Indian Rednecks

I'm clearing the decks, one by feathered, furry one.
When I take a look around at the backyard ... well. It's an interesting ecosystem, mad with weeds, festooned with hippy washing lines and oyster shells, flowering with colourful chewed up plastic buckets. Then there's the fauna. I realised recently that out of all the animals that live here, none of them are actually mine, as in I deliberately went out to acquire said creature.

Disaster puppy, that lion cub of a mastiff with balls, is 'on loan' from my son's father who seems to be living permanently north, hence the regular craft-with-plastic-bucket sessions. (He owes me ... more than a few plastic buckets).


Bobcat, she's Bob's, a handy legacy who kills rats the size of small kelpies and leaves them with their throats torn out, just for me.

Black hens - Bob. Red hens - my Mum. White hens - my son. The ringtail possums, bandicoots and the black king skink hibernating under the piano? They came with the house.
There's Cheech, the indian ringneck parrot. Now there's a beautiful looking bird. (No - he's a noisy, cantankerous, hierarchically obsessed little bastard.)


Cheech got thrown in with a car I bought. Jaybird looked at me oddly when I told him that. "Sarah Toa, you are the only person I know, who could buy a Hyundai exel and get an exotic yellow parrot thrown into the deal."
Clearing the decks? Well Cheech left today for the bigger, more accommodating aviary of an indian ringneck enthusiast. (They're a murky mob)
One down ... Now to heed the vital part of deck-clearing - not getting suckerpunched into mothering any more pets.