BLOW FLIES

Have you ever woken up a bit startled by a dream that you just had? It doesn’t happen that often but about a month ago I had one dream that was more like a nightmare.

Looking out the bedroom windows I espied five of my flock each painted with a word. BLOW, FLIES, HOME, GO, NOW. Except for grammar I thought it read reasonable well for a flock of sheep that have never even been to pre-school. Even Dalai and Panchun the two Alpacas were there but stood apart from the flock as usual – there words BUONOS NOCHES didn’t seem to fit the sign anywhere.

And then Hayu the lamb sauntered across from behind the house. I think the protest was actually aimed at him. He was sporting a rather crudely drawn target icon on his rump. It was probably sprayed on by Roast who has always been jealous of the lamb because he’s more horny than he. Hayu went to go into the middle of the line but was beaten back half way across the paddock. Finally, on returning to the line, Maxine, who wore the word GO realised her error and changed places with Betty who wore HOME and the sentence read much better.

Maxine then marched towards Hayu and pointed her left foreleg at the poor little fellow announcing that “we will decide who nibbles our grass and the conditions under which they nibble it.”

‘Ear, ear’ bleated Casserole. I drowsily reached for my Dream Interpretation Book and looked for a meaning. Not Mary’s little lamb, stranger, not related to the rest of the flock. Just wandered in and began eating their grass and drinking their water. What a hide. Besides they claim he has a strange accent, obviously a bloomin’ migrant from the wrong side of the fence. Perhaps the flock might even begin complaining about the amount of Malt Pellets Hayu received from Centrelink compared to them.

Hayu right from his arrival had to be given his own bowl for food as none of the other residents wanted a bar of him and were denying him access to the normal services available on my land. They don’t even invite him to share their carrots and apples. What seems to worry them most is that he seems to always sit and chew his cud five times a day facing the West. All hell will break loose when two new ‘coloured’ Merino’s, Farsi and Fatima, arrive next week if I don’t nip this problem in the bud right now.

Suddenly it struck me…….how stupid could I be…..how stupid were they. I called out to them. It’s BLOW-INS stupid…..not Blow Flies. Blow-ins.
GODFREY ZONE

P.S One other bad dream I had recently was after I had laid Pindone for the rabbits. As a socialist pacifist it’s very hard for me to even think of killing anything. But that night I dreamt of seeing hundreds of Bugs Bunnies floating towards the clouds singing songs from ‘Watership Down’.

P.P.S I’ll have to stop Kebab the Whether from travelling in the back of the Ute. He was listening intently to my CD’s while driving around last month and now I find out that he wants to trade in his guitar for a Wurlitzer and a Sigmund Romberg Songbook.

WHAT'S MANHOOD?

(Readers should be advised that this story contains animals and adult themes. It may also contain traces of nuts.)



The next important step in the learning curve of moving from being a Pitt Street Farmer to a fair dinkum Happy Valley resident was it now came time for the inaugural shearing of the alpacas.

The sheep were bad enough. Somehow by being an obsessive compulsive has allowed my animals to work out every regular move I make. Visitors, feeding time, noisy machines, feeding time, burning off, feeding time, and so on.

So it was to be with the alpacas. The very moment I do anything different such as encircling the small yard with hessian they immediately expect something dastardly is going to happen. So one has to do these things well in advance so as to put them at ease and make them think all is normal. Dali and Panchun had no idea that anything was up until I refused to re-open the yard gate for them after feeding.

The hummed and ‘aaahed’ as usual until the van arrived with two strangers aboard. Complaints and inquisitive looks turned to consternation and horror as the two men approached them.

I had not heard about having the Alpha male go first, so it was brown ‘Dali’ who would picked to feel the effects of clippers and snippers first. That’s right, neutering was on our mind as well. He actually was quite laid back about it all, even being spread-eagled in the dirt didn’t seem to worry him. Laying there taking it all like a man, even though ten minutes later he would no longer have a libido.

When released Dali headed off into the wild blue yonder feeling a bit lighter and cooler, all three sets of human eyes now turned to Panchun.

Like a Hitchcock suspense movie the moment of shearing was building up from quite elevator music as he was lowered to the ground to the stab stab stab of Bernard Hermann's shower scene in ‘Psycho’. The bloodied knife being replaced by gnawing shears.

Like Dali two years of fleece fell to earth, Panchun’s black locks gradually denuding him. Concurrently with the process of shearing Panchun let go with every orifice and soiled himself, spitting at anyone in reach and screaming blue murder. He didn’t let up even after we let him go.

With a sound like the screams of a woman running from the hairdressers clutching her bald skull Panchun didn’t stop running until he hit the boundary fence. He felt the shears but felt nothing of a bit of him disappearing into a bucket. Not only had they lost their hair but some mean bugger had also stolen their manhood as well.

The indignity of it hit Panchun like a well aimed Mallet and all he could do was flop to the ground, groin pressed into the dirt in an attempt to protect what he no longer had.

Even to this day they are both so traumatised by the event that whenever they settle down to feed and lower their head into the feed trough they seem to experience some sort of flashback and both will pop their heads up quickly, with a startled look, eyes wide, as much as to say ‘Wazzat?”

Maxine has been treading on my toes regularly in an attempt to get me to buy her a ‘puter’. I’ve got a spare one in the shed and a good monitor but I’m still searching for a keyboard with typing keys big enough to manipulate with her hooves. She won’t let up, she knows it will upset Betty who kind of thinks she’s the local Baa Bara Cartland. I think Maxine wants to do a column too but I’m resisting the idea. Why should I give up my space for her?

I think I’ll ask her to audition for the job first and find a good excuse for her not to proceed with her unrealistic ambitions.

GODFREY ZONE


THOUGHT FOR THE MONTH

Why is it that Phone Technicians, Electrician and Plumbers are all striving to keep the name ‘Diggers’ alive.

Every time I want to do something around the house it seems they’ve got to bury it. One example is gathering water from the guttering around the carport and directing it to the downpipe in one corner, but then going underground for about a meter and a half before rising up again nearly to the same height to empty the water into the rainwater tank.

Are these the normal rules or are they all in search of Lasseter’s Reef.