I’m an asshole, yes I am,

Stole mums washing and away I ran.

I’m am asshole, yes I be,

Got on Mum’s bed and did a pee.

I’m an asshole, yes I was,

Why? I’m a goat, so just because.

I’m an asshole, here and now,

Your favourite plants I will plough.

I’m an asshole, now and then,

I fly through windows like a wren.

I’m an asshole for evermore,

Cause I IZ GOAT and I goat lots more in store.

Pippin Von Pip Pip



Left behind – But still lost

Left Behind – But still lost

I thought about writing something poignant about lost dreams, loves and aspirations but that’s not me and goes against the way I try to live my life. I strive to live in the now and to deal with the future if I’m lucky enough to get one. As far as the past, well there is stuff all I can do about that and if I didn’t learn from it at the time I’m not likely to now.

So yes, I have lost and learnt from it, I have given away and regretted it and I have had things taken from me that I ache to have back. But these times and events have all passed and the consequences have been lived. So dwelling to me is like trying to fix the hole in a sunken ship. You might get that hole repaired but the ships already sitting on the ocean floor.

When I chose to move to the country as a 22 year old, I was young and naive and had no real idea of the things I would be giving up. I soon learnt to live with a 80km round trip to the shops and 40 km round trip to get the mail. Couriers that refuse to deliver to my farm and blackouts that can last for days. That bushfires are part of summer life. That “she’ll be right mate”, will be used in business meetings and that a country clock has many more hours in a day than city a one does.

Hell I’ve even adapted to sharing my space with critters. Furry critters with bad attitudes, 8 legged critters the size of dinner plates and even legless ones that belong on the top 10 deadliest list. All of these I have happily excepted as part of country living and as part of the deal for having 30,000 acres of forest at my back door.

I have also accepted that country life does not come with the city’s access to the arts and culture. That a missing ingredient means a change in the menu. That internet speeds are slower than third world countries. That nothing is a simple trip and if you want it, you will have to order it online. I’ve even come to terms with the fact when I have to ring 000 I have to them give direction on how to find the front gate.

Life in the country is different, I’ve learnt to deal with it and I now embrace it. I am also human, so of course there is a loss that I cannot let go. A loss that was taken by this country living that I love so much. A memory that haunts my thoughts. It at times taunts me in my dreams. A treasurer I held in my hands that I gave away without realising the reach of its loss. A loss I still mourn for. A love that was stolen from me with a change of address. A yearning that I will forever want.

I’m not sure if I will ever come to term with it or be able to accept it. I may continue to mourn this loss until I breathe no more. So to you, one of life’s greatest gifts…to my lost love……Home Delivery – I miss you, I salute to you and I live in hope that one day you too can leave the city life and join us here in the country.


creek 008

The Assassin – The Hairbrush

Mighty Max here. I have been reading Mothers Face book and see that some of you think it is funny that I am cautiously concerned about the hairbrush. People your ability to find humour in such a dangerous situation shows me that you really do not understand the deathly plot the hairbrush is planning for us all. Including my Irish Woolly Mammoth Hound sister Keva. She has been taken in by its leg tap inducing spell on more than one occasion.

Now let’s get things straight and let me correct those of you that think I fear the Hairbrush. I am Max…Mighty Max I do not have fears. I scan the forest for danger, I eat goannas for breakfast and dingo’s for tea. I do not fear things……things fear me. So I do not fear the Hairbrush!! I just respectfully acknowledge the fact that it is a cold-blooded killer and unlike the goanna it has a brain to match its assassin skills. After years of biting the Brush and anyone stupid enough to conspire with it, I have realised that, like Mighty Max it too has super powers. But unlike me it harnesses them for evil.

So now I study the Brush, I watch its moves and I am always prepared for its next attack….and it will attack again! It will brainwash my poor mum into helping it wield its terror upon me. It will violently rip my fur (my glorious, glorious fur) from my body in an attempt to harness my super powers and use those or evil as well.

I have explained this to the oversized cloud dwelling Woolly Mammoth, but let face it she’s pretty – pretty dumb!!!

I mean if she can’t see that even its name is an acronym for its evil plot then I simply cannot help her.



Assassin with


Reasons for


Ridding the

Universe of



Or for those Ladder Legs out there think Super-Sized Hounds.

Freaky I know……You have all been warned.

Max….Mighty Max….WOOF!

With or Without – Waking Up.


What’s it like to live with a dog that outweighs you by 25 kilos? At times extremely funny. My “With or Without” series takes a look at life from both sides. “Without” may be more peaceful but I wouldn’t swap “With” for a second.


The sounds of bird singing in the forest stirs your senses. Eyes open slowly open as you have that first stretch of the morning. Tired eyes adjust to the light shining on a new day. A quiet five minutes to lay and think about the day ahead. Up and into it.


You have not woken by the Hounds designated time. She sits and waits….not patiently. The huffing commences, very long and dramatic huffs at 10 second intervals. Not awake yet? The shifty of the hound mass starts, 75 kilos now shifting on timber floors. The sound like a thunderstorm approaching, the windows shake along with the floors. Still not awake? A few more huffs placed between body shuffles.

Still not awake? She waits not longer, she thinks she is stealthy as she approaches. 75 kilos of klutziness with the breath of last night meal is about as stealthy as an earthquake in a sulphur mine. The face approaches, the whiskers and beard so close that they tickle your face. This tickle will be the only gentle part of this experience.

That moment your eyes open they meet the eyes of the Hound, that are now millimetres away from yours. “Hello your’re finally awake!”

While you have been sleeping for the past hour the Hound has been waiting. The Hounds internal spring has been winding and waiting, winding and waiting. The tension of the spring now at its maximum load capacity, waiting to uncoil the second your lids lift. It’s now that the Hypo Hound unleashes its catapult of love, instant full body contact between Hound and human. Waking up has never been filled with such pure love or such immense pain. Clobber paws slamming with the force of falling trees. The tongue connected to mass of love now coating you in a thick covering of wet admiration. Teeth chomping on arms, legs and any other body part that is lucky enough to be still attached.

Crying in pain will not help you, this will only make the Hound want to comfort you. I should add that being comforted by the Alarm Sledgehammer is no comfort at all. Those big chomps just get replaced with little “love nips”. Where she grabs just a tiny piece of flesh between her front teeth in an attempt to flea you. Because I do not have fur and also do not have fleas, this result in nips that don’t break the skin but feels like tendons should be hanging from a gaping hole.

Some may think this an exaggeration or even a bold faced lie. They have never been woken by an adoring Hound. In the 12 years I have been owned by Irish Wolfhounds this morning ritual has left me with several black eyes, split lips, claw marks that would put a lion trainer to shame and one morning that I will never forget that ended in the emergency room of the local hospital.

Would I swap if for a pain free awakening? Not for a million dollars.















Walking a Furry Super Star


For those that have never been owned by an Irish Wolfhound it hard to understand the crowds they draw. A simple walk can turn into a production with you and your hound as the stars on a stage. I often feel like I have one of the Kardashians on the end of the lead.

Those that are owned by Hounds know all to well what it is like to walk a Super Star.

So what’s like to have a living legend at the end of your lead?  A lot like the following:

Ready to walk my Hound, walking shoes on, lead on, let’s go……….nope……..STOP.

“Yep she is big.”

“She’s an Irish Wolfhound.”

“She’s so-many years old.”

“Yes she eats a lot.”

“They are a very ancient breed with a colourful history.”

and of course” No she does not have a saddle.”

blah blah blah……

Those that don’t talk to you can be heard saying the following in distance

“Look at that dog!?!?!”, “OH MY GOD!! Did see the size of that thing?!?!?!?”

“Looks like a lama, alpaca, werewolf, bear, sheep, horse, Great Dane cross sheepdog.” Trust me I have heard all of these.

Most of this happens in the car park as you getting the Hound out of the car. A simple 30 minute walk on the beach now takes up to 2 hours. The walking is done is 10 step spurts, before the next curious person stops you to talk to your dog.

At times I have had long and in-depth conversation with people who otherwise would not give me a second glance.

I understand people’s amazement at this breed. I have shared my life and soul with 2 over the past 12 years and I am still amazed by them daily. I would also be the first to walk up to another Irish Wolfhound owner and start chatting. So I get it and I accept it. I’ve realised I don’t walk a dog, I walk a furry people magnet.

What I wonder is – do these Hounds search us out for this reason? To become their voices and in turn teach others about them as they teach us. Why us?

I’m generally quite shy, (for those that know me, stop laughing!) I can be outspoken online, after all I’m hiding behind a computer and no one would know me if they fell over me. But I’m the last person to want to be the centre of attention. Around my friends and family, sure I’m obnoxious, but around strangers completely different. But put my Hound beside me and I don’t mind the attention we draw.

Over the years I have had some amazing conversations with these curious strangers. I have been able to not only share my knowledge about this breed but I have also been able to bask in the spell these giants cast over everyone they meet.

I have been stopped by young and old, the upper class and the homeless. I have been asked by police officers if they can take a photo with them, Life Guards have lined up with my last girl to get photo’s in front of the Life Guard tower. Along with the family photos, kids and of course the tiny dog standing beside the giant shots. People I have never met before and will never meet again have my Hounds inside their family photo albums.

So it’s not just one group of people it’s EVERYONE that wants to share in the amazing grace of these animals. I live in a small country town, my vet has only ever treated a couple of other Wolfhounds besides mine in his twenty years, so I thought it was just a small town thing. NO, this phenomena is worldwide, similar stories from other Irish Wolfhound owners have echoed my own over and over again. These guys are furry Super Stars.

Don’t get me wrong, I have gritted my teeth on more than one occasion when some has asked “have ya got a saddle for that thing” Hence the reason I had a shirt made with “NOPE….No saddle!!” on the front. But overall I’ve learned to enjoy it and look at it like I am doing my bit for this breed by educating those not lucky enough to have met one before. Let alone have their world and heart turned upside down by one daily.

My last girl Moke could have her occasional “no strangers please” day, but usually only in summer and when it meant standing in the sun. Even then she was always gentle, she would just shove her head between my legs and give the stranger her bum as if to say “if you must pat me, please let me introduce my butt”. She would always let people hold her lead while I took a photo of them with her, but as soon as I handed back their camera she would be back by my side and ready to move on. So I think they get use to the attention and also truly enjoy their star status.

So as I start on another (hopefully) ten years with my Keva, I start at the beginning again

“Yes – she is big.”

“No – she’s just a puppy.”

“Yes – She will grow more.”

“She’s an Irish Wolfhound.”

and with great pleasure – “Yes you may pat her.”

I just go with the flow! Why not let the stranger standing before me share in the light these hounds radiate. I get my girl 24/7 whereas for these poor souls it may be the only Wolfhound encounter of their lives.

So to end, let me pose a question. What would happen if every person in the world owned a Irish Wolfhound? Would we all talk to each other? Would barriers forever be broken? Would class and stereotypes be no more? Would wars be ended? As I’ve talked with ALL, from Bikers to babies, Priests to the wild and spirited. I’ve shared stories with people of all races and faiths. I have laughed and spent hours at complete peace with these strangers that I will never see again. In fact if I added up the hours I speak to strangers about my dog would it be more than I speak to some family and friends??

So maybe we need to start a peaceful revolution (I know huge oxymoron there) and convince the world – “A Hound for every Man, Woman and Child!!!

Just a tasty bone for me

Just a tasty Bone for me

A King may want for his throne,

Me – I just want a tasty bone.

A Lord May want for his Lady,

With just a bone, I am happy.

A leader may want for his people,

I want a bone on which to dribble.

A doctor may want for the sick,

Just give me a bone, nice and thick.

A thief may want for a perfect crime,

I just want a bone to be all mine.

An artist may want for a muse,

Me, a bone will happily amuse.

A singer may want for a band,

I’m happy if I have a bone at hand.

A sailor may want for the sea,

A juicy bone will do little old me.

A poet may want for the perfect rhyme,

Just give me a bone at every mealtime.

Max Woof



Advice on a tiny card.

lily3 (2)

It hard to admit that the best piece of advice I’ve ever been given was on a tiny little gift card. It didn’t come from profound source like the teachings of Buddha or a great piece of literature. It didn’t come from a prophet, a genius or even a humans mouth.

Just a simple sentence on a gift card that gave me the motto for my new life. So what was this profound piece of advice that has driven me forward. The words that have given me such comfort over the past 15 years.

“Don’t cry because it’s over – Smile because it happened.”

Not that profound really, but the timing of reading this comment was everything.

I was 30 years old with my 7-year-old Sons arms wrapped tightly around my legs, when I was handed a bunch of flowers that held this little card. I will never forget reading those words, or the impact they had on me at this precise moment in my life.

This was not the first bunch of flowers or card that I’d been given that day. It was one of many, all with beautiful verses and heartfelt words written on them. At the time most of these cards I couldn’t even read, let alone digest the words.

These words were exactly what I needed at that precise moment in my life.  I sat and took them in. Never before this moment nor since then has a sentence affected me so deeply.

All the while I was taking this advice in, my sons arms were still wrapped around my legs. I realised in that moment that this was exactly what I needed to do. It was precisely how I needed to live my life from this moment forward.

So I bent down and kissed my boy on the forehead, picked him up in my arms. Together we walked up to my husbands coffin and placed that tiny little card deep into the Gymea Lily that sat in the centre. I turned and walked out of the chapel, eyes red and swollen but with my head held high.

15 years on I still “Smile because it happened”.

lilly (2)


Get a goat “They” said.




Get a goat they said – they are cute – they said.

Get a goat they said – they will clean up around the farm – they said .

Get a goat they said- tough as nails – they said.

Get a goat they said- you can’t kill them – they said.

“They” – were talking through their ass!!

Unless of course the nails that “they” use are made of marshmallow, “they” find Asshole cute and accept window eating as cleaning up. Oh and the cant kill them bit – well that one really resounded in my head as I dug a grave.

So as a community service I feel it important to educate the world about the real story of goats.

Get a goat they said – they are cute – they said.

First and foremost goats may be cute, but they are also assholes!!!! This is not just a assumption, it is scientific fact. They don’t mean to be assholes, they just are. Just like an elephant cannot help its size, or a giraffe it’s long neck, a goat cannot help being a asshole. It just science people.

Not only are goats assholes they have the ability to interfere with the human psyche. Able to turn a once placid animal loving human into a bat shit crazy – goat hating Mo-Fo. How? You ask simply because goats are assholes.

The following tale is just one of a million that prove this fact beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Once upon a time there was a lady who lived in the bush…….a crazy lady. She hadn’t always been crazy but she got “goats”. On a unusually very hot autumn day the crazy lady (who from hence forth will be referred to as Mel) worked long a hard in the heat. She worked up a healthy hunger and the craving for a BLT, she decided this would be the perfect dinner. So taking a break from work she drove to the corner shop and mere 30 km round trip to get fresh bread and bacon.

Back out to work in the heat, knowing a BLT was waiting. A couple of hours later Mel comes inside for a drink break and the back door is open…….Shit balls on toast!!!! Well actually forget the toast because the Assholes had eaten the entire loaf of bread, not even a crumb left…GRRRR. The theft of a loaf of bread sent her mad I hear you ask – not likely. The fact that after finishing the bread they then decided to eat a budget report I had just finished for one my clients – all 35 pages, leaving only the plastic binder undigested. This was still forgivable – the report can be re printed and bacon, eggs and fried tomato on NOTHING would be ok.

So back outside to work, doors locked on the way out. 4 hours of farm work later Mel almost crawls through the door exhausted and physically sore. She goes upstairs to her bedroom (a loft) and the smell hits her!!!

Now the crazy lady has her last thought as a sane person “That smell better not be on my bed!!!???” She turns, she’s sees, she SNAPS!!!! Instant crazy, and not “Crazy Pete has the deal for you” kind of crazy, but full blown “Rip your Bovid eyes out and suck them like lollies kinda crazy!!!” Let’s just say the bed scenters were lucky to be safe in there cage and that the bat shit crazy lady was too tired to take to them with a chainsaw!!!!

So I think that you would agree this tale alone proves that goats are indeed assholes. Yes they can be cute – that’s what saves them from the baking dish.

Get a goat they said – they will clean up around the farm – they said .

They lied, they lied, they lied! Yes they do eat greenery but only if it happens to be your favourite plant or even more enticing is if that plant is deadly to them. The weeds? Well apparently they don’t taste to good. My goats have chosen instead to eat timber, not a problem when you live on a farm I hear you say. A big problem when you house is built from wood. My once lush gardens now reduced to a collection of stumps that desperately try to reshoot. Only to be chomped the second the foliage pokes its poor doomed head from the stump. Once proud plants now chomped greens, while the weeds stand tall and flourish.

Get a goat they said- tough as nails – they said.

Really? Tough as nails? Balderdash these creatures are as “tough as twigs!”

In less than a year – the time I’ve owned goats. My vet has been able to put an extension on his house. He’s bought his children all have brand new bicycles and I’m not talking about cheap K-Mart ones.

First was a belly full of worms, Goats down, Goats down. These worms took the life of one and nearly the other. Since then the survivor has racked up vet bills like an epileptic, diabetic, transgender Great Dane. She has eaten rat poison that I didn’t even know was on my property, but the goat found it. Goat down, Goat down, again. This was a home visit from the Vet and blood clotting tests. Of course I live in the middle of nowhere so this visit was not cheap. She recovers from her rat bait suicide attempt and then finds a poisonous plant on my farm and of course has a banquet. Goat down, Goat down….AGAIN. This took charcoal and sherry to reduce the poison levels. I now know that goats don’t like charcoal or sherry. They also do not take to being force fed…. AT ALL. By the end of this episode I was covered in a mixture of charcoal, goat spit and sherry breath foam. Then there was the “slinging of the cud” incident – A delightful event where the goat starting throwing up a green slushy mix. Why – because she found another plant she should not eat. Another dose of charcoal and a lot of cleaning up of green slime, because of course she couldn’t do it out in a paddock. Why you ask, because she is a goat. As previously mentioned goats are assholes so therefore it is their duty to chuck up all over my back door and verandah. She has also eaten polystyrene, plastic labels, nuts and bolts, tables, chairs and any paperwork she can get her teeth into. The only thing she turns her nose up at, her very expensive goat food and of course weeds.

Get a goat they said- you can’t kill them – they said.

Well apparently, I CAN! Goat down, Goat down…..permanently.

Now please don’t think that I find this funny. I held my girl while she took her last breaths and cried while digging her grave.

Can’t kill them, REALLY? This gives a illusion of a bullet proof animal that can eat anything, withstand the elements and survive longer than 7 months. Apparently not and confirming this is my vet’s new Porsche and the rather sad gravesite of Miss Tramp.

No longer do I see goats as these super hero style animals that can and will survive anything. I now know better, this is why forever more when someone uses the term “They are as tough as goats” I will now picture a frail little creature, that could die at any moment.

If you are contemplating getting a goat be warned – Cute does not jump on your car and bounce like a demon. Cleaning up is not eating your house. Tough does not break down constantly and can’t kill em – yeah right. Get a goat they said…….


With or Without – A Shower


What’s it like to live with a dog that outweighs you by 25 kilos? At times extremely funny. My “With or Without” series takes a look at life from both sides. “Without” may be more peaceful but I wouldn’t swap “With” for a second.


Clean clothes and towel ready. You turn the hot water on and jump in. The combination of hot water and perfumed scents washing away the grime of a long day. Mind drifting as the hot water runs over your head, a rare quiet time within your busy day. Refreshed and ready for a clean towel and fresh clothes….simple really.


You get your towel and clean clothes ready. The Truant Officer Hound appears to check over the clothes to make sure they are indeed Pyjamas’ and not town clothes. Town clothes can bring on a severe “you’re leaving me” panic attack in the Hound. A panic level that it is normally reserved for low lying beach communities that have a tsunami approaching.

You turn on the water and jump in, then an almighty thud at the bathroom door. You have forgotten to leave it open and have separated the Hound from its human life force. By the time you get out and take the four steps to the door, the door is rocking. That 10 second delay in reaching the door has convinced the Hound that it has been abandoned. Full blown Panic Hound greets your naked body with missile accurate clobber paws. Claws the size of brown bears (ok there not that big but they feel like it) now dragging down your legs in a sign of true love, that only a Hound can deliver . Screaming in pain you return to the shower. That once refreshing hot water now a torture device that stings your torn flesh.

Hound super happy, is now bouncy around the bathroom with joy as she has finally been reunited after the such a huge separation. The mass of the Hound is now bouncy, tail wagging, paws clobbering and giant legs flinging. All the oversized body parts joined together in the Happy Dance of her people. During this dance of joy is when the shower gel, shampoo, moisturiser and talc all go flying. The floor now looks and smells like a bomb has gone off in a cosmetics section of a department store.

Then the head pokes around the curtain “Hello my Human and flesh covered drinking bowl. Let me lick you clean!” As she reaches in a bit further so that her giraffe like tongue can touch your leg – the shower curtain touches her. ARRRRRRRGH PANIC. She jumps back with such speed and force that the curtain is torn from its rail and wraps the Hound’s head tightly on its way down. The panic level rises to a height never seen before. The Bucking Bronco Hound is loose in your bathroom and nothing it safe……nothing.

You jump from the shower naked and dripping to rescue the blinded and bounded Hound. Your first step, straight onto the shower gel that has been spilt all over the floor. It’s about now that your bare bum meets the cold bathroom tiles. On the way to the floor you manage to grab the shower curtain, releasing the Hound’s head. Now she can see and she can see you’re on the floor – wooohoooo play time. Once again the clobber paws meet bare skin, along with a couple of excited nips to your legs on your way back up. You manage to get back in the shower and finish washing but instead of shower gel you use antiseptic and mercurochrome.

The Hound is now watching from a safe distance, still traumatised from the curtain incident and completely covered in what can only be described as “bathroom”.