'An easy life does not make for good copy'

The inlet vibe has turned pretty gothic lately. Mid winter, winter solstice, all that. I'm always coming back to Nora Ephraim's 'everything is copy' and so now I'm going to subject you all to my version of 'everything'.

You know that feeling when you look at your dog a bit differently and think, 'She's actually a wild animal. She's descended from wolves and I forgot all about that while she was sitting on my lap.' Anyway when all the fishing shacks were broken into, a few people expressed concern for me because I live in the bush on my own. I can't see people coming in and out from the shacks and felt a bit bad that I hadn't clocked the thieves. But I felt pretty safe 'cos my dog kills cats!' (More about this incident later.)

My sister came to stay after the borders opened. While I pursued my Sunday afternoon pastime of newspaper and wine on the back veranda, she took Selkie for a walk along the beach just down the hill from the house. 

A few minutes late I could hear, 'Selkie! Selkie! No No! Come here. Oh my God Selkie come here!' I put on my boots and headed for the beach. Sister's yelling changed from commanding to cajoling and then back to screaming, 'Sarah! Get down here. Selkie! Please. Oh Fuck.'

I could hear splashing around in the water and thought maybe the dog had caught a pelican. Negligible chances but anyway. By the time I found my sister along the beach, she was taking off her boots and getting ready to go into the water. 'She's got a roo out there,' she said. 

I called the dog, who was swimming around the kangaroo, and she started coming back but then would turn back to finish the roo off. They were fighting each other in the water. Three times she turned back. Sister was still intent on going after her and I told her to stay on shore. 'You can't wade into an underwater dog fight,' I said. All we could do was watch as the kangaroo's head sank beneath the waves and Selkie returned to shore. 

Kangaroos will lead a dog chasing them into deep water in order to drown or disembowel the dog. Friends have given me anecdotes that have gone one way or the other. Sister and I both knew this, hence our panic. When she finally got to shore, I turned over the dog on the beach sand to inspect her belly and saw ... not a scratch on her. We went back to the house with a totally hyped dog who was wired for at least the next few hours.

She'd chased the roo through shallow water and then they'd both fallen into a hole, which is where they both started fighting. Anyway the carcass washed up a few days later. Sister took Selkie for another walk. 'Don't find any roos!' I said jokingly and she came home with, 'Found that roo.' 

Bugger. Now I have a carcass right next to my home, I was thinking. I tried to keep the dog away from it but she'd take off to inspect her kill. The other day the carcass was on the beach in front of my house. She'd dragged it along the beach and was dragging it closer to the house every day. I could see the marks in the sand where she'd moved it. I mean, this is where the gothic comes in. a dead kangaroo steadily advancing towards my home.

A decision had to be made. I have a dead kangaroo on the shore, disintegrating by the minute that I'm pretty sure Selkie is going to be rolling in soon. She was also guarding the carcass: every time she heard a crow or sea eagle, she'd bolt down to the beach to see it off. This was her kill.

Should I bury it on the beach and cover the grave in corrugated iron and stones, so she couldn't dig it up? Should I shovel the body onto the back of my ute and dump it into the bush several kilometres away? (I've done this one before) But I couldn't stomach either of these options. It was a dilemma. The carcass was too far gone for any respectful treatment. Knowing I come from a black powder family, a friend suggested this:

That's not quite adequate either, really.
In the end I gathered some rope and a house brick today, put on my covid mask and trudged resolutely down to the beach in my gum boots. Selkie followed, watching bemused, as I towed the fifty kilogram dead kangaroo out to sea and set it, like a net, where my dog had drowned it.

'Why can't my life be easy?' I emailed (wailed) my friend last night, as I was trying to nut this whole thing out.
'An easy life does not make for good copy,' she replied.

Why?

Why isn't anyone doing anything about this situation?

 

The absence of quokkas does not mean quokkas are absent

It's raining and blowing really hard here tonight.
That is all. 
No quokkas have been seen.

Quokka Situation Response Update

The quokkas are getting out of control here. They've started charging for selfies and are bailing up tourists for hot chips and meat pies apparently, although these are unsubstantiated accusations. As self appointed mayor of the inlet, I got a freebie anyway.

Quokka signs are appearing all over the county as they come into ascendance. Kangaroo, emu and feral pig signs are being removed to make room for them.
Then all of the weekender shacks were broken into, windows smashed and cupboards rummaged. The thieves took food, gas bottles and generators. Word got around the bush telegraph that quokkas were to blame. 'They're nasty little fuckers,' said one inlet dweller. 'Take a limb off ya as soon as look at ya.'

'Yeah but you know how to subdue them, don't you?' Yowie said. 'Just pull out your mobile phone and they have to stop chewing off your arm to get a selfie with you.'

'If they are so mean, perhaps we could get them to actually protect the huts,' I suggested. 'Make little uniforms for them and call them, like um ... QUOKKA FORCE.'
There was general nodding all round at this. We agreed that whoever had enough solar power to run a sewing machine should make the uniforms.

It was difficult to recruit the quokkas to head QUOKKA FORCE as no one has ever seen one before. The local coppers turned up and shook their heads at the ramshackle shacks. All the broken windows were at the rear of the shacks where the thieves worked out of sight. One broken window was six foot above the ground. 'Shit, they can jump high, can't they?' Yowie said to the policeman and the policeman looked at him. 
'Who?'
'The quokkas, mate.'
'R i i i ght.'

I began to think the coppers weren't taking us seriously but it was a pretty full on situation. I mean, have you ever seen the size of a quokka's teeth? They're literally the tiny, furry marsupial version of great white sharks.
 

https://twitter.com/noveltydesignco/status/573854315787517953

I couldn't tell the burly man in blue that the thieves had also stolen my weed, but I was sure they had because, unless I stashed it where no one would ever find it, including me, then it was definitely took.* Mind you, a few bongs might slow the quokkas down a bit. I shudder to think of the consequences if they had taken the meth.

The shack folk were feeling a little rattled and depressed. Break ins always feel personal, even when they are random. There were windows to fix and all the beer was gone. Something needed to be done to pull the situation into line. Someone suggested writing a letter to the paper. Then Yowie came up with a brilliant idea.

'We'll write a letter to the shire council,' he said. 'Maybe even an email.' The coppers nodded, jumped into their four wheel drive and left, off to town to do paperwork and some counselling. 

Yowie's email to the shire council produced an astonishing result. Firstly, somebody from the council actually answered it and secondly they acted. In an heroic gesture of solidarity, they put up another sign.
Not just any old sign but one designed to strike terror into the hearts of quokkas everywhere.

* Found it in my spice cabinet.
 

Random quokka

Someone from the shire put up this sign a few days ago, well I think it was them. Parks and Wildlife have denied any responsibility. It's just outside my driveway. While there are rumours of quokkas around here, I've never seen one. The most random thing about this sign is that it faces traffic on their way back out to the highway. You'd have to dodge these mythical creatures for ten kilometres on the way here before even seeing this sign.

The shire have been busy on the mountain road too. On one of my last journeys to the fire tower, I saw two similar signs; one of a horse and another a deer. Apparently there are feral horses and red deer out in those badlands. No mention of kangaroos, emus or feral pigs, though I see them every day.
Might write the shire a letter requesting a thylacine sign, seeing as they are definitely the main suspect (that I never see) in eating all the quokkas (that I never see).

'This wave will humble you'

For the first time in hstory, a woman has surfed The Right and survived it.

Photo by Chris Gurney

Most locals around here know about this wave but for those Of Other Places, The Right is a legendary wave and one of the biggest, lumpiest and nastiest wavesi n the world. It only really works when the swell gets to eight metres and is just down the road from where I live. 

Immediately after, or even during a big storm, four wheel drives towing jet skis start arriving in town. When I worked at the coffee shop, foreign big wave surfers would come in early for a coffee and then reappear in the late afternoon looking dazed and hungry. I've spoken to some old timers at the pub who used to paddle out to this wave but these days they are tow-ins. They are invariably young men who fly in from all over the place when The Right is working.

Now, there's Gracetown's Laura Macauley.

Photo by Anthony Pancie

 Here's a link to some video of Laura surfing The Right thanks to the ABC.
https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-06-17/laura-macaulay-first-woman-surf-the-right-wa-margaret-river/12335856 

And here's some more footage of The Right:

Heading for the coast