God's way

Billy the dog is back.  He is back because Diego died last night.  He was in his box and never woke up.  I cried and cried and cried, worse than when I rolled on the chick three years ago.  I felt like Tough Boris, the main character in the children’s book of the same name by Mem Fox.

     There was something about little Diego that really touched me.

Seffy and Diego.  They had just met.

     After three nights, I knew Diego was going to make it. Surely, the first three nights are the worst.

     Seffy and I had his routine down pat - formula made up in the fridge, he cries, one of us warms 5 ml in the microwave and the other tenderly scoops up little Diego, always planting a kiss on his head as we walk to the kitchen as one draws up the formula in the syringe and passes it to the other nursing him.

     Diego and I spent an idyllic last day together. Seffy trusted I could manage myself and she went to a friend’s house for a play.  Diego spent most of the day wrapped in a pillowcase and tucked under my shirt.  We did some MYOB data entry, we wrote the post about him coming into our lives, we sorted out food so Tony could take the boys fishing, we wrote my bios for the Brisbane Writers’ Festival, we finished the sketch of the above-ground Japanese grave and started on the outline for Dr Joseph Wassell’s gravestone. 

      Diego even went on his first drive although he was oblivious, curled up on Kibby’s lap.

     I fed him his last feed during dinner, roasted fish, caught today by the boys. When Diego was full, he fell asleep in my hands, his little head resting on my thumb.  He was purring like a tractor.  I didn’t eat because I didn’t want to disturb him. We were in our own world while everyone finished eating.  One of my greatest pleasures is nursing an orphaned animal and having it fall asleep in my hands.
     I had fallen in love with little Deigo.

     But dishes needed doing, Tony’s staff needed paying and kids needed yelling at (“Clean your teeth, Kibbim!”  and “Leave your brother alone, T'Kido!”).  So I wrapped up Diego and cocooned him between a thick towel and a large sheet, fluffed up for insulation, fitted the lid of his box and looked forward to him meowing for his morning feed.

     I woke at 3 am and while waiting for him to cry out, I did some thinking.  I suspected Diego might be blind on account of his vacant stare.  If he was blind, we’d keep him knowing native birds and lizards were safe.  He’d be an inside cat and he’d have a kitty litter tray at the back door he’d sniff out when required. 

     In the dark of night, while waiting for him to wake, I made plans.  He could sit on my desk while I worked, like Stormy, our other stray cat, did when he was little.  I would sketch Diego now I had some time.  After all, I’d finished my studies and Tony had sold the business.  When Diego was a bit bigger, he’d be able to sleep with me. Well, Seffy and I could take turns having him curl up at our feet. Of course, I would buy his love by offering him treats while she was at school.

     At four o’clock, I couldn’t wait any longer to cuddle him.  I padded in the dark to the kitchen, flicked the light and went about measuring 5 ml of formula into a cup and warming it.  Then I made my way to his box.  As I removed the lid, then the sheet, I wondered why he was not stirring.  And then I found him, stretched out, still, cool and stiff. 

     I held him and cried and wondered what else I could have done to keep him alive.

     Was he too cold?  Was it the milk he was fed before arriving at Hannah’s?  Was it some fluid in his lungs as he seemed to aspirate a little at feed times?  I cried.

     Perhaps it was God’s way, after all, he was one of God's creatures, said Seffy. 

     Billy’s back and I know because I can hear him tearing at the plastic bag of dog food he’s managed to pull from the table. He’s locked on the veranda so he doesn’t escape.  If I don’t rescue the food, there will be dog crunchies all over the veranda like the fluff from the cushion he disemboweled last week.  

     My grief for Diego will be spent chasing Billy, calling him in from the street, cleaning up after him, making excuses to Tony when he's dug up another crop of seedlings, trying to escape-proof the fence and so on.

God's creatures

We have been fostering neglected dogs that have come into the care of Rescue Foster Adopt, coordinated on TI by Hannah.  My ten year-old daughter, Seffy and I called at Hannah’s place to take home Billy and Caramello, again, who had escaped from our yard and hotfooted it back to her place.  If they weren’t escaping, they were uprooting Tony’s vegetable garden and chewing pegs and clothes.  They ran to us as Hannah walked down the stairs, holding this orphaned, two week old kitten.  

     At the time, she had just given him his first feed.  He was snuggled in a hand towel, fast asleep and the gentle vibration of his purr floated into the Seffy’s ears just as her eyes lit up. 

     I saw an opportunity. 

     I gave Seffy an ultimatum: the kitten or Billy and Caramello.

     The kitten won and so did I.  Or so I thought. 

     “He needs a name,” said Hannah.  “How about Diego?”

     Within a few hours, I had renamed him Diablo.  He meowed incessantly which was a big problem when Seffy went to sleep and was woken when he meowed.  She fed and settled him and went to sleep and was woken when he meowed and so on till I snapped.
     “Give me the bloody kitten,” I yelled and she went back to bed crying with separation anxiety.

     I took Diablo to bed with me, and curled my arm around him, snuggled in a pillowcase.  He kept meowing.  I fed him, again with the kitty formula and syringe and we went back to bed.  He meowed. And meowed. 

     I recall rescuing an abandoned chick and taking it to bed, wrapped safely in a towel.  Just before morning, drugged by the deepest sleep, I inadvertently rolled my head onto this chick and killed it.  When I woke and realised my crime, I cried and cried.  That was three years ago.

     I am older and wiser.  As Diablo meowed I wished, in my sleepless despair (thanks to Billy and Caramello's numerous midnight escape attempts), I would fall asleep, roll onto him and crush the air from his lungs, as painlessly as possible for him.  At least, that would be God’s way of saying his little life was unsustainable without a mother. I could never manage this routine every night.

     But I couldn’t fall asleep while he meowed on and on.

     After two hours, I got up, fed him (the last supper), wrapped and shoved him in a box in the office thinking nature could damn well have her way.  Oh, I may have sworn at him.  I hoped, I mean, I expected he would freeze to death.  After all, it had been 22 degrees at night.

     In the morning, the bastard was still alive.  My daughter was delighted and has been besotted with him since.  As if he knew he was padding on thin ice with me, he has slept through the two nights since.  I am back to calling him Diego. 

     Seffy waits by his box for him to wake, she feeds and cuddles him, talks to him and coos him to sleep. 

     I reckon a person who treats animals with love and compassion is a good person.  I have always been drawn to ‘animal people’ and sometimes define them as dog people or chook people (who I am especially fond of).

     When I laid eyes on my future husband at the Federal Hotel in early 1994, I felt there was something special about him.  I followed him home and he picked up an old Siamese-cross cat with patchy fur and sores on his face.

     “Meet TI,” said Tony, burying his face in what fur there was.  “He’s my boy, aren’t you, TI?”

     Aaah, a good man I thought.

     And that’s how we’ve raised our kids, to love and respect animals.

     I will always remember Seffy’s and my conversation as we walked home after taking charge of Diego.

     “Mum, I love looking after Rescue Foster Adopt animals.  They’re God’s creatures, you know and they need to be loved.” 

     She had the naïve, hopeful tone only a young child can have, before the harsh realities of life hit home.

     “Yes, darling, but Diego is very young and he might not make it. Sometimes we want to look after animals, but we can’t and they die or need to be put down, preferably put to sleep with an injection.” 

     “Yeah,” she hissed.  “Not bloody, friggin’ drowned.” (She was referring to a former dog catcher advising his method of euthanizing cats.)

     I swelled with pride and thought, There’s my girl.  She has good, Christian values and a sizeable pair of social justice balls ... and the vernacular of a construction worker.

Fashion fatalities

Thursday Island is a fascinating place.  What draws my curiosity most is the multi-cultural history and the best place to see this is at the cemetery. 

     At the top of Blackall Street, there are many turn-of-the-century European Christian graves, marble and granite, grandiose, imposing complete with wrought iron borders.

Down a stony road is a single, marble headstone bearing a language I'm unfamiliar with.

HOF OLE

SITIVENI

IA ALA I

RANI 21 NE

NOVEPA E

FAU 1893

ON MAFUA

FAU 24

     And so on.  I believe it may be Rotuman on account of the many Pacific Islanders who migrated to the Torres Strait in the late 1800s.

     Further along are the resting places of Muslim departed, Allah the greatest in intricate, flowing script and then Islander graves with Christian inscriptions.  There is also the odd Buddhist grave.  On the approach to the ring road at the back of the island is the Japanese section, an area that has captivated my attention for many hours.  

     Pearling began in the Torres Strait in 1868 and attracted many Japanese men with the promise of work.  Within 30 years, Torres Strait pearls supplied over half the world demand for shell.  Shell was used in the clothing industry to make buttons and buckles

     However, diving was incredibly dangerous owing to shark attack and more often, the bends which is believed to have claimed the lives of half the divers. 

TI in 2B:  Japanese divers' graves, consumed by windswept grass.

     Since diving was dangerous, the European boat owners employed mostly Japanese divers.  Sadly, the Japanese were generally indentured labour, usually for their passage to Australia and they rarely paid off their debts.

     There are over 700 Japanese graves in the TI cemetery.  These exclude the horrendous loss of life in the Darnley Deeps, the deep diving grounds near Darnley Island.
     My late father-in-law, Henry fled Indonesia during civil unrest and arrived in the Torres Strait to dive for shell in 1930s. I loved hearing about Henry's adventures.  One time we were yarning, he pointed out the Darnley Deeps on one of Tony's maritime charts and said in his melodic Malay accent, "very dangerous, very deep."
     He told me about ascending too fast in the case of an interested shark and knowing he would get the diving sickness.  The only solution was to get back in the water at the required depth and wait things out.  Often this was at night and so he waited, suspended in the liquid black.  He was one of the lucky ones to survive though for the three years I knew him till his death in 1997, he was crippled by joint pain he said was from diving sickness.

TI in 2B:  More graves.  Note the bases collapsing under the weight of the headstones.

     In 1979, the Japanese consulate erected a memorial to the divers who lost their lives during the pearling era.

     It is impossible to imagine how the divers felt working in an industry fraught with risks, yet they kept diving for seventy or so years.  After all, people needed buttons and buckles for how else could they button their frocks and keep suspended their britches?

     What was the Torres Strait pearling industry if not one of the earliest sweatshops servicing the garment industry.  A wetshop, rather.

     Remember, 24 April this year? A Bangladesh clothing factory collapsed killing 1,129 people.  Those sweatshops were manufacturing clothes at bargain basement wages for well-known clothing labels. 

     Australian companies were not involved in the tragedy, but ABC News reported on 24 June, Australianretailers Rivers, Coles, Target and Kmart linked to Bangladesh factory worker abuse.

     What is it about our society?  We want lifestyle.  We want the security workplace laws offer so absolute safety, minimum wages, maximum hours and a variety of paid leave entitlements. Yet we also want the luxury of cheap and often unnecessary clothes to follow fashion, electronics, toys and furnishings, all of which come at the expense of workers rights and often their lives in third world Asian countries.

     I’ve been thinking about this issue for some time, that is, I should refuse to purchase anything made in Asian sweatshops.

     I told a friend yesterday I planned to spend a year buying only Australian made garments and products.

     “Good luck.  You’ll be hard-pressed buying Australian made anything,” she said, laughing.

     “At least I can make clothes,” I said, with great confidence.  “I used to do lots of sewing.”

     “Yeah, with fabric made in sweatshops.” 

     Ye of little faith, I thought.

     For me,the Japanese section of the TI cemetery is a stark reminder of sweatshop labour, but I reckon I can pull off a year without sweatshop goods or at least, I can give it a bloody good go.  It will be a challenge, but I know exactly how I can be constantly reminded of my goal: save a photo of a Japanese diver’s grave on my phone.  Should I start to stray from the truth of my resolve, let my Made in Korea, Samsung Galaxy Ace Plus screensaver also save me from my sins (James 5:19).

What now?

This whole dog drama has left me confused.  I feel a bit like Joseph K in The Trial.

     Are the dogs roaming or is it my imagination? 

     Is council turning a blind eye to the problem or is it working tirelessly and diligently, behind the scenes and through the night, to reduce numbers of at-large dogs and support owners to be responsible. 

     Why is this happening to me?

     I just don’t know.  Maybe my grip on reality is slipping.  I feel I have lost my way and can no longer see.  I need help.

     On the weekend, I sent my father a link to my blog, to give him an idea of what I have been up to and perhaps he could shed some light on the impasse I have with the local authority.

     I rarely ask Dad for advice unless there is likely to be a simple, concrete and preferably scientific solution.  If that’s the case, he always has awesome advice.

     You see Dad’s a chemist as in chemicals and he lives and breathes science. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction which I recall from high school physics as Newton’s second or third law of motion or was it thermodynamics.  I was not a fan of physics.  I got enough of it at home, thanks Dad.

     I wasn't hopeful of advice from Dad about dogs because there is clearly no easy solution, since enforcing local laws is off the menu. Dad's 73 and is still consulting, including abroad.  But, if there aren't laboratory practices that need tweaking or some trace element that needs extracting, Dad's likely to have no clue.

     However, I was taken aback with Dad's response.  Here it is:

Cath. this is my dog story - illustrating that what you see is not necessarily what is happening.

There was a blind man with his seeing eye dog standing at the pedestrian crossing.  All of a sudden the dog led the man across the crossing even though it was showing “Do Not Walk”.  There was a real commotion with cars beeping their horns and drivers screaming abuse as the two crossed against the light.

Luckily they got across safely. 

To the surprise of the onlookers the blind man drew a dog biscuit from his pocket and bent down offering it to his dog.

A nearby bystander shouted “How in the hell can you give him a biscuit after what he did to you?”

The blind man replied that he is offering the biscuit to find out where the dog’s head is so he can give him a good kick up his arse!

     Of course.  That’s the answer.  I just needed to go to the council, find its head and then administer a swift and forceful kick up the opposite end.  Then council could go about its business and apply animal management local laws.

     So, off I went to the council, with a couple of Scotch Fingers and I set about trying to locate council’s head. 

     I tried and tried, but all I could find were two arses.

     Now I am more confused than ever. 

Are you being served?

I’ve become a woman of letters in my time on TI.  In other words, a pain in the arse who writes letters of complaint to the council, IBIS, the school, to mention just a few recipients.  I do this when I believe my rights and those those of other community members, have been denied.  I get quite stressed when I think about exerting these rights because they are rights that we are entitled to as members of the Australian community.

     It always helps me to do a little meditation before writing these letters – ohm, ohm, ohm – so I can write without emotion and offer achievable solutions.

Ohm, ohm, ohm.

     I always start my complaints about IBIS on TI with recognition of the great specials the supermarket offers each week.  Those specials have enabled me to feed a large family, including anyone who drops in around meal times, at reasonable prices. Many of the specials match Cairns prices.  I am genuinely thankful for that opportunity.

     However, check this out sale tag displayed on 16 June:

… but scanned at $4.30 per kilo for 2.765 kgs.

    Quite the profit for IBIS.

     Here’s a bit about the governance of IBIS which is the trading name for IIB.

The Island Industries Board (IIB) is an unfunded not for profit Queensland Government Statutory Board which is registered as a charity by the Australian Taxation Office. 

…IBIS now has sophisticated processes in place that have been designed to operate effectively in remote areas.

     Okay, this is a sale item I bought today, 23 June.  Note the sale period, 17 to 30 June.

     The grannies scanned at $3.99 per kilo for 1.75 kgs.  Fortunately, I was able to let two customers know about the price discrepancy.

     It never ceases to amaze me when shopping at supermarkets down south, no matter how many things I buy, the scanned price always matches the shelf price, even for specials.  Too often, this is not the case at IBIS and the errors are very rarely in favour of the consumer. I wouldn’t complain if it was by a few cents here and there, but the above examples show we're talking dollars.  Of course, it would help to have the memory of an elephant or an IBIS app.  The bottom line is these errors are totally avoidable. 

     But wait!  There’s more.  Recently, I bought the last two small bottles of Kikkoman soy sauce, on special for $3.26.  Or so the shelf sale tag led me to believe.  In another aisle, there were more small bottles of Kikkoman soy sauce for $4.19.  Although I wanted to buy more, I wasn’t game in case the bottles in the second aisle were more costly.  However, when my two bottles were scanned, they were $4.86 each.  Three different prices!

     Here’s a few points from IBIS’s vision statement:

·                  To continue to provide healthy food choices at lowest possible prices

·                  To continue to develop strategic alliances to achieve responsible social and environmental  outcomes, and

·                  To channel the benefits back to the community.

·                  To exceed stakeholder expectations.

... through the values of Honesty, Accountability, Integrity, Dependability, Ethics.

Why is it so? 

Well, I wrote to the IBIS CEO in 2011.  

I was motivated to do something after I found some 1 kg boxes of caterer’s pack Weet-Bix being sold as a special.  I did the basic maths and they were considerably more expensive than the regular boxes of Weet-Bix.  I do recall the fine print on the box, Not for separate sale.  That aside, I felt my wile come up. I suggested, using the magic word several times, the manager remove those boxes immediately because it was clearly a case of misrepresentation.

    In a community where many people have low literacy and numeracy skills, it is easy to pull off misrepresentation of this nature, even if it is unintentional. 

     A bit more about IBIS governance:

The role of IBIS is to provide good quality, nutritious food to the communities of the Torres Strait and Northern Peninsula (Cape York) Regions at the lowest possible prices. 

     Then there are a few lines about IBIS being in ‘financial distress’ and a new board being appointed in 2002.  Then …

To this end the Board appointed a new Chief Executive Officer (CEO) and instructed him to examine, in detail, the operations of the organisation and to develop best practice systems and processes that would bring IBIS back to profitability. This has been achieved with the added benefit that IBIS now has sophisticated processes in place that have been designed to operate effectively in remote areas.

     What did the CEO say about Weet-Bix and scanning errors in 2011?

     In summary, he advised the check-out prices are set in Cairns so if a staff member on TI fails to change the shelf price … voila!

     He also pointed out that as a business operator, I should know that any business if only as good as its staff. 

     Mmm, the examples of the navel oranges and granny smiths suggest the correct scanning price had not been entered in Cairns.

     My first formal complaint about IBIS’s scanning errors was 30 March, 2009, in a submission to a federal parliamentary inquiry into remote community stores and pricing (can’t recall precise wording). Then to the CEO in 2011 and now … I am having a Gestalt moment, why am I complaining again? 

     It’s like the dog issue (see postings below).  And the state school screening numerous recreational DVDs (complained 2004, 2005 and 2010) that had no bearing on lessons (I am sorry, but I will not accept Kung Fu Panda, Tinkerbell and Around the Twist have any educational value).

     Hang on, there’s a pattern here and patterns are always lessons in camouflage.

     What is the lesson?

     Perhaps, the denial of people’s rights - the right to rely on displays of supermarket pricing (and the vision statement) and the right to be able to walk freely in the community without the threat of dog attacks and the right to expect my children will not be pacified at school by the flat screen nipple – isn’t necessarily a problem for other people.  

     I might be incensed that a people who are affected by disadvantage are further disadvantaged by incompetence and apathy and problems that have simple solutions, but I can't do anything if no one else is prepared to put finger to keyboard. 

     It’s me.  I’m the problem.  I get it now.

     I just need to accept the way things are.

     When in Rome, ohm.

     Ohm, ohm, ohm.

     OHM, OHM, OHM.

    OHM, OHM, OHM.

    OHM, OHM, OHM.

  OHM, OHM, OHM. 

A Tale of Four Pooches

Once upon a time on an island far away from the Australian mainland, there lived four little pooches.  

They were:

Cruise (the alpha male)

Brown Dog (beta male) 

Sam (the thinker)

Queenie (only female)

One day Cruise, Brown Dog, Queenie and Sam were hanging out on the edge of a main road, contemplating the myriad of stimulating and enjoyable activities they could engage in.

Brown Dog:  I love living here.  We have so much freedom.  If we lived in Cairns we'd be locked up behind a tall fence.

Cruise:  Yeah, we'd have to shit in our own yards.

Brown Dog:  Too right.  The council here are great.  They never pick us up and take us to the pound like they do to roaming dogs in Cairns.  

Sam:  That's an interesting point, Brown Dog, because there are local laws that council are supposed to exercise. Taking roaming dogs to the pound is one of those laws.

Queenie:  I tend to agree with you, Sam.  Think about it, Cruise and Brown Dog. Catherine Titasey was bailed up by three dogs last Tuesday and she complained to council who did nothing. The next day her friend Eileen was bailed up by those same dogs.  If council had done their job, neither of them would have been put in a position where they thought they were going to be ripped to pieces by large, angry dogs.

Cruise:  It's not like they got bitten.  Why are they complainin'?  No one else does.

Brown Dog:  Good job council keep ignoring Catherine Titasey. She'll give up soon.  She did a couple of years ago.

Cruise:  Anyway, who does she think she is comin' here and tellin' council what they gotta do?  Writin' letters thinkin' anyone's gonna do what she says. 

Sam:  She actually has a point.  It's about making sure people are responsible when they own dogs.

Cruise:  We're on an island.  We do things different here.

Queenie:  Cairns is on an island, too.

Brown Dog:  Puh! We're just enjoying our natural environment.

Cruise:  I'm sick o' hearing about Catherine Titasey trying to stop us roaming. 

Brown Dog:  I'm bored.  What are we going to do?

Queenie: I'm tired (yawn) of listening to you two.  You have no idea.

Sam: It's about education and helping people to understand their responsibilities.  It impacts on many other aspects of being a responsible citizen and worker and parent ...

Cruise:  Shut up, Sam.  Let's have sex.  

Queenie:  Not again.  I understand how Catherine and Eileen feel.

Brown Dog:  Give it a rest, Queenie.  Looking good.  Smelling good, too.

Sam:  I know exactly what you mean, Queenie, but I just can't bear to stand by and watch.

Cruise:  That was great.  I feel like a million bucks.

Brown Dog:  Mmm. My turn.

Queenie:  Get away, Brown Dog. No, no, no.  No more sex.

Cruise:  You're complainin' now.  Women, always complainin'.

Brown Dog:  Can you make it right for me, Cruise?

Cruise:  One way or another, I will, brother.

Queenie:  I'm sick of you and Brown Dog jumping on me. Brown Dog, get your nose out of my privates!  Sam is the only one who respects me and treats me like a human being.

Cruise:  That's cos he bats for the other team, Queenie.

Queenie: I said, get out, Brown Dog.

Sam: Gentlemen, I've said this before, but maybe one day it will click.  You need to respect the right of a woman ...

Cruise: I'll leave Queenie alone just to shut you up, Sam.  You're as bad as that Catherine Titasey.

Cruise:  Don't mind me, Brown Dog.  I said I'd make it right for you.

Sam:  It's a win win, Queenie.  I learned that when I did a dispute resolution course.

Queenie:  I don't know what I'd do without you, Sammy Boy.  

Cruise: This is better than I thought.

Brown Dog:  You can make it right, any day, brother!

Sam:  Boys will be boys (exasperated sigh).

Cruise:  Why didn't I think of this before?  I wouldn't have had to put up with Queenie whingein'.

Queenie:  There go a couple of the council executives.  Cruise and Brown Dog, you need to stop now.

Brown Dog: It's all good, sister. 

Queenie:  But that is not acceptable behaviour.  You have to stop, Cruise.

Sam: Enough's enough, boys.  

Queenie: You heard Sam.  Get off him, Cruise.

Sam:  Don't bother, Queenie.  Maybe one day they'll grow up and start making good choices.

Cruise:  Okay, okay.  I'll stop.  I can't stand the complainin'  You two happy now?

Brown Dog:  But I'm bored.  What can we do?

Cruise:  I dunno.  Let's have sex! 

Going to the dogs

I’m rabid these days, absolutely frothing at the mouth at the slack-arsed response by Torres Shire Council to the long-term dog problem on Thursday Island.

     Here's a mini history lesson.  

     I complained to Torres Shire Council (TSC) from mid- 2010 for eighteen months about roaming dogs that chased me while running or cycling, attacked or mauled my dogs and chased and nipped my kids.  TSC did nothing.  In 2010, the then CEO was bitten by one of the dogs I’d complained about.  I was certain TSC would start to enforce local animal management laws, not realising I was barking up the wrong tree.

    No such luck.  It wasn't long before I was feeling as sick as a dog over this issue.

    In mid-2011 tried to find a copy of these local laws, but they weren’t on the TSC website.  The relevant director sent me a link to the elusive laws.  They really did exist!

     I pursued this matter with dogged determination for two reasons.  One, safety; mine, my kids, other people.  Two, animal welfare; too many dogs are neglected and/or subject to cruelty

     After 18 months, it hit me there must be some cultural consideration that voids the local laws.  So I wrote to the mayor and CEO and posed the obvious question.

     I didn’t get a response to that question, however, I was told that TSC can’t take a “hard-nosed approach” when enforcing the local laws and I got the usual dog and pony show about TSC being committed to animal management.

     Anyway, I thought TSC response was a load of dogs’ bollocks, but hey, I know when to put my tail between my legs.  So I figured two things; one, the stretch of water north of Queensland negates the operation of, among other things, animal management laws and/or two, TSC had no bite when it came to enforcing the local laws it is funded to enforce.  Either way, it was time to let sleeping dogs lie.

     Fast forward eighteen months.  On 16 April, I was walking my dogs on leashes and two massive dogs attacked my male.  I complained to the CEO. She was tight-jowled.

     Three weeks later I found this dog. 

     His knee was broken and he was walking on his elbow.  His entire under-torso was septic and stank and he was covered in flies.  I contacted police and he was shot later that day.  It turns out people had seen him in that state, in excess of two weeks.  They were reluctant to the dog catcher (not wanting to cause trouble and that sort of stuff). 

     Actually, they could not have contacted the dog catcher if they wanted to because he had left a couple of months earlier after he had a knife pulled on him while he was working on Horn Island, as was confirmed by TSC.

     Then, on 30 May, my dogs were attacked again while on leashes.  I complained to the CEO and finally got an answer, including an answer to my earlier complaint, both feeble.  I’d already contacted the owner of the 30 May attack dog and she agreed to euthanize her dog. 

     As if there is no ending to this surreal dog’s breakfast, on 18 June, my daughter and I, walking our dog, were bailed up first by Dog A, Dog B in pursuit and then by Dog C who was much more aggressive.  I only got him off the scent by throwing my son’s heavy backpack as a very kind knight in Toyota Camry armour pulled up to our rescue.

     I had to call the dog catcher as these were dangerous dogs.  It was Tuesday and I knew the dog catcher worked Tuesday and Thursday.  Hot diggety! 

     Not so.  His work days had changed, Wednesday to Friday. I pleaded with him to catch the dogs. 

     No use.  He didn’t have a vehicle. Big esso, TSC, equipping your staff with the necessary tools of trade.

     I wanted to roll over, but I was prepared to keep chasing my tail, one more time. 

     I called the relevant TSC officer and was so relieved when she said she would contact a council director and get down to the oval.  At least the dogs were shining on me.

     You can’t imagine my dismay when I listened to her subsequent voice message that she’d spoken to the owner of Dog C, who 'very sheepish’ and she’d told him to restrain his dog.  And, here’s the piece de resistance, she did not have the evidence to determine the dogs as dangerous.

     Remember, this was the third attack on me and my animals in two months that I have reported to council!

    The next day.  

Here is the owner (he told me) of Dog C going for a walk the morning after we were bailed up.

"Don't fence me in," crooned Dog C as he went for a solo stroll about 3 pm.

     Later, at 5.30, I saw the owner ambling down to the oval with the three dogs, A, B and C.

     At 6.15 I learned my friend had just been attacked by all three dogs while walking past the oval. She beat at the dogs with her umbrella, breaking it, until some men playing football threw the ball at them and our very same rescuer came driving up in his Toyota Camry to save her.

     My friend doesn’t drive and loves going for long walks each day. Now she is too afraid to walk anywhere.

     But TSC had no evidence following my complaint to declare the dogs 'dangerous dogs' which would have prevented the attack on my friend.  It's the bloody tail wagging the dog. 

     However, Dogs A and B were surrendered to council today although Dog C is at large (in hiding, I bet).  If local laws had been applied years ago, even if they had been applied in March when TSC claim local laws were adopted, hell, even if they were frigging well applied when I complained on 18 June, my friend would never have been attacked on 19 June.  I need a tissue.  The froth keeps coming.