The Beagle Strikes Back!

Smug self-satisfaction is one of those fleeting emotional responses. Why is it fleeting? Because whenever I feel smug self-satisfaction, something invariably goes pear shaped.

Take this morning, for example. Michael and I have been congratulating ourselves that the stupendous amount of money we'd spent on the electric fence and Ruby's electrifying collar was the answer to our prayers. Sure, we'd  adjusted the collar's "correction" level from the first setting - mildly naughty - to the second setting - more zap for your buck.

For over a week now, the Beagle has shown no signs of escape artistry. In the meantime, her ears - a bit dodgy at the best of times - had deteriorated into inflamed, itchy and gross. Even regular cleaning and syringing wasn't doing the trick. It was time to book an appointment with the vet.

Taking Ruby to the vet - or anywhere in the car -  is a  major enterprise. Because she gets hideously carsick, she has to be medicated half an hour before we leave. I'd already decided to take Kermit, the four wheel drive,  as she's higher, she can see more and there is better airflow. Even so, she turns green within the first ten minutes and drools copiously for the entire trip.

Just for fun, I thought I'd take Sascha and Pip along for the ride. Sascha, being elderly and lumpy, needs a general check of her bumps. Pip, our insane Jack Russell, has a bottom that "goes the wrong way". I kid you not, that's what a vet told me. So his anal glands are a constant problem. His other constant problem is that he bites the vet and needs to be muzzled.

I'd decided to try a new vet in Northam this morning. I made the appointment, spent twenty minutes on the phone describing their breeds, temperaments, various idiosyncrasies and found Ruby's medication. Last night I plonked the bottle on the bench, set the alarm and bid the dogs farewell before I retired to bed.

Up bright and early (ish), two out of the three dogs greeted me in the bedroom. This in itself was not unusual, as Ruby's collar warns her of an impending correction if she steps over the threshold. I assumed she was doing her rounds in the garden.

Pig's ear for Sascha and chicken tender for Pip. I was sure the Beagle would gallop into the house once she saw the others eating. I waited. No Beagle. Uh oh.

There was no sign of Ruby in the back yard. The little cow had done a runner. Broken through the electrical barricade. She'd lulled us into a false sense of security whilst she'd been planning her escape route.

At a quarter to nine, I had to ring the vet and cancel. Ruby had still not returned and it was too late to give her the medication before a car trip. I have re-scheduled for next Friday...

I heard Madam on the front porch a short time later. Her right ear is disgusting and she now is sporting an impressive limp as well. Once inside though, she still performed her little head dance which always precedes her getting her morning treat. I told her to get stuffed.

In disgust, she has retired to the top bunk in the laundry to dream happy Beagle dreams. Guilt? Not a skerrick. And we now have to raise the correction level on her collar from more zap for your buck to  take that, you sneaky little bitch!

We have been taught a lesson. Again. Never underestimate the cunning and stealth of the Beagle.

Mind like a steel trap with the persistence of a battering ram!

Building vs Michael or How to Injure the Artist.

Today was supposed to be just another day at the office for Michael and sidekick Gary. Weld two steel beams together, hump the finished product into Shop 4, manoeuvre it into place between the entry and the end of the space where the floor is going to be replaced and grind some old foundations away for it to fit snugly. Then weld the beam onto the steel post, congratulate themselves and return outside to move some more steel beams to be prepared to join the central member. All the time whilst dressed in the traditional safety gear of shorts, shirts and sneakers.

All was going exceptionally well until the very end. The boys returned to the back block to heave some steel around, sort the lengths out and cut the beams to size. In a classic case of missing the obvious signs of disaster, the steel went one way, a wooden post with a nail sticking out between the layers of steel went another way and Michael stumbled a third way. Somehow, the middle finger of Michael's left hand was trapped between the cascading beams and his right hand was caught on the nail, now helpfully pointing skywards.

I was safely in the Gallery, pounding away on our website's templates. I knew nothing of the unfolding drama. Then my phone rang. It was Michael. Odd, I thought. Why doesn't he just come into the Gallery? He confessed he was up at our local hospital, waiting to be seen by one of the local quacks.

I shot out of the Gallery up to the hospital. Michael was in the waiting room with a cup of coffee and a biscuit. He had to wait for the doctor to arrive after he finished at the practice across the road. After checking he wasn't bleeding copiously, I left him to cool his heels.

I pottered around at home catching up on a zillion housewifely chores. I started to worry after six. After finishing some washing and putting on the sprinklers, I decided to drive back, even if he wasn't ready. And then my phone rang.

He was waiting outside the front entry in the evening glow. The mashed finger had been bandaged. The webbing between his right thumb and index finger has been stitched. Six of them. Armed with panadeine forte and with instructions to return on Sunday for rebandaging and a tetanus injection (the hospital had run out of the stuff), we left for home.

Two beers, dinner, some vino and a couple of tablets have helped Michael's pain levels, but the mashed finger is giving him curry. I am about to throw him into the shower and then send him to bed.

And he thinks he'll be able to work tomorrow. Bahahahahaha!

In the beginning, there was the beam...

positioned on the post, which was encased in cement (signed of course)..

nerve centre now has Michael's MIG welder (alias Davros) in residence...

welder in space helmet...

yes, the sparks smart...

unsuccessful but spectacular welding mishap...

at home after emergency treatment...

middle finger now the size of a sausage and other hand blowing up remarkably as well!

How to Foil a Beagle

The House that Rocks is home to the Three Stooges, the Fickle Fairweather Feline, the Pirate Parrott and the Maddening Magpie. All suffer from some form of species confusion from time to time. All of them have caused chaos and carnage. In spite of, or because of, these special gifts they have provided us, all of our creatures great and small are loved, nurtured and cherished.

 Ruby was Michael's dog when we met, hence she is my Step-Beagle. Sascha and Pip are Michael's Step-Weimaraner and Step-Jack Russell. The cat allows us to inhabit the same place of residence out of graciousness. Red the Parrot enjoys short flights, poohing everywhere and eating through electrical cords. Bentley the Magpie has learnt how to open the portholes on the  flyscreens, squawks loudly and repetitively to be fed and has annoyed Sascha by pecking her on the head and leaving a fairly large beak shaped cut.

Ruby has recently caused us the most concern. Not to mention copious amounts of profanity and pulling our hair out. Ruby, the youngest of our dogs, is often mistaken as the oldest. This is due to her life mantra - why stand when I can sit? Why sit when I can lie down? She has the added inconvenience of a rather rounded tummy and usually sits side saddle when she hops onto one of our outside chairs. This she does without any invitation. We believe she likes the view.

She has a beautiful face with kohl-rimmed eyes. She also has a perpetual vacant expression which gives the appearance that she is not very smart. This could not be further from the truth. Ruby has a mind like a steel trap, the cunning of a stalking predator and the perseverance of a battering ram. And she is ruled by her stomach. Which turned her into a prolific escape artist.

Our property is fully fenced and the other dogs rarely attempt to escape. A notable exception was Pip the Jack Russell fleeing through our wire fence when the smoke alarm recently discombobulated. Most of the time Sascha and Pip are content with the confines of the back yard. Not our Ruby.

Her craters that she excavated under the fence defied explanation as she disliked physical activity. Except when she's hungry. And Ruby is a dog who is always hungry. She is a greedy little pig who is frequently disappointed by the amount of food we provide for her. Thus, she devised a method of obtaining more titbits for her enjoyment.

She has been spotted all over our end of town looking for unguarded food.  My friend Denese came out of her house one morning to discover Ruby's head in Woody's kibble bucket. Lorna next door brought her home on several occasions. As has Shane and Marci from opposite us.

We hoped the really hot weather would slow her down. No such luck. She just started earlier, in the cool of the day. We were becoming desperate. Given her frequent - daily - escaping, three scenarios were becoming increasingly likely. That she would be run over, given her lack of speediness across the road. That she would investigate something live and/or poisonous. That she would be shot by a local farmer, concerned about dogs going after the sheep. We had to stop her for her own safety.

The solution was expensive and tedious and tiring. We have enclosed half our property - about 2000 square metres - with an electric fence that sets off a transmitter on Ruby's collar if she gets too close to the boundary wire.  This was not entirely successful on activation. The collar's transmitter has four levels of "correction", from easily startled to stubborn as hell. We discovered Ruby was in the latter category and have had to adjust her transmitter a few times, in order to stop her in her tracks.

We have been successful at last. With an outlay of  about  $500 on our part, Ruby has recognised that parts of the House that Rocks and the fence are now no-go zones. She has coped with this inconvenience in her usual style. Once she realised that further resistance was futile, she retired, with no outward complaint, to bed. If she were human, she would expect a Bex and a cup of tea as well.

However, we know better than to underestimate Ruby. We are waiting for her next scheme to reveal itself...

Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth

The Snozz

Just wait till she takes those ears off me.....

From Little Things Big Things Grow

Yesterday was one of those red letter days.  Michael was finally rewarded for the hard slog to bring the East End Gallery to life. Yesterday, we sold our first art piece.

I drove "The Pod" carefully to Northam to its new home. I was particularly nervous about getting it there in one piece as it is made of fibreglass. In the Gallery, it had been hanging in our front window, where it couldn't be damaged. I can even attest to the hard pointiness of its prongs. After its installation, I must have hit my head on it at least three times whilst arranging art pieces in front of it.

Driving "The Pod" seventy kilometres was another matter. I laid it like a precious infant on the back seat of Goldilocks, our bright yellow buzz box. I made sure it was cushioned. I considered putting a seatbelt around it. That may have been a bit over the top, so after much angst, I decided I would just wing it with an untethered sculpture in the back seat.

Of course, "The Pod" and I made it in one piece. I handed it over to its new owner, a delightful chap and artist named Tom, who had come to the opening of the East End Gallery. He was painstakingly restoring a house that had been gutted by fire. And I thought we had issues with a building.

This sale is a milestone. Another step toward our dream. The work on the building is far from over. Michael, trade assistant Gary and a young fit lad named Patrick are lifting the floorboards in the biggest shop to expose the awful truth underneath. Rotten wood, ancient electrics, the crumbling brick pillars of the old cellar, a great pile of dirty sand and not a lot of support for the floor we have been standing on for quite some time.

We had hoped to recycle the floorboards. Unfortunately, their redemption is not going to be possible. They are in poor condition and will cost us far too much time and money to save a fraction of them. A new floor is the logical answer. At least we'll feel confident when we stand on it.

Michael has had another hiccup in his health. Diverticulitis - a gut problem. Only a "mild" attack, but enough to make him  miserable. He is under strict instructions to take things easier until he feels better. And he's always wanted to be a supervisor!

The building and our Gallery have been a long time coming. Lots of blood, sweat and tears. With more to come. They are as much a work of art as the pieces we display. When the main gallery is finished, we will have finished creating something beautiful out of a tired, unloved, neglected building.

From little things, big things grow...

East End Gallery - opening night. "The Pod" in the front window

"The Pod" - our first sold artwork!

Back to the Future @ Shop 4!

The East End Gallery is alive and well. Every weekend we are welcoming groups of visitors, most of them on day trips from the Big Smoke. This is particularly heartening as the summer months are not conducive to tourism in Heavenly Beverley. Too bloody hot.

The good news is that we only have another month or so of really hot weather. The bad news is that Michael can't wait for the summer to subside to commence renovation of Shop 4 at the Forbes Building. We have committed ourselves to having at least the front half of the shop completed in time for Easter. That will be the time for the launch of our next exhibition.

The expanded East End Gallery will be another eighty-six square metres of hanging and floor space. The Gallery's eventual size of over one hundred and forty square metres will (hopefully) be its main drawcard for attracting artists to showcase their work. That's Michael's dream.

In the meantime, there are some major repairs and restoration that has to occur. Michael has been filling holes and sealing the front of the pressed tin ceiling and walls in preparation for painting. We have just hired a young, strong and smart lad to help him with the grunt work. Gary is still available if he doesn't have other work commitments. Unfortunately, Leo, trade assistant and dog about town isn't visiting the building at present, as Gary and Leo's mother have had a falling out.

Today will involve emptying the shop of all miscellaneous junk. There will be two categories - tip or non - tip. The rubbish will be dumped directly into the trusty trailer. Useful items will have to find a home out the back of the workshop. Depending on how Michael feels, they may continue with more wall patching and crack filling.

By far the most time-consuming and heavy  job will be lifting the floorboards, reinforcing underneath with steel members and then relaying the floor. We have always known this needs to happen. The cellar underneath the shop was filled with yellow sand to solve water issues after the Meckering earthquake in 1968. The floor was not supported adequately afterward, hence the need to fix the problem now. At least we'll know the floor will be safe and secure.

So the final push is on. Michael has been renovating the building for two and a half years. He has had enough of hundred-year-old dust and grime in his hair, eyes and up his nose. Not to mention being covered from head to foot in goop and paint.

I'm hoping we can complete the building without Michael's health failing again. He is very tired and his chest is a bit rattly. I'm watching him like a hawk. Once again, my quest is to keep him as well as possible so he can finally fulfill his dream. And become just an artist.

up, up and away...

the blank canvas

the nerve centre, complete with entertainment

Still life of Michael and scaffolding

sophisticated air conditioning system

an odd item or two collected on the premises

fireplace au natural!

Walking with the Black Dog

I thought I had the Black Dog at bay. That he’d retreated into the shadows and I was in control, in charge. What a crock. I’d become far too smug, too self-satisfied. I’d forgotten that the Black Dog can sneak up on you when you least expect him. I have learnt, once more, that he is savvier than I am. He has so much in common with The Bitch, whom Michael battles every day. I let down my guard and the Black Dog rebounded, snarling with vicious and withering intent.

My descent into Hell (or the Well) also occurred subtly, quietly, so I failed to recognise what was happening. I was aware of my lower mood, of my unexpected despair, of increasing fear. So I consulted our local GP and I started seeing another psychologist. She was compassionate and encouraging and introduced me to a new technique. I congratulated myself that I was successfully incorporating this skill into my life and I would start feeling better in no time.

Then the noise in my head increased. Memories were crowding in, threatening to suffocate me. I had never felt so full and so empty at the same time. My body was also in pain, my elbows, my lower back and dragging nauseated sensations in my belly.

I have been having particularly vivid visions of a time, long ago, when I was carrying my girls and knew something was terribly wrong. Being disbelieved. Feeling like an idiot. How could there be anything amiss with this pregnancy? I’d paid my dues.  I’d had a late miscarriage and then a second loss, when my first born baby boy died at 48 days. I was told I was just having a difficult twin pregnancy. So, when their stillbirths were confirmed through ultrasound, we were all stunned.

So, when I started feeling this pain in my pelvis, I became terrified, convinced I had ovarian cancer. I had blood tests and an ultrasound. I haven’t heard anything, so I assume I’m in the clear. I just wish the GP would ring and reassure me.

I think that was the very last straw. First, I lost my nerve to drive. I retreated into the house, into myself. I stopped using social media. I could not think, could not concentrate. I’d look at the garden and feel nothing at all. My place of pleasure had evaporated.

I was terrified Michael would leave me. He was bewildered and worried. He just kept holding me, trying to save me from the nightmare. I went back to the GP. Then I managed to get an early appointment with a new psychiatrist.

I’ve seen the psychiatrist. With Michael. She was empathetic but brisk. She was kind but matter of fact. She didn’t think I was a drama queen or a hysteric. She listened to me, made sensible comments and responded positively to all my fears. I had been convinced I would end up in hospital that day. I’d even packed a bag in readiness. She adjusted my medication, added a new antidepressant and promised to closely monitor me. I burst into tears of relief. After booking the next appointment, Michael and I were back in the morning sun.

The bleak fog that had been enveloping me for days showed its first signs of thinning ever so slightly. Even more surprising, I was actually a bit hungry. So we wandered across the road and found a little eatery. I had sushi and a smoothie for breakfast. Tasted delicious.

I drove home from Mundaring that afternoon. I am trying to do more each day. Baby steps though. My brain is still unreliable and my concentration flits around like an anxious bird. Sustained conversation is sporadic as I lose my train of thought very easily.

I’m in the gallery today and I’m actually enjoying being back in the saddle. I’ve had one enthusiastic couple through. Now, Tim Burns, our mentor, friend and extraordinary artist has dropped in. He and Michael are chatting animatedly about the building and expanding the gallery.

The Black Dog and I are carrying on with our merry dance, but his hold is lessening. I am determined to regain the upper hand. And I will never underestimate his power again.

Now for the wanky bit. I am so bloody grateful to all our friends who have given me so much support during the recent past. Love to you all.

There's an Elephant in the Corner

I have always considered elephants to be pretty unique and somehow endearing. Maybe that's because they are rather ungainly. Like me. Not attractive in any conventional sense. Like me. Saggy baggy with rolls of additional skin that get in the way. Like me. Elephants are also social and loud. Like me. And they love deeply. If you've ever viewed an elephant mourning the loss of a member of their group, you will empathise with their profound grief. That they feel. Like us.

There are other sorts of elephants I'd had in my life. I've hung elephant chains with bells off our big swamp she-oak in the garden. I currently have an electric blue bowl decorated with elephants that is our key depository by the front door. I have wooden elephants in our bedroom. I have a train of little pottery elephants in our guest bedroom.

And then there's the elephant in the corner. She changes shape and form as needs be, depending on the situation. She can be "the lack of money" elephant as we struggle to achieve our hopes and dreams for the East End Gallery. She can be the "fear of another chest infection" elephant, particularly as we approach the end of summer. She can be the "I'm so bloody tired" elephant as I concentrate on keeping all the balls I'm juggling in the air. She can even change species and morph into the black dog, who periodically nips at both our heels.

I'm going to try another tack with my elephant in the corner. I'm been seeing a new psych who I think really gets me. She talks about roads being built between one thought and another and become the preferred "route", even when that connection is flawed or heads in the wrong direction. For example, my adoration for Michael has lead me to this all-consuming fear of his death. Or, my desire to be "the good girl" means I behave for the benefit of others, rather than myself. I have to practise starting to take new roads, create detours, double back as necessary. I have to stop beating myself up if I do hurtle up the familiar road that leads me to hell. By taking the different road next time.

I choose for my elephant to become my ally in this new quest. As I am a visual person, I can see her. She is rather a  beautiful elephant, with very long eyelashes and a hot pink ribbon tied in a bow at the top of her head. She has to be fairly short for an elephant and very flexible too, as she will travel with me in my sporty little yellow buzz box, my car named Goldilocks.

She and I both understand that new tricks are sometimes hard to learn. That's why I need my elephant with me if I'm otherwise on my own. I know I will have setbacks and scrapes, but I actually see sense in my psych's alternative line of thought. And what have I got to lose?

So. next time you see me hurtling around in my groovy little Accent named Goldie, check out my stunning travelling companion. She will be wearing a bright pink hair ribbon and her ears will probably be flapping in the wind. Give us a wave and wish us luck.

The Feathered Fool is Back.

After we returned from our road trip on Friday, we were concerned that Bentley the magpie had left us in a fit of pique. We didn't see him for over twenty-four hours, so we assumed he'd left us, maybe for good. We needn't have worried. Bentley announced himself, back at the House that Rocks,  with copious amounts of pooh and very sustained squawking.

He has shown himself to be a magpie of multicultural finesse. Although his favourite food has been Barfy Burgers up to now, he has shown a taste for lasagne, common or garden birdseed, and a bit of additional protein in the form of Sascha's head.

Sascha, needless to say, is not fond of Bentley since his peck on her head. In fact, it would be fair to conclude that Sascha would like to see Bentley off the property, for good, by fair means or foul. This afternoon, Sascha showed her displeasure by chasing Bentley repeatedly and vigorously through the backyard.

So, who will win the contest? Well, my money is on Bentley. He can fly!