Back on Sunday

Cats or dogs - now there's an interesting question. Not one you think would get asked, say in an interview situation yet I kid you not that is exactly what I got asked as my final question in the interview for the job I have now. It had been a long day and up until this point I had been interviewed by 5 different people. The 6th strolled casually into the room and asked me 2 questions; the first quite reasonable, 'why did I have a gap in my CV for 6 months?' - easy answer - I'd been travelling. The second question however was ridiculous; 'do you prefer cats or dogs?'. Dog, definately dog. Clearly the right answer since I got the job. I've since found out the story behind it. Apparently the people interviewing me wanted to throw me off guard a little - my answers until that point had been text book perfect and more annoyingly in their words 'i was too nice'. For those who are interested, it did throw me off guard enough to throw a little sarcasm out there and that was all it took - a little humour to win them over.

The choice between cats and dogs is not a hard decision for me to make. I am insanely allergic to cats. All I have to do is walk into a room with a cat and my face blows up, my eyes start watering and I have to reach for my asthma inhaler to alleviate my sudden inability to breath properly. Cats and I do not get along. They eye me off and hunt me down. There could be 10 people in the same room yet without fail the pesky cat will sidle up to me, all innocent looking yet knowing exactly what its doing and proceed to rub itself all over whatever I'm wearing leaving those horrible little fur bits with me for days. The most amusing thing about this is that I actually grew up with 5 cats. My parents are evil. They thought they were doing the right thing at the time. They bought a cat to ward off the snakes on the farm, to make sure they stayed well clear of the house and 4 young children. They thought they were doing the right thing until that bloody cat had kittens - 4 of them found in the attic. I had no where to run.

Thankfully we also had dogs - gorgeous pets with personality. Freckles was the first, Collie the second and then finally Thomas the cockerpaniel named after my brothers best friend. Thomas was part of the family, one of us. He wasn't the brightest little thing but he was so much fun and as far as he was concerned he was no different to us kids. He wanted to be with us at all times, to eat with us, to sleep in our rooms, to go on holidays with us. And he did on most occassions. Thomas was a pretty self assured little dog. Dad once commented that he was sure if Thomas had the chance to spell dog he would spell it backwards, he was God, the world revolved around his needs and we loved him for it. He used to go to work with Dad on the back of the ute and on one occassion took things a little too far. Driving through the bush in Chiltern, country Victoria, Thomas spotted a kangaroo, pulled himself free of the lead and took a running leap through the air. Dad searched for hours, well past dark, but couldn't find him. We were devastated. Dad more so than us and so the next day he resumed the search and miraculously found the little nutcase licking some serious wounds on the side of the road - he'd wandered back to where he'd last seen the ute. He may not have been the smartest dog in the world but he'd managed to survive an attack that would have killed most animals attempting such a feat.

Thomas is in so many of our stories, in all our childhood photos and even though he's long gone, still very much a part of the Hemming family.

I can vividly remember the day Thomas died. I was camping and got a call from Dad. Holding back tears he told me that Thomas had finally succumbed to a tumour. It was Good Friday. As tears started to well in my eyes and my voice started to quiver Dad told me not to worry, he was pretty sure Thomas would be back on Sunday.

Pet Cemetery

In my early teens I had three beautiful kittens! Their lives were short and their deaths were of Shakespearean tragic proportions to me. I have never had a pet since.

As it turns out as an adult, I am neither cat or dog obsessed or even much interested in either. Perhaps these small tragedies robbed me of being a pet owner for life.

When I was a girl I lived in a beautiful green valley west of Coffs Harbour. My father being a bit of a hippy loved the bush up close to our doorstep. At any one time there was a procession of fat and thin snakes, funnel webs, koalas, echidnas, bandicoots, goannas, bush turkeys, dingos etc etc. We were encouraged to live with all creatures large and small. My kittens unfortunately couldn't live by the same decree.

First there was Abigail. A little black kitten ( I cant even remember where she came from). I loved her deeply. I can remember now her curling up on my pillow and on my desk when it was homework time. One November she was poorly. My darling grandfather took her to the vet on the way to dropping me at a rehearsal for Santa's dancing elves that I was to perform as at Carols By Candlelight that year. I remember the phone call from the vet as if it happened yesterday. A snake bite, she died that afternoon. My grandfather looked like he would have laid down his own life to stop my sobbing. Months with O's in them are the worst for snakes the farmers told me.

Shortly after was Phoebe, fluffy mongrel, but cat handsome. She was as much in love with me as I was of her. She had the wandering bug. One morning she wasn't curled at my toes, that stretched into a day and then into two. I was cooking pancakes when I saw Dad coming up the veranda with her collar. The school bus lady found her on the side of the road. I still remember Dad's face.

To ease the pain a new kitten was purchased. A purebred would surely not stray or tempt snakes. Princess Anoushka the Burmese, she has a blue cream coat with a orange mask. Noushie soon became the favourite. She nestled on my Dads shoulders as he moved about the house, she meowed like she was talking, she was charismatic and fun. She went missing too, but two days later I found her stuck up a tree, 2 kms from home on the next door dairy farm. I ran home through rain screaming for Mum to get help. It was 6am and Mum swiftly called the bush fire brigade, whom promptly told her, they would not get out of bed on a Sunday to rescue a cat. They arrived 2 hours later. I was still waiting barefoot in my nightie at the bottom of that tree. I couldn't believe my luck. But of all the memories, I can't remember how she died. Was there a vet involved, another car.....that memory is gone. I remember the heartbreak and the lock of fur I kept for years after. But coming back to me now is Dad digging another grave and a broken tooth. She must have been hit by a car. But the detail is blank.

My poor parents, is it a right of passage in life to guide your child through the love and loss of pets. Oh I dread it. Our pet cemetery was behind the wood heap. It included guinea pigs that Dad pried from the jaws of a hungry python. But the most gruesome death of all, my brothers gallah, Paul. A carpet snake crawled in to the coop whilst skinny, and in the morning, a fat snake with a Paul sized lump was waiting to be let out. And that is that, now I don't own any pets or intend to. Perhaps those little heartbreaks hardened me for life. Or until Hugo starts asking for one..........

Miaow!

Her name was Ivy Violet Astra Louis Keats Worsley – Ivy for short. She was a chocolate Burmese and my very first, very own pet. There’d been loads of family pets in my childhood – a great dane called Gus, a golden retriever called Jedda, and lots of cats, Oliver with the cancer-prone ears, Louis the Siamese, Richmond Williby, the big ginger named after his birthplace. I’d also had a few goldfish – Sirloin and Huckleberry Finn – but goldfish don’t really count.

So Ivy was the first pet that was just mine. I named her with all the bombastic loftiness of a third-year acting student. ‘Ivy’ was her given name, just because I loved it. ‘Violet’ because purple was my favourite colour, ‘Astra’ to give her that necessary cosmic cat element, ‘Louis’ after the Siamese from my childhood, and ‘Keats’ after my favourite poet. Of course, she would carry my surname.

Ivy lived in the Wollongong student share house with Kirstie, Bel and I during my third year. After graduation, she and I moved to Surry Hills in Sydney to live with my sister, Emma, and her boyfriend, Andrew. Ivy used to go out prowling at night and, because on my student income I’d delayed getting her operated on, she was soon up the duff. Not long after, my one cat turned into four. I still remember Andrew, present at the birth, urging, “Push, Ivy, push!” (Good practice for the deliveries of his four babies in future years.) Two of her kittens went to new homes but, alas, the third met a grisly fate at the hands (or mouth) of Emma and Andrew’s dog Ruby.

So could that be the reason I’m not a dog person? Ruby ate my kitten? It certainly didn’t help the dogs’ cause. Ruby was an otherwise lovely animal and for all the years I knew her, I watched her bound into other people’s arms but keep a respectful distance from me. She knew I was a cat person. I like the look of some dogs. I occasionally stroke their fur, especially when it is demanded of me by my three-year-old. But I just really don’t need to touch them. And I don’t need them to lick me or slobber on me ever.

About a year after the kittens arrived and left, I took off overseas for the rite-of-passage working holiday. Ivy stayed with my sister. Em called one day to say that Ivy had gone missing. We never saw her again. I like to think she came looking for me. She’s probably sitting in a bar in Berlin smoking cigarettes and drinking milchkaffee as we speak. Sehr chic.

Cat or dog? Definitely cat.

(Postscript: My mother, in her childhood, had a black dog called Timothy Oswald Aloysius Methuselah Dooley Busby. Timmy for short.)

Task # 18 - Cat or Dog?

Cat or dog?

Ted's bike journey through London

I think Aimee and I were meant to meet to introduce Ted and Dagg. They'd be such great mates with their war wounded faces and stories of old. Mum and dad bought Ted from a chemist for me when we first moved to Albury. Back then he was a fluffy brown bear with beg brown eyes and a bright red bow. More than three decades later and a few outfit changes along the way he's still with me. Complete with his burnt little nose (too close to the open fire) and his stitched up arms (care-of Grandma) Ted has travelled the world with me - literally that bear has been every where with me- from backpacking through Asia and Europe to university, a variety of Australian cities and now all the way to London where he sits on my bedside table. That beautiful bear is part of me and despite Tim's best efforts he won't be leaving anytime soon.

My second favourite thing is my silver and garnet necklace which was given to me by dad when I turned 18. I was living in London at the time, feeling like I was a very long way from home - homesickness had set in. My dad and I are very close but back then we'd endured a year long rocky relationship which at times broke my heart. Receiving the necklace and the long blue handwritten airmail letter in the post that day lifted my head into the clouds. My first grown up piece of jewelry and a beautiful gift from my dad. I still wear it when I feel homesick or just need an extra bit of luck on a particular day- I love to it and all of its sentimental value to pieces.

I could list endless items of sentimental value on my 'favourite things' list but for my third today I choose my bike. In keeping with numbers it is actually my third bike in this city, (the first two were snatched by thieves) so deserves a spot on the list just for perseverance alone. A bike in London is freedom. Freedom from the grimy, hot, crowded tube and freedom from traffic jams and long queues. A bike will get you across the city in half the time and usually on a far more scenic route. I've cycled through snow (only 2 stacks), hail, pelting rain and when really lucky, through sunshine that makes all the hard slogs worthwhile. Riding a bike in London is like being part of a well respected cult. Granted I don't own the matching lycra but I have dodged the double decker buses, I own a pair of matching saddle bags and I know the best canal/tow path rides to shortcut the journey home. I am one of them. The more I write the more I realise how obsessed I am about my bike and that I should probably stop writing now :)

Raindrops on roses...

I love reading the 'Favourite Things' column in the 'Good Weekend' each week and always thought I could easily name my three favourite possessions. The first is a cinch - my granny's polka dot tea set. Six cups and saucers, six cake plates, a fabulous teapot and a rectangular dish for a milk jug and sugar bowl with the piece de resistance, that fantastic matching sugar spoon. This set sat for as long as I can remember in the china cabinet in my grandparents' lounge room. I don't ever recall seeing it in operation - like a lot of her 'good' things, they were kept for best and best never really happened. Much like her rarely used Parker dining setting which sat proudly in the rarely used dining room for so many years - that is, until I got my hands on it and now it has all the bumps and stains and scratches of a piece of furniture in daily operation. I'm pretty sure that's a good thing, though I don't know what she would say if she was still alive. I try to apply the same philosophy to the tea set and have rolled it out at the end of many a dinner party. But I admit I would be heartbroken and probably a bit spooked if a piece were to break. I doubt it has any monetary value, but as far as sentimentality goes, this tea set is right up there. For now it sits in that same cabinet (made by my grandfather), affectionately known in this house as Granny's cabinet - yes, I pinched that too. I hope Granny doesn't mind.

Item number two was a toss-up between my red KitchenAid stand mixer, my entire shelf of cookbooks and this - my incredibly heavy blue Le Creuset cast iron pot. Angelo bought it for me our first Christmas together. He got big brownie points that year. Then again, I got him an iPod, so we both did well. This pot has been used dozens of times, and will probably be used a gazillion more. It has a sturdiness that I trust will last all of my lifetime and beyond. I use it for stocks and soups and stews mostly. When I cook in it, I come over all housewife. I feel like I'm creating traditions, nourishing myself and my family, warming things up. It's just a pot, maybe, but whether empty or full to the brim with a hearty winter casserole, it's solid and honest and I love it.

I was struggling to come up with a third favourite thing but it came to me today after a glorious drive across the bridge to Balmoral Beach to see beautiful Ruani followed by a phone conversation with Aimee (beautiful too, indeed) during which she made passing mention of not having a car and how hard it is to not be able to jump in it and go anywhere. And for all my dreamy organic enviro-friendly ideals of one day having chickens and turning compost and making my own yogurt and yadayadayada, oh, how I love my car. It's nothing fancy and it only just fits the three kids and the mega-pram. But it does the job and it lets me do things like pack up the babies and glide on over the bridge to spend the day at Balmoral Beach with beautiful Ruani. 'Nuff said.

It's a small world after all.......

In the home that you live in right now, what are your three favourite (non-human) things? Tell us a bit about them? What makes them so special?

A great day to write about things. I had a one of those big snow globes given to me about ten years ago, when I was a bit down and out while studying in New York. It had the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House and a Koala on it. Yep, tacky as they come. It played 'Its a Small World After All' and came in a beautiful Bloomingdale's box. The globe ended up being one of the nicer mementos of a previous flame.

I recently had been winding it up with Hugo and watching it, he loved it. He called it 'watching twinkle twinkle'. And it had been quelling a bit of homesickness for both of us.

And yep you can picture the rest of today's story. Phone rings, toddler going up stairs with stool to find the twinkle stars, I race up there, rescue the globe, wind it up, put it on the floor and ask Hugo not to touch it, 'JUST WATCH'. I hastily retrieved information for the phone caller, then thump, toddler at top of stairs covered in glitter and glass (thank god no injury) telling me about a waterfall he just witnessed.

And I was so sad. Cross at myself, Hugo, the caller (Scott) and most of all upset that Hugo's stars were now dispersed over a spreading floor space. Yep it is a small world but for the contents of this snow globe the world just got a whole lot bigger. Ah sentimentality can be gone in a second.

So let me talk about my three things.

Daggy, my darling teddy. He was my first word in life and has later become my ultimate travel companion. Given to my Mum by a student back in 1977. He was stitched up by Nana more times than I can count. And he scared the daylights out of Scott the first night he stayed over when he woke up to those eyes an inch from his face. I used to wonder (a long time ago) if Daggy truly had a heart. I believe he did. I guess that concept went on to make millions with that little known flick 'Toystory". Well he has my heart. Old Daggy, I love you.

Babushka was high on my Nana's shelf for a good part of her life. I always admired her. My Grandparents fled Budapest in the late 40's bringing a suitcase or two with them. I don't know if Babushka was on board then or came later, but she is old. There is a sticker on the bottom that says USSR and then a number. The other thing I don't really know is if there is a history with these dolls in Hungary or if they are purely Russian Dolls. The relationship between the two countries has a fiery history at the time Nana and Api left. So is Babushka Hungarian or Russian, an immigrant or Australian born, things I don't know. But she is staunchly looking down on me as I type, with the same expression she used to gaze at me with when I was 7 looking up at her in the cabinet.

The wooden big train (I will explain the rope later). Hugo's all time favorite toy. Scott found it in a dial a dump out the front of an ABC Childcare centre, back when they were all sinking. He was going to buy beer and I had urged him on this occasion to walk instead of drive. Scott was so thrilled with his find, he waved it above his head when he walked home, like he had found the golden egg! A few random screws and it was as good as new. It is loved every day, transporting a family of giraffes from station to station. It is so old and squeaky and real. It is my favourite toy in this whole house. Dad recently bought this section of rope over from Sydney specifically for the wooden big train. It allows Hugo and Dad to secure the train at different pieces of furniture to allow the giraffe family to disembark safely.