10 Days of Dog Gone

Final Days

Charlie’s Eulogy

A loved life, regardless of physical size, leaves a big hole; this is how it was dug.

Scout Lovat was born on September 22^nd 2009, in a litter of five to a breeder of MiniFoxies who kept all of his dogs inside with him. He was one of three with the naturally stumped tail and the little hook of hair on the end. The breeder told me that we could have him cheap because he had too many freckles in his coat for him to be any good for showing. There was a much prettier pup in the pack but we were told that Scout was the one who always came and sat beside him, that convinced us. The Lovat part of his pedigree name was in honour of the 15^th Lord Lovat whose estate was Beaufort Castle on the Beauly river in Inverness-shire. The breeder had served in the Lovat Scouts (Special Service Brigade) and landed on Sword beach in Normandy under Lord Lovat’s command. He told us that he owed his life to the commander’s courage as they landed. On our travels to Portsmouth we saw the Overlord tapestry in the D’Day museum that had a portrait of this much admired gentleman but Charlie was not allowed in to pay his respects. He was scurried back to safe harbour, the Watford Rectory when we took the night crossing to Normandy, avoiding the distress of being locked in a cage on the car deck with a muzzle on, so he didn’t see the memorial to his name sake at Sword beach either. This was an overwhelming legacy for such a timid little pup although he grew into courage.

General - Commando commander Lovat - Sword Beach Normandy

The breeder and I agreed to the sum of $600. The breeder wanted cash so the family went for lunch and a discussion began about his name. As Petal’s dog, she had final say and I could not sway her to Frodo. M suggested we keep Scout as his name and Willow’s suggestions were all 3 or more syllables. Eventually everyone agreed on Charlie – because he was brown. Over the years he ended up being called Chaz, Best Boy, Chazzle the wazzel, CharlesBbrown, Mr Chau, Weeman, Stinkrat,  Binboy, Ratboy(after some uncouth youths asked the girls if they were walking their pet rat) and he answered to them all. The tone is more important than the word.    

On arrival after purchase - what a fun day.

That day was a big day for Charlie, he left the house he was born in for the first time, went outside for the first time and he left his mother and siblings for the first time. His stress response to all of this was to dribble down our arms in the car, at a visit to the cousies and until we had been settled at home for an hour or two. He would always hate the car – he got carsick. If he thought we were taking him somewhere he would start doing big circles just out of reach. He couldn’t bear to be away but made it quite clear that he did not agree with our plans. Every time we went to NZ for a few weeks, I would drive him out to the Berryman Kennels where the small dogs got to play together in a huge outside area everyday, and Holly’s mum knew to put his blanket over him at night. Every time he would vomit in my car and would feel very sorry for himself. He never did coming home because Petal would come out and sit beside him.

Visiting Petal in lockdown,  Nana's knee to Windemere, Getting Chaz's passport checked in Dover.

That is how he traveled around Europe, in a car nest between the girls or on the knee of the front seat passenger. He particularly like Nana’s knees when we drove out to the Lake District. He liked the vans we hired sometimes, better because the seats were deeper and flatter. His pet passport was stamped a few times over the years. Thanks to Jet Pets, he came across to Cambridge once we were settled, double the price upon return but that is another story.  This was a condition of Petal’s cooperation for our shift there.

Netherlands - ducks v tulips, Brighton - too stoney, Cambridge - love to grab a swan neck!
Honfleur - let me jump out the window, Canterbury Cathedral - with Chester , Stratford upon Avon - can't see why there is so much fuss about this Shakespeare.

But before those adventures he had Sydney life with his cousie dogs, Buster and Oscar, Nana’s dog’s Tess and Lucy and his best buddy Boobaa from the Holman Household. Mini foxies are a cross between a fox terrier and a whippet, the breed is an Aussie one and had a range of variations in shape and size at this stage. Charlie had the narrow snout and legs of the whippet and his back legs shook for many reasons just like the whippet. He was also fast and could out run everything in the small dog park. He shone with glee, flying across the grass with a pack of dogs behind him – his nose straight as an arrow as the rest of his body curled up and stretched out straight in huge leaps forward. The girls were horrified one day as he came back to us, leaping over a freshly coiffured white pomeranian to get onto the wooden platform they were sitting on. Using the back of the white dog for a last thrust as he jumped, it was rolled into a large mud puddle. Hmm, Charlie was pleased with his speediness and leapt down, pushing the dog over again to go for another few rounds. The girls were left spluttering apologies as the owner of the mud ball tried to catch it, but it raced away after Chaz. It would need another bath.

Come on throw the ball - Yep I'm on it - Got it - Park in Watford.

Baths were one of Charlie’s other dreads. This may have been because in his 2^nd month with us, a wet January, he went out for toilies, always at a gallop and skidded to a splash. Thinking that he was taking his time on a rainy day for his business I looked out the kitchen window and saw a ring of ripples in the pool. I rushed out to find the little fellow with one paw up on the side of the pool (luckily it was very full) and the other little sticks running ineffectively in the water to keep his nostrils just poking up above the water. I dragged him out and he started licking under my chin. Just as well the pool was at summer temps not winter ones. After that, water was his foe. He would leap and snap at water coming out of the hose and got very distressed whenever the girls got in for a swim. As soon as the water in the laundry tub started running he would curl up tight in one of his nests. The collar would come off and he would shrink back as if naked in a public space. He had the same oatmeal shampoo and conditioner for his whole life.  The cue for bathtime was when the girls said he smelt like a corn chip. Although even after his arthritis got bad in his back, he loved the massage he got once all soaped up. Once he was rinsed off and his ears, paws and soft bits were dried off he would run to get a toy and squeak it until he thought it was dead then would tear around the house and outside as if he could outpace the moisture clinging to him.

But I don't like it!    Bathing my toys is just as bad but hanging them to dry is worse!

Once he was running for his life! Although with us he was the gentlest of souls he had a large rage inside him. This was directed at the postman, lizards, squirrels and the Labrador two houses down in Cambridge. But none of these prompted a speedy escape. From his guard position at the front windows in every house he ever spent time in he would bark  to sound the alarm of approaching enemy. Our poor postmen very bravely approached the front door. He would stand for hours in baking sun staring at the place he saw a lizard disappear and whine until the bin was shifted – circling it so we couldn’t catch him to let the reptile run to a safer place. It took two of us to save each one. I never believed that dogs communicated beyond smells and sniffs until an American serviceman renting a few houses down tried to introduce his Labrador to Chaz. Charlie walked up quite happily, the lab shook his head in a weird way and suddenly the hairs down Charlies back were up at attention and he let out a deep growl. The Lab looked over to him with all I can call a roll of the eyes and growled back. From then on every time Charlie saw him he would try to leap off his lead or nearly smash the glass in the windows barking hysterically. The American said once to me that he just had small dog syndrome, I replied that so far Charlie’s instincts of character had been excellent. We didn’t talk a lot after that. Squirrel chasing was his favourite sport in the UK. Once he ran out on a willow limb hanging way over the Cam. The squirrel leapt from the ends of the willow branches across to another tree and down, I had sudden visions of him following and me having to jump into the Cam to rescue this non-swimming dog, thankfully he realised his limitations and trotted back down the branches as if he was at home negotiating the stairs instead of in an enormous Willow tree.

I can see free range chickens over there!      Lizard - I see you!      Where is the mouse Sharnie?

His speedy escape was bought on by play. Stourbridge common was a favourite off leash place we took Charles for walks. It is said to be the oldest market fair site in England and small herds of cows often had free range. Charlie did not care for the cows, walking behind us whenever one got a bit close. But the long grass was a perfect home for all sorts of rodents and Chaz loved to hunt. Often in summer time, as the heavily seeded grass heads attracted the local house mouse, Charlie would spend 30 – 40 mins on his back legs hopping around and pouncing when a whiskery nose would show itself. He met all sorts of friendly dogs to play with in this space then one autumn a puppy Irish wolf hound leapt at him with both paws showing that it wanted to play. Unfortunately this 6mth baby was a giant to our tiny 6yr old and the crash onto Charlie’s back hurt. He was off leash and took off running. Laeticia took off in pursuit with calls of apologies following her. She was no match for Charlie’s speed and soon she had lost visual contact. At the river bank she asked the people in moored longboats but no one had seen a small dog running past. Laeticia rang Dad at home. He pulled on his coat and opened the door only to see Charlie running up the driveway to our house. Clever boy remembering the route of three blocks and a huge common to get home. Luckily the Labrador wasn’t out and about. That evening he lay down with a grunt and seemed to be in pain. The vet x-rayed him and said that there was a break in his spine. My heart dropped, seeing massive dollar signs but the whole operation, drugs, recovery and follow-up appointments were cheaper than any vet bill I had paid in Aussie ever! It is a small wonder that he didn’t paralyze himself running home. The arthritis that soon made this weakness a home stopped his carefree sprints and froze up his back hips over his last couple of years.

Catching a spot of sun in Cambridge.                     Nesting for warmth in a Sydney winter.

What about all you guys? Am I going by myself?   You smell right, thank goodness that is over.

Getting to England and back were probably the worst days of his life. He had a lovely holiday with Nana, Tess and Lucy then was packed into a plastic box with a bit of his blanket and a jacket on. He was loaded up into a Qantas flight where there are special areas of cabin pressure space for live animal transportation. He was unloaded at Bangkok, feed, watered and given a walk – the crate hosed out then loaded back in for the long haul to Heathrow. We got the exciting call that Charlie was about to land so headed out to Animal Arrivals to wait with other expectant families. Their dogs all came out and still we were waiting. Finally we were told by an embarrassed official that Qantas had lost … (all our heads started buzzing) … Charlie’s veterinary check papers so he couldn’t be admitted to the UK. Luckily they had no intention of sending him back, we just had to wait until a vet could come and check him and run some tests. 3 hours later Charlie came through the doors straining on his leash happy to lick any face that was presented but he had his eyes firmly on the grass outside. The girls took him out and he let go of all he had been holding in. He seemed to actually recognise us after that. As an apology, Qantas gave us his Pet passport that would have cost us £200 and was required for taking him in and out of the UK. The return trip was also problematic. He had to have a blood test to prove that he didn’t have rabies before being allowed back into Australia. Unfortunately the vet told us that small dogs respond to the test badly. He failed three times. We had to leave him in the care of Lulu and Chester, R and the Rev and wait for the next test and results before we could OK Jet Pets to book a flight and pick him up. Thankfully he eventually passed and arrived in Sydney at last. After two weeks quarantine, a vet check and a bill we were allowed to go out to Eastern Creek and collect him. This time he knew us straight away. We were told though that his favourite monkey, which had travelled with him, had to be cleaned for the sum of $300 or burnt. He came bounding into his old house as if he had never been away, gave Sharna, who had spent the UK years with Nana and had a few weeks to accustom herself back to the house, a sniff and went on an inspection tour. We hadn’t enjoyed the weeks of unpacking stored furniture, arguing with the real estate co that had failed to secure the bond of tenants that put holes in ceilings and walls and hair dye stains on vanities and waiting to see if and when he would be back.

Corf Castle,       Another church with Lulu, Chester and the Rev,     Not Stone Henge - promise.

His home away from home in the UK was with R and the Rev. We had two Christmases there, Chaz loved Lulu and Chester but was a bit of an only child when it came to sharing his toys. He taught Lulu how to play tug with her toys but wan't happy for any of them to have a turn with his. When they came to stay at our house he guarded his nests in each room but was happy to have company on his walks and shared his dinner no problems. When the Rev's mum was visiting Watford Charlie liked her so much that he weed in her handbag. Now that he has passed I guess this story has reached legend status.

I prefer boats - or hovercrafts!

The only time Charlie ever dug holes was in the last month of his life. First to bury food that he couldn’t eat and to get rid of a fish toy that started flipping whenever it was moved. For some reason Chaz took a hatred to it and buried it a few times in different places. His little paws and long nails were put to good use unwrapping parcels, this was one of his favourite activities. We know he couldn’t read but somehow he never dug into any presents around the Christmas tree unless they were addressed to him. This made us wonder if dog toy manufacturers put a dog pheromone into their toys so Charlie could smell them through the wrapping. Another seasonal game he loved to play before his back accident, was party balloon bounce. He could keep a balloon in the air for over 5 minutes and would bark(a rarity) in a squeak of delight if you rallied with him.

Get rid of that burny thing so I can have cheese (2yrs), Still interested in parcels at 14yrs - last b-day.

Chaz’s favourite food was cheese for a long while. He would sit in the kitchen when I made tea then do a little gallop on the spot if I pulled out the cheese bag. After having people around for lunch one day we had to leave in a hurry for another special occasion we left the remnants of a cheeseboard on the table, everything was eaten but we found ¼ of a camembert wheel on the back doorstep – he had sated his desire and after that was never quite as enthusiastic for cheese again. Luckily there were no digestion issues! When he was still a pup he woke up crying in the night. I went down to the laundry and couldn’t settle him. He seemed to be in pain. I let him settle down with me in the spare bed but he kept squirming and whimpering. Eventually I took him to the night vet, nervously waiting for some terrible diagnosis. The vet came out laughing and said it was just gas, he’d injected a pain killer and nature would take its course. After his back surgery intestinal gas also caused regular pain so he had to go on a diet with reduced fat – good bye cheesy treats! At least he was still allowed the occasional cat biscuit which he thought were lollies. Any kind of roasted meat was by far his favourite, after being told he only had one or two weeks to live he got roasted beef and chicken every day – so he lived for another 3 months and broke my grocery budget.

There were certain things that he really enjoyed, cuddling up for an afternoon nap while I read was my favourite. Cat biscuits seemed to be like lollies to him. His favourite game was tug, we always got sick of it first. If you let go of the toy between you he would calmly walk towards you and plop it back into your hand again and wait breathing through his nose until your spirit breaks. Right from little he also loved chasing the lazer pointer. He never had to have rainy walks. Someone would just stand in the middle of the house and move the spot up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms, even just from the front door to the back. We had to stop to give him a rest, he would never give up. He knew the drawer that it was kept in and when we were working in the study he would stand pointing to it until someone got the hint.

This is his Sydney waiting podium, in Cambridge it was our bedroom or study double windows. He could hear Nana's car from the bottom of the hill. He could hear but not see his people on zoom.

Charlie was a small dog of small brain and fierce devotion. Every return to the house was greeted with toys and smellings of great joy. If you were settled in one place doing something he had to have a place to watch you do it or sleep beside you. He loved lockdown and developed a routine that spent time with all his favourite people. Petal was the person he followed around the most and loved going up to her room early in the morning to snuggle until she got up. M was the boss of the pack and he would trot proudly beside him when he was working outside as if his efforts were very important. When the girls walked with him he was very protective and would snarl at strangers and other dogs, when M or I were there he was friendly to other dogs and went his merry way undisturbed. He had excellent intuition and knew who would treat him well. When Brad entered his life he couldn’t believe that he had another boy human to idolise, he kept his ball away from everyone else and would only let Brad play with it, if someone else picked it up to throw it for him he would pick it up and go to Brad with it, if Brad stopped wanting to play he would bury the ball under the pile in the toy basket and sit adoringly at his feet.

I'm only doing this to make you happy right - OK time's up!

Being told that he had Lymphona after a lump was discovered when in for his annual teeth clean was rotten. We were told that with chemo he could last 3-6months, without it 1-2 weeks. It is hard to put your own needs aside and think about what is best for the animal. He would hate going into the vet every week for treatment and the nausea that it would have brought so we decided against the Chemo. Our wonderful vet, Sonya Bains at Hills Animal Hospital, kept him going on morning steroids, kids panadol and an analgesic in the evenings for pain and sleep. He was a tough wee fellow, it was three months before the burning temps in his belly needing ice wrapped in a towel and vanished muscle around his hips and shoulders were making it tiring for him to stand told us it was time to call Dr Rainbow. In the end a company called Rest your Paws came and helped him to forever sleep in his own nest and took him to be cremated (QR coded to ensure the ashes weren't mixed up). A very difficult thing to do. We were warned that the happy drug, to relax him and take away any pain of the catheter  might be enough to stop his little heart, because of the murmur he had developed but it just wouldn't give up. Eventually it stilled and the life we loved so much was gone.

He gave us so much love and only really wanted his dinner, the odd chicken neck and our company in return.

Got to be doing the work,  Yes I'll just put this Cadbury bear into the boot for you, Me sniffing???

Thank you Best Boy for so much fun and happy memories. I hope my Gran is right and the energy of love invested in pets will be resurrected – bloody hope God doesn’t give you wings or you’ll stink like a corn chip for eternity – mind up I guess you’ll be vegetarian!

P.S. There are so many stories missed from this remembering. Please feel free to add your happy Chaz story in the comments section. 😊

The art of birthday giving

My poor mother laboured through her entire birthday until I was born close enough to one side of midnight for the obstetrician to ask her which day she wanted my birthday to be – her's or my own. My first birthday present to her was pretty awful.

By having children you really are just guaranteed to have ongoing suspicious birthday gifts for quite a few years. The pasta necklaces, that mums then wear to MacDonalds for breakfast is a global phenomenon.

Dad’s birthday fell on a weekend morning and I decided to make him a cup of tea, perhaps I realised that the pasta necklace I had made at preschool wasn’t going to be much of a hit. Knowing that I was not allowed to use the kettle, I turned on the hot tap and waited for it to heat up and popped in the Bell tea bag to brew. Luckily by the time I’d squeezed the bag with my, no doubt grubby fingers, spooned in the sugar and sploshed in some milk then walked down to the end of the house where my parents were still blissfully ignorant, the cups were half empty.

I knew enough not to climb over them with the hot mugs so imagine their joy as I sang happy birthday at the top of my lungs just as the sun kissed the sky. My toddler brother woke which made my poor, heavily pregnant mother, have to clamber out of bed to bring the happy gurgler into the party while Dad accepted the tepid tea with enough joy and honour to then make me think for the rest of my life that making him a cup of tea was the grandest thing I could ever do.

The disappointment of a shonky birthday present for the less grateful of us is a trial. I think my most shameful moment – well at least in the running for the title, was on my ninth birthday. I had been desperate to get a watch. I had hinted and wanted and obsessed about opening a slim box with this most adult accessory. Mum had told me that I would not be getting one, that a watch was a special gift for the tenth birthday. I was so sure that she was only saying this to increase the surprise. Oh woe when I was passed a gift too large to be my desire. Even more woe when I ripped of the paper to see not a trick box with something smaller inside but a red handbag.

I can remember looking at mum as if she had betrayed me and threw the bag to the ground and sat with arms folded, party hat askew and radiating all the disdain and fury that my newly 9yr old self could muster. When mum picked up the spurned gift and put it back on my lap she said with a trace of a giggle but sternly enough for my ‘here’s trouble’ radar to make me realise the folly of my ways, “It is a very nice handbag in your favourite colour.” I saw myself from afar and all the warnings of whatever big emotion you had on your birthday would decide the flavour of the year flooded into my memory. I think I remembered to say thank you and looked inside; found a 1$ note which made me wonder how much a watch cost.

I know exactly when my darling husband realises that my birthday is coming up. He asks in a panicky voice “What do you want for your birthday this year?” Always such a trial for those of us lucky enough to have everything we need and no intention to go into debt to make a big splash. We have embraced the experience gift which can be a bit of a trial. For Father’s day this year I bought M tickets to a Fawlty Towers theatre dinner. Of course audience participation is his favourite thing! He behaved with dignity and never mentioned the anticipatory ulcer forming in his gut.

We were on time but the last to arrive and were shown to seats right out in an aisle. I could see the muscles around his throat tighten.  Such a relief at the end when he hadn’t been the one that Manuel used as a climbing frame  when Basil told him to wait on the tables, a beautifully coiffured woman suffered that experience. Nor was he designated as the fire warden and told to leave the restaurant to shut down the alarm during a drill gone wrong like a poor young man there with his family who was clearly wishing he could just keep going to some hip nightclub somewhere. Nor were the false teeth in his soup or the knickers Basil ended up wearing on his head to be found under his chair. And as it was not his birthday he was not one of the lucky three that were sung to in a very amorous sort of way by Sibal. It was with great relief that we returned, unscathed, to the Audi for the drive home.

Oh his poor Audi – I backed into it on its 2^nd birthday. So when he asked me what I wanted for my birthday this year I replied – ‘Your slot at the smash repairer to be sooner’.

In the end, a trip to ‘Artisans in the Gardens’ the Friday before my birthday with a friend answered the question of what I would really get for my birthday. K and I discovered a print maker called Yaja Hadrys. She forages for leaves and has discovered how to steam out the essences of the plants to leave coloured impressions in wool and silk. The work and method were equally stunning. K and I had to go have a wander around the art gallery and a meal in the new building before eventually convincing ourselves that these pieces of art were well worth the status of gift that year. We duly agreed to put our share of each other’s birthday budget towards the purchases and enjoyed the half hour or more of our return visit to her stall to choose which wonder we would take home.

yajadesign.com.au

My birthday this year was full of excited year 7 and 8s sitting the English exam I had made for them and the finished scripts I got to take home for marking. A lovely student from my homeroom gave me flowers and another lovely Year 7 girl in my class had her birthday on the same day so we were sung to when I popped in to check to see if they had all managed to finish the paper. My girlfriends took me out to lunch and I was spoiled sweet by my family here and overseas. I feel just soo lucky to have a life shared with all these fabulous people. Maybe this is the year that I should buy a few lotto tickets or get a slip for the Melbourne Cup next Tuesday.

Wearing the scarf with flowers from Amelia T and 163 English scripts to mark.

In celebration of World Teacher Day

 WTD JDI WILTY 

It is exam season, but this collection of letters is not a mnemonic for remembering first letters of quotes from a Shakespearean play or microscopic parts of a cell. They stand for the day celebrated around the globe yesterday and the title of this commentary (a shoe brand tagline and a UK celebrity game show).

World Teacher’s Day - Just Do It - Would I Lie To You?

The job has received a lot of negative shtick in the media over the last few years, I’ve added my pinch of pepper to the pot too. (See the postscript for a big grind!) But although the difficulties are real, there is still so much that is good about the profession. To celebrate world teaching day I thought I’d share a few.

The continuous cycle of growth is amazing. It is exciting to pick a vegetable or a flower that you have grown but seeing people grow in skills and understanding is miraculous.

Working with people who are all heading for the same goals, who are intelligent, funny and caring is a privilege. Staff rooms are full of problem solving, venting, creating, celebrating and hope – this is a recipe for fulfillment and fun.

Variety and surprise is guaranteed. In what other job can you use your analytical, synthetic and evaluating intelligence alongside artistic endeavours, game making, music and sport every day. What other job offers the challenge of pivoting to facilitate and leaping to take advantage of unforeseen opportunities every hour? You get to dress up in weird ways and make a fool of yourself in the name of engaging interest.

You know you have an impact on your society. Most of the kids in your class develop the skills, attitudes and care for community that keeps the country growing and sustains the privilege of democracy and freedom that we have. In what other job do you get customers coming back years later to thank you for what you did for them. In what other job do you get to influence and inspire our future scientists, writers, inventors and decision makers?

Personal growth and learning is ongoing and guaranteed. Teachers never get the chance to get set in their ways. Constant research leading to improvement in methodology is available. New resources and ideas keep you on your toes. New children every year means that nothing is every exactly the same or repeated. There is no room for boredom.

Oh the stories you hear! When I was teaching in the primary space I heard many teachers say to parents – If you promise to only believe half of what your kid comes home with I’ll only believe half of what they tell me. 

Here are some highlights in my career. There are many others I can’t share as they are as awful as they are funny.

• A Kindy kid turning up with her birth certificate to show and tell her classmates that the guy she calls daddy isn’t her birth father.  
• The Yr8 boy who told of his intellectually disabled sister escaping home, running to the supermarket, filling a trolley with all her favourite junk food and getting it home without anyone stopping her. 
• Another Yr8 boy who shared in homeroom how he had tried to use his ICT elective skills on his parent’s brand new Tesla and accidentally reprogrammed it not to start as a reason for being late to school – it took a tow truck, 2 weeks back at the dealer and a big lump sum to undo his genius. 

And you get at least a week in every ten where you can work in your pyjamas, you’re always free for Christmas and your after 4pm working hours are flexible.

Why there aren’t more people lining up to just do it – I don’t know.

 

Musicals are exhausting but so much fun.

Post Script – Long Rant – please ignore if not interested!

So what has made so many experienced teachers leave the profession and young teachers unable to stick it out; leaving schools around the world in a staffing crisis?

Here are the big four reasons that I think have made the job too hard, unrewarding and sometimes dangerous.

1.     Workload

Excessive data collection, compliance and performance transparency (ie. write down everything that will or could occur in any interaction with any student at any time) had quadrupled work load. This has been addressed to an extent in NSW and changes have been positive.

The change from hard copy teacher diaries to online learning management systems has added hours of work every week. These portals ‘open the school gates to student learning’. Everything must be perfect, on time and accessible. This means that all the normal planning and performance processes are still required (rightly so) but added to this are scripted explanations, resources, evaluations and assessments of a publishable quality shared with students and parents in a timely manner. This has forced many great teachers back to text books because the really good learning activities and experiences are organic – to meet needs as they arise, flexible and creative. This does not translate to the monster AI control that has straight jacketed teaching. And now management are screaming for learning to be more engaging. For many the hours of prep and resource development are then doubled by having to write up everything in parent speak. Just do it – and trust that teachers are professional and know what they’re doing.

 

2.     Parenting Engagement

Parenting skills that distract with screens, excuse unkind or aggressive behaviour, aim for friendship rather than guidance and even lie for their children to help them dodge the consequences of their choices have created a generation of children who are anxious because they don’t have safe boundaries, get incredibly stressed if their impulses are redirected and do not have any sense of self direction or responsibility let alone commitment to community. These are huge skills to teach but they must be mastered before successful focus on the literacy and numeracy that the curriculum demands. The lack of engagement and empowerment of children as a result of helicopter, lawn mover and delusional parenting is a major hurdle in their development of self discipline, resilience and GRIT.

Making the child believe the absurd images many parents have in their head of what they want their child to be is so cruel when reality catches up with them in high school. Parents can no longer pretend their kids are A graders by doing their kid’s homework, keeping them away from school on days they know there are assessments and complaining about unfair treatment or poor teaching from their primary school teachers. The years of lack of application and practice leave their kids wallowing in grades well below their potential with no personal skills to change it. This has created a large group of kids at school that feel like failures, don’t like it and lash out.

With the rise in learning delays and high percentages of neurologically diverse children in our classrooms, we have parents refusing to get assessments (long wait – huge cost) to enable teachers to get access to funding(hard to get and never enough) personalise learning effectively or have guidance for best practice in behaviour management.  Other parents can’t accept that in a classroom the rights of their child do not take precedence over the rights of every other learner. Very few schools have funds to employ teacher assistants which means whole classes of kids wait (loose the thread of their learning, get distracted, act out) as the teacher calms the child throwing the chair, ripping up their book, spitting, screaming on the floor, needing one to one eye contact to engage, who is upset because someone touched them... Very few schools have enough counsellors or space for withdrawal to calm down in a safe environment before they join the class again. Very few schools have access to the vast array of speech pathologists, psychologists, occupational therapists and other ists that could change lives if regular and routine access was affordable and available.

 

3.     Government Stuff Ups

Two of the worst things that has made high schools dangerous places to be in many areas were government decisions that went against the advice of their education departments. First requiring all students to remain at school until they are 17 years old and second dropping the School Certificate qualification. They then went on to strip the TAFE colleges of staff, space and resources so that those vocational curriculums have become less accessible. At the same time, the demands of Standard English and Mathematics have increased and the theoretical (cheaper to do) proportion of the vocational HSC subjects have increased; leaving kids who should be doing what their abilities and interests dictate are stuck in fruitless and soul damning academic pursuits. This constant whittling away at their self esteem (you try working your hardest yet still fail for a few years with your peers knowing every result) leads to the disruptive and antisocial behaviour that we see in the news today. If we went back to a system where a pass in the School Cert was your ticket out to a job or an apprenticeship or a practical course at TAFE that would lead directly into the trades we wouldn’t be experiencing the ‘skills shortage’ and thousands of kids leaving Uni with useless or unfinished degrees and huge Hecs debts. AND classrooms would be filled with kids in Stage 6 that were there because they wanted to be – 80% of interruptive and attention seeking behaviour wiped out right there. If the kids who struggle academically (this number is growing) had a short term and possible goal (2 more years at school seems like eternity when every day is exhausting and unrewarding) they would be more likely to engage and change their skill set.

I’m not even going to start on NAPLAN. (Improvements have been made!)

 

4.     Incompetence

The amount of awful behaviour towards children is a very low percentage in the profession but there are still adults who have no respect for others and choose to abuse those in their care. This makes every teacher the subject of suspicion for those that do abuse are clever and quiet and their victims are convinced that it is their fault or are so shamed they can’t speak up. This emotional incompetence has made many young men choose not to teach, has put so much pressure on teachers not to discipline, not to comfort that the job can’t be done. Unfounded accusations by disgruntled students are so hard to disprove and the dirt sticks. Damn every predator for the damage to trust they have done beyond the terrible theft of childhood and innocence they have committed.

Teachers work as a team. If one can’t or won’t hold the line on behaviour and values. If one can’t or won’t design learning to engage and inspire. If one can’t or won’t engage in extracurricular activities and add value to the rich tapestry of the school community – others have to pick up the slack. This is so much harder than just doing the right thing yourself. The tightrope of maintaining collegial relationships and harmony in the staff room and conveying expectations is a tricky balancing act. Having to do the work of others so that their classes don’t miss out becomes a cancer of resentment over time.

The other side of this is the feelings of a teacher who doesn’t have the natural instincts for the job; the layered, complicated web of teaching is so difficult for them. Whether this is because their training or ability is inadequate, the feeling of failure is the same. Kids can smell incompetence and enjoy the freedom from exertion it gives them or resent missed opportunities.

 

As usual the solutions to these problems all require cash.  As long as education does not make a profit, can’t be used as a tax haven or is belittled by those who wouldn’t be financially successful without their years at school; the problems will remain. In a country resistant to using recourses to make sure the future has a livable climate, to stopping the daily extinction of native flora and fauna, to listening to our tiny indigenous population, how does education stand a chance?

A little Advice from your Elder

 Welcome to my home; never forget that little pronoun. I may be 7 times your age and unable to jump over the barrier to your room, and your dinner, as once I would have. It is strange that my muscles have withered by the same mass that something under my ribs has grown, it hangs low and skews my balance and makes me so tired. But I still see what you are doing, and if you outlast me, there are some things you need to know.

To begin, the stairs.

She needs to be able to see you at all times. If she trips and falls our food source will be gone. Do not walk beside her and suddenly turn across her path when she is carrying the basket full of their outer layers. You were lucky all you got was some shouty words. I have to say going and licking her face when she was rubbing her wrenched shoulder was a good move.

Always travel behind or before, never suddenly stop at the bottom to set her spinning across the floor as she tries to miss standing on you.

To continue, the bathroom.

It is perfectly fine to push in when there is a gap and stand in companionable silence when she sits to relieve herself. I have to say I was shocked to see you jump up on her lap to do your very obvious sniffings. A polite whiff as she stands to flush is quite enough. Think yourself lucky, young man that you just got pushed off and not out, that day.

When she retires to the room and removes her outer layer she is alright. You do not need to rush in to inspect the cubicle of rain. Please politely remain in the sleeping room until she is ready to come out for her new outer layer. By the way – glass – yes you can see things through it but you can’t touch them. No matter how many times you bat and paw away at the water drops down the cubicle wall you will not save her from them.

When she gets out please stop doing that side scraping thing against her legs, your fluff sticks to her, gets scraped off onto the drying sheet then into her hair if she has done the bubbles. You must not irritate the food maker. You have to keep her relaxed, if she gets edgy and late she may forget the first meal.

Jumping up onto the top where the water spurts and sniffing into her mouth as she has that minty machine whirring in there is gob smackingly – well just weird. See earlier comment re first meal of the day.

You need to understand that this bathroom thing she does needs to be fast. Swinging on the cord of the hot air shouter and unplugging it all the time is not helping. 

It was your own fault that you got locked in the cupboard. Use your voice man.

To end – for now, the desk.

You will notice that I have a comfortable, designated area in which to repose as she stares at the wall of light and taps on the buttons that change the light. It is extremely rude to put yourself in that space. Find somewhere comfortable to wait.

You must not walk on the buttons. She was very cross yesterday when words were sent too early to her Team somewhere because you walked on the go button.

Walking around the screen to get to the window is inefficient. With your young springy legs you can just get to the viewing platform from the chair, why do you need to walk over her wrists and push your back and tail up into her face so she can’t see the light wall? Remember – the longer she stays here the longer we wait for her to go to the food room.

AND that is not a real mouse you silly boy. Do not pat it to the floor and chase it around the room. Leaving it under the table when she was making her drink hotter was a big time waster.

Getting your head stuck in her cup and panicking was a big mistake. Smashed cup and water stuff all over the buttons was the biggest boo-boo so far.

I know that your generation is more demanding and curious than mine but things will be a lot easier for you if you take my advice and wait for what you want. It will come.

Our peoples will not forget us.

Charlie in his stink sack ready to protect his space from Basileus, new kid on the block.

 

The things we hear

 When contemplating time travel, I have wondered how hard it would be to adjust to the sounds in a time long ago. So much of my lived experience would be missing, The hum of electricity flowing, the grinding of the computer fans, rumbling trucks on distant motorways. AI announcing, ‘Ok, turning on two lights’ at an indecent volume when you ask for a kitchen lamp to illume a dark morning. A human would understand that it was the tiny, high pitched chatter of fairy-wrens that woke you and would know to whisper instead of a proudly shouting. Why does it announce its intentions at all? I feel compelled to applaud and when I say thank you, it tells me it is ‘honoured to serve’. The 6am groan and grind of the coffee machine getting into heat costs seconds off my life every day. So loud! Rudely pushing itself forward through the gentle tapping of the keyboard and snuffling of the dog curled at my feet in the morning quiet.

A fairy wren male in front of an Aus wild iris.

Perhaps people in times past complained of the owls and the pussycats – wishing them off in their pea green boats. I think though they would have been able to hear much smaller things, the humphing of worms pulling their long digestive tract through the dirt below their bed mats or a funnel web pouncing on a lumbering cockroach. Maybe the first noise to bring them from their N2 sleep were the stomata of the trees around them swapping from intaking oxygen in the night to carbon dioxide as the first fingers of light flow over the horizon. Can’t you just hear some hunter gatherer chastising their kids, “No don’t set up the tent under the gumtree, they have such noisy stomata, look there’s a dropping sheoak over there, so much quieter in the morning.” The kids would mutter about dropbears and widow makers and how ridiculously cautious their old fashioned parents were. 

Left - Eucalyptus         Right - Drooping Sheoak

Dogs hear frequencies of sound that humans can’t. Charlie, our mini foxie, has his ear pricked and starts doing his bendy – woo hoo someone I know is coming dance, as soon as Nana’s shiny red mazda turns onto our street. He’s whining at the door then diving to the window and back, way before she pulls up out front. Now of course google announces when our phone is within a km so he lounges over to the guard ottoman at the front window with a selection of toys to present us with.

We were in Canterbury for Christmas in 2011 when marine tremors gave Christchurch another big shake on December 23^rd with after shocks rumbling through January. One night I woke up to what I thought was an ear piercing, high pitched scream. It went on long enough for me to sit up and begin to try and think what it was and if the daughters in the room next door were in danger. Then a big shake jolted me to my feet and the rest of the family awake and diving for a right angle in the room for protection. (All earthquake and bomb drills through my primary years were debunked – little protection under objects and doorframes!) One night when M’s soring had sent me to the couch, I woke up mid air. A quake had hit, flinging me off the leather high enough for me to wake and put out my hands and draw my knees up to land in a crawling position. This time a low sigh and an aurora type green light pummelled the senses. Hearing the Earth move is something I hope not to experience again.

Of course the noisiest creatures on the planet are us humans. At the moment in Australia there is a lot of noise around the referendum, a simple idea that has been barraged with bombs of ridiculous from the far right saying that this 3% of our population will take control, from the leader of the opposition with alternative topics, racial divide and recently auditing his own party for their financial management of past indigenous spending. We’ve had marches with rowdy placards and big celebrity or political voices shouted from the mastheads. Check out a video that has gone big from a couple of comedians and a senator on TikTok here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAqIypjk-5A So much noise and a lot of disrespectful, condescending  behaviour. The fears that the nastiness towards the LGBTQIA community in the lead up to the Marriage Equality survey in 2017 would be replicated towards this referendum’s minority group have been realised with indigenous representatives from both sides of the debate being targeted and awful stereotypes penned in cartoons and slurs in talk back radio.

I like the early mornings when all I hear are the little things.

Check this out re early morning fairy wrens! https://www.theguardian.com/environment/commentisfree/2019/nov/14/why-im-voting-no-1-superb-fairy-wren-and-you-should-too The vote for Australia’s favourite bird is becoming very serious!

Making a Racquet

Peek-a-boo! I see you! Surely the earliest game we learnt to play.

The kids loved it when I stripped the beds because they knew they’d be able to play as I hung the sheets out to dry. We even made up a little ditty to lengthen the anticipation period and provide a definite end for the ‘boo’.

And didn’t we laugh when they first played hide and seek. That little onesie covered, nappy clad bottom waving in the air with the head under the cushion on the couch. Little toes pushing up and down as we called out, “I wonder if they’re behind the curtain? … No? …” Suddenly they couldn’t stand it anymore and would throw off the cushion shrieking, “I here! I here!”

In a few years the game morphed into heart stopping pounces in dark hallways. For weeks I was terrified to open the pantry door. Once I lifted the lid on the bathroom hamper and the small one leapt up hollering boo with her arms in her Dad’s shirt waving like some laundry ghost. So glad I’d just used the facilities!

When I was about 10 my Dad looked me in the eye and told me that he was going to have to be away for a few nights and as I was the eldest, it was up to me to help mum make sure that everything was locked up at night because there had been a spate of burglaries from farm sheds in the area. Well at least I think he told me that, I certainly took my role very seriously and checked the calendar each morning to see if it was the day of his return.

A night too early, I woke to the sound of a car slowly crunching down the shingle road. I peered out my bedroom window to see a car, with it’s headlights off, turning into our drive way. I froze and ducked down, my heart pounding until I heard a car door click open. At my feet lay my tennis racket. I picked it up, closed the bedroom door on my little sister and tiptoed to wake my brother. Why I didn’t wake my mother I have no idea! Once he had cricket bat in hand, we crept down the dark hallway, there are no streetlights in the country and this was well before those plug in night lights became mum’s go to safety measure.

I told my brother, “If the robber gets past me, it’s up to you to stop him getting to mum.” His 7yr old blond head nodded in agreement and he stood bravely alone in the dark hall. I took up position in the toilet doorway, beside the back door, with racquet raised high above my head. The runner bean fence gate creaked, stealthy steps on the back stairs creeped, the key turned in the lock, the handle crunched as it was carefully swung down and the robber stepped in. With adrenaline pumping I slammed down my weapon on his head. With the grunt of this exertion the intruder turned, I saw it was Dad. I think as the racquet made contact I was already yelling sorry and had let go. My brother came charging into the porch with his bat ready to drive the baddie out. I started yelling – no – no it’s Dad! Then I think mum woke up.

Once we’d all calmed down with a laugh and a hot milo – that woke the little sister. I was able to reflect how thankful I was that I’d hit Dad with the strings – so a useless security guard, and how important clues to reality are missed when in a holy terror. I had heard the keys but never thought – hang on, how come a robber has a set of house keys?

We’re all grown up now, but I’m wondering if we’re still having trouble hearing the keys turning.

According to Genesis, two responsibilities were given to humanity – free choice with their consequences and stewardship of the garden. Surely The Voice to parliament is informing the first and phasing out fossil fuels, plastics and burning is the second.

The future is coming, let’s put down the racquet.

 

Our bedroom window - thanks for the photo sis! 

Decided to put a poster on my garage door.
We get a bit of metro and dog walk foot traffic on our cul-de-sac. 

Whoa! Didn’t see that coming.

For those of us who spend our days assessing, preparing and predicting, this statement is a humiliating admission. Whether grim or agreeable, I like life to be - expected.

The House at Pooh Corner was a regular favourite for bedtime reading. We heard that the bear of very little brain calmly accepted the grim as pathways to the agreeable about which his friend Piglet needed constant reassurance. Eeyore always knew it would rain, Tigger bounced for adventure and Owl was only wise after the event. I never liked Rabbit’s officious efficiency but have to accept that it is the character I have become. I too would happily hang tea towels to dry on the legs of a friend if they were in a convenient position.

Two weeks ago I suddenly had a lump in my throat and a numbing pain that ran up my left shoulder to fizzle with a cracking ache across the centre of my skull. M sat me down to take my blood pressure and found a number that would have made Eeyore lie down and accept his fate. My bottom skimmed a chair in ER triage and within minutes it was hanging out of a hospital gown. I was bundled into bed with a cannula in my arm, blood taken, a chest Xray taken, hooked up to an ECG monitor and listening to Dr Marty jokes. I guess they thought I was having a heart attack. I channelled Pooh and tried to think of a little hum when left to await results.

After many proddings and pokings, I was told that all the things that could have killed me were not the cause, all my organs were in good nick and there was no sign of clots. Even with meds, my BP was Tiggering, so more fluids were extracted for testing. Days later I was released without a cause.

On Friday I sat in my specialist’s office and was told everything the last lot of test results said I didn’t have. Almost apologetically, I was told that I was just suffering from garden variety genetic hypertension that 90% of sufferers have. The Dr said that it must have been slowly rising and that I must have a high tolerance for pain and discomfit. I thought I was too Rabbit for that.   

The lesson is ‘know thyself!’ Legend has it that Socrates scored this on Delphi’s temple in response to the Oracle’s ironic statement that he was the wisest man living because he told her that he knew nothing. But I would say to you – save your life by listening to what your body is telling you. Be aware of changes. Go for routine check ups with your GP.

Do not let yourself be surprised!

 

Friday was also Charlie’s 14^th birthday – a happy surprise that he made it and is still having many bright moments every day despite the cancer eating him away. He loves unwrapping presents. (All these are old, loved toys- he is a dog of small brain and thinks they are new.)