicates that the species is named after a male.
    I tried to read a scientific journal about the amphipod and all I could make out were the authors’ names and N. titaseyi which I think must be the proper way to write it. 
N. titaseyi is very small, 3.25 mm and bears a striking resemblance to a head louse.

This isn't the dinky di N. titaseyi, but it's very close, a sort of twin.
    Here is how T. Titasey became N. titaseyi.
    In October, 2006, Tony and the Madam Dugong were chartered for a week by three scientists from the Australian Museum, Jim, Maria and Lauren.  They were looking for a small crustacean that was likely to be found in areas of seaweed and coral.  Tony had to get them to those areas.  He had an idea where to go having dived many times around TI for another sort of crustacean, crayfish.
    It wasn’t often that Tony had a solid week’s charter in the Madam Dugong so he was very happy to be out on the water, day after day, moving around to get Jim, Maria and Lauren on the right dive spots.  Very little of what they spoke about in scienctific jargon  made sense as they sifted through samples, even when they said they had found something. But they were happy so Tony was happy.
    Jim, Maria and Lauren left and Tony got on with the job of running a fishing charter.
Imagine our surprise when Lauren emailed last week, six and a half years later, to advise they did, in fact, find a new species and they named it after Tony to say thank you for helping them find the critters.
    What a thank you gift!
    Tony glowed with pride when I showed him the email and image.
    ‘I’m going to get a tattoo of that,’ he said with a big grin.
    Tony has a few tatts, including some homemade jobs, one of which is the first part of his name, T.I.T, on his arm in a very prominent place.  He abandoned the last four letters due to the intense pain.  I have spent the better part of a decade trying to convince him to get a tattoo of my name.  He outrightly, emphatically, steadfastly refuses even when I challenge him to prove his love for me.
     So Tony will NOT be getting a tatt of a mocroscopic crustacean … unless I am first  immortalised on his skin!