A Three Legged Dog Week

Well, that full moon eclipse is kicking on nicely.

Monday. I am heading out of the driveway for a routine taxi-drive-of-child-number-one, when we both see in the rear vision mirror the disaster puppy hurtle straight into a roadtrain. Somehow, after getting flicked onto the curb from one wheel, he manages to bounce back for seconds under another wheel.
Of course he survives, because otherwise this story would start very differently. We bundle the dog into the car and stumble into the vet's waiting room. The dog vomits the blood from his lungs onto the carpet and then collapses when his heroic adrenalin finally deserts him. Everyone else is there for puppy vaccination day and they all look quite alarmed.
On Radio National, a journalist interviews another journalist who says, "Oh mate, if we run out of stories, we'll just invent a leadership spill."

Tuesday. After all night watching for internal injuries and hemorrhaging and trying to keep the place warm, we go to school rather late this morning. I cancel everything. I drive home after the school run and stay under the doona, only going out to chop some wood. The dog is in a world of pain. He has the perfect imprint of a  wheel nut between his eyes. He looks like he feels, like he's been hit by a truck. His body feels all hard and lumpy.

Wednesday. Digger has a weird lump on the back of his neck. He stops coughing up blood but he can't walk real good.
My friend is walked out of her two year job. She's gotten a bit too bolshie with her employer and, being an old union girl, thought she could make a difference. The rest of the staff, like antelopes being hunted by cheetahs, stand by panting after the chase, chewing cud, concerned but glad that someone else is being devoured and not them.
A journalist on Radio National speculates a leadership spill.
Even though I was in front of the fire and under the doona for two days, I fall asleep over my book at seven thirty. The kids turn out the lights and put themselves to bed. I sleep for thirteen hours.

Thursday. We are all late to school again. I've written apologetic notes.
The dog has commandeered my couch.
Bobcat is traumatised.
It's on the radio during breakfast. We have a new Prime Minister.

Friday. Old Salt is still pissed at me because I told him that ringing me before dawn to make sure I am awake is Bullshit. "I'm not Bullshit, I'm an Honest Person," he says.
How can I argue with that? It's dawn and I'm really bloody cold. Whatever.
We catch sea mullet the size of salmon. "The most splendid fish in New Holland," said Robert Neill in 1841.
A man at the boat ramp wanted to buy one and Old Salt said thirty bucks. Thirty bucks for a mullet! One mullet! they're great, but not that great. He kicked the tyres and left.
The dog has decided he belongs inside the house and demands I chop some wood for his fire. Apart from the wheel nut scar on his forehead and a slight limp, he is back to his normal self. To look at him, no-one would ever know he had been hit by a road train (twice), had one lung punctured and several bones broken, four days ago.

Both wearing black stiletto heels, with their men standing by, the first female Governor General of Australia declares Julia Gillard to be the the first female Prime Minister of Australia.

This afternoon at the boat ramp, when we headed out to set nets for leather jackets and sea mullet, I saw the three legged dog, waiting for his sailor.

So yes, in this house, in this town, in this country ... it has been a week ... but at least some things stay the same.