Having pets seems to be rather similar to riding motorbikes. I have come to this conclusion after much discussion with Michael enthusing lyrically and fondly about his past motorcycling exploits. Both pursuits appear to provide endless fun (and unconditional love in the case of dogs), but the reality may be somewhat different.
For example, let's discuss some of Michael's favourite justifications for his love of motorbikes. He described his joy at flying along highways as free as a bird. Except that he explained that he had to watch the road like a hawk in case of oil or water or gravel on its surface, or if he was riding at high speed, which did not allow for idle sight seeing.
There is a very good reason a magistrate in Port Hedland once labelled him as "Leadfingers" following a court appearance for yet another speeding offence. Michael loved to ride fast.
Then there was Michael's love for his famous dark brown ponytail he wore with pride until he was twenty-two. An uber-cool look to partner with his handlebar mustache. Which would twirl like a manic propeller behind his helmet, along with various insects unwittingly entering his frenetically spinning hair ... and never exiting.
And of course, the delight at cruising around curves and corners with the greatest of ease. until his front wheel (or back wheel) made contact with some sort of substance and sent him hurtling on his arse towards the asphalt. Which explains the permanent dimples he now sports of both sides of his bum.
The best story he has told me was his eagerness to test the solidity of the surface of sewerage ponds on his motorbike. He was so successful at sinking to the bottom on the first occasion that he returned for a second try. With, predictably, the same result...
Michael's rose coloured memories of his motorcycle riding does bear some resemblance to our blindly positive adoration of our motley canine, feline and feathered crew. We would swear that they are essential for our well being, that any misdemeanors are a mere trifle and that when their bodily functions go a bit haywire, who are we to judge those minor accidents.
Which somehow allows me to pay homage to Mister Norman Gunston. Created by comedy writer Wendy Skelcher and first appearing on the "Aunty Jack Show", Norman was the antithesis of the slick and well prepared journalist and later became the host of a supposedly semi serious interview programme. He dressed very badly, fashioned possibly the worst comb over ever seen and usually had bits of tissue stuck to his face as a result of shaving cuts (with an electric razor). His enthusiasm for interviewing hid his complete disinterest in his guests, he was prone to break into interpretive songs and famously would offer Australian delicacies such as pineapple donuts or Chiko rolls to his unsuspecting interviewees.
You may be asking how Norman Gunston lives larger than life in Station House. We are reminded of Norman most days, or at least, we are reminded of his face. Pip, our tottering and aged Jack Russell has developed cataracts, so he doesn't see much. He is also as deaf as a post, has dodgy heart valves, a tendency to retain fluid and advancing arthritis. He has a cough that should put any smoker to shame, nasal candles better than any snotty toddler and an irritating habit to piddle, pooh and throw up with no notice and astonishing sound effects.
Chop, our black and white feline ringmaster, sometimes behaves just like a greedy pig. He will bolt his breakfast or dinner delicacies down with indecent haste, which occasionally results in instant regurgitation. He has no shame whatsoever regarding this revolting behaviour and simply slinks off to take up his throne on the leather sofa.
As for Red the rude parrot, he thoroughly enjoys having a jolly good bathe with gay abandon, sploshing his drinking water everywhere whilst exclaiming loudly "You're a shit!"
Hence, I keep, very close, a large supply of paper towel, a copious spray bottle of vinegar and water and another of diluted detergent. Often I will mop up the latest mess with dry paper towel, soak the offending area in the available potions and then add more paper towel to finish the job. Often, I have multiple spots in varying stages of cleaning or drying. Which means the lino (I am so pleased we only have carpet in one room) may remain scattered with paper towel all day until I can be bothered to bend down, remove all the dampened paper into the bin and wash my hands for the thirtieth time.
Thank you, Garry McDonald, for the comic genius portrayal of Norman Gunston. I think of Norman as I gaze with frustration at yet another pee on my floor, covering the puddle with paper that never fails to remind me of Norman's tissue-spotted face.
At least Stella has grown out of her sofa-eating tendencies. Though, she did enjoy a good chomp on an emery board that Michael left on the side table...Maybe she wanted to file her teeth a bit!
Until next time.
Or at least clean up after himself!
