That’s what The Boss and the Missus thought anyway, when two of the grandchildren turned up on Saturday.
Plans were hatched to head over to the other side of the river the next day and I helped (in my calm supervisory manner) while The Boss assembled the fold-up barbecue grill and packed the plates and utensils ready for Sunday lunch.
We had to call into the Murch store on the way to pick up some marshmallows for roasting before heading on to a bush block where The Boss’s mate had a few cattle grazing, so we needed to lock the gate behind us.
The currawongs were putting on a show when we arrived and New Boy and I had a poke around while The Boss unpacked and set up the barbecue. I didn’t wander too far — I like to keep my eye on preparations because there’s always opportunities at these events to either snatch a morsel from unsuspecting fingers or hop into appetisers while no-one is looking.
New Boy, being less alert to possibility than me, disappeared for some time and I can’t be sure if it was the loud moans from the small people or the pungent smell that first announced his return.
His left flank was covered in fresh cow poo, and he was shooed away by the young folk; The Boss went on cooking the onions and sausages, but I could tell straight away that the brat had unleashed an aroma of disquiet upon the group, which struggled to right itself.
It was a big mistake to shoo him away too: he promptly returned to the well, you might say, and when he came back, he was covered in it, head to toe. His ears were full of dripping green poo and he had this unholy sheen about his body so that he resembled a slippery seal or a very large green slug.
There he was, beside the fire, looking pleased as punch — but on his own. The assembled family — relaxed and happy just a moment ago — had split like a bursting star, and fled.
I was watching all this with great interest. As he was hauled off and tied up some distance away, it was hard not to take pleasure in my being in pole position, so to speak — but of course I had to look suitably glum about this turn of events, which had dampened the humans’ mood. The Boss’s sausages were eaten in silence.
The only discussion I could discern was about what to do next. The Boss announced that New Boy wasn’t going home in his car and the kidlets made it clear they weren’t going in the car with him either — but it was a long walk home. The emerging consensus was that New Boy should be left where he was, tied up until it rained a lot, or until he died.
That’s where the Missus — having brought the miscreant into the family — had to take responsibility. I joined her in the muddy shallows of the river, the environmental flow having started to recede, leaving a margin of soft ooze. Her new Merrell boots were no longer a light colour; she was dousing the wretch with pans of water and scraping the poo away with her bare hands while The Boss swept off the larger lumps with a borrowed broom.
While they were grimly engaged in this miserable spectacle, I did manage to sneak back to deal with the remaining continental sausages, so it wasn't all bad. But it was a quiet drive home, I can tell you. Woof!
15°C