My gut groans with you inside my mind

And in my dreams you’ve passed my lips a thousand times

Diet see you locked behind fridge doors

The diet continues and so do the songs –


Marrow, it’s you I’m looking for?

I need you inside warm pies

I need you with hot fries

You’re all I’ve ever wanted and my mouth is open wide

Cause you know you’re great in satay and you make the best stew

I want to taste you so much, I really do

I long to open bones to see you there

and lick and lick and lick and munch til bones are bare

Sometimes I feel my hunger will overflow

Marrow, you absence hurts me so

Cause I wonder wanna wear you on my chin and I want ya in my hairdo

Are you somewhere feeling lonely? Or is someone chewing you?

Tell me….

I long to see the end of diet and see you there

And Ill chew time and time again then much with Husky flair

Sometimes I feel my stomach so damn hollow

Marrow, oh how I want to eat you so

Cause I wonder where you and I search and dig for you

Are you somewhere feeling lonely? Or is someone chewing you?

Come on mother have a heart and just let me have a chew

Please let me start by saying Mum I love you.

Max woof – please send food.



Sounds of Silence

I think the diet Max the Husky is on is getting to him, just heard him singing this to himself.



Fool she said “Do you not know

bones make your gut grow

Hear my words and I might teach you

Or my foot is gonna reach you”

But her words like silent raindrops fell

and all I chose to hear was silence

and then she pointed out what I weighed

and the dents from where I laid

And then she gave me one more warning

“stop eating or vets in the morning”

And then she said “To band your fat guts!”

“No more Subway rolls

And No more meatballs”

and I whimpered in the sound of silence.


Maxwell Francis Murray – Woof



Aussie Bush Tails

Before I start, for those that do not appreciate foul language – look away now. No seriously, this may change the way you think of me.

The more I converse with people around the globe the more I’m learning about other countries and their customs. I’m also learning more about myself as an Aussie. The biggest realisation is that we as a people, are really foul-mouthed. I also realise that us Aussie’s take a little pride in this, that we as a nation like to take swearing to new levels of use.

I would like to emphasise this point by taking one swear word and showing you non Australians just what we can do with it. I could use much worse swear words to make this point but I will use what I think is the least offensive as possible. Some swearing connoisseurs amongst you may say the word I have chosen is barely a swear word at all. But us Aussie’s never shy away from challenge and think even the least offending of the swear words should have its place amongst it far superior cousins.

So the word for today’s lesson in Aussie swearing 101 is SHIT! A word that most countries use in a maybe a few different forms. Not us Aussie’s we use this word daily, we use it to show such a huge array of emotions and we use it in all types of conversations.

So let me show you what an Aussie can do with shit – yes I get the pun people. I need to start by saying very few of the Aussie uses for the word shit actually refer to the bodily function you are all thinking about right at this moment.

So how many ways can a Aussie use the word shit you ask? – “SHITLOADS”!

The word “shit” can be used in both a positive and a negative way. Saying someone is “the shit” is the highest compliment – calling someone a “Dipshit” is not. “Shithead” again is not complimentary, unless of course it’s said to a really good friend, that is ok and can been seen as a term of endearment. When something is “shit hot” it is exceptionally good when it “sucks shit” it is as equally bad. Someone can have “shit for brains” and others can “know their shit”.

Now you can scare the “shit out of yourself” and which point you are “scared shitless”. But you can also “shit a brick” at a moment of fear or “shit bricks” at a moment of true terror .

You can be “shit faced” no, not covered in poop, but drunk. People can also “talk shit” and in my experience this is often the result of being “shit faced” at this point it’s best to explain to the person that they are starting to “shit you”.

A “shit box” can be sold to you by a “bull-shitter” of a car salesman that has delivered you a “load of shit” making you believe the said “shit box” is indeed “shit hot”. This is a “shitty” deal.

When someone has “got the shits” it’s best to leave them alone, not because they are running to and from the “shitter”or the “Shit-house”, but because they happen to be in a “shit” mood. Usually the result of some “shithead” giving them “the shits”.

It can be used as an exclamation, “shit balls” for the sporty types, “holy shit” for the religious or for those really special moments “Holy-shit-balls on toast”.

We also define our shit use into animals species, Something can taste like “cat-shit” people can talk “bull- shit”, you can feel like “dog-shit” and someone can be “bat-shit” crazy.

At its most simplistic, it can be “shit yes” or “shit no” then again it can be “let’s get this shit started” and “this shit just ain’t gonna happen”. Or when totally undecided, “I don’t give a shit”.

Most Australians have “eaten shit” again nothing to do with poo. This refers to “eating shit” after being “shit whipped”. “Shit whipped” being the result of an accident so horrific that you are thrown at the ground with such force you take a dirt sample with your mouth. When things go past this point is when, well the “shit hit’s the fan”.

Even Mums around our nation get into the act and most Aussie’s would have childhood memories of asking their mum what was for dinner and being told “shit on toast” or “shit and sugar sandwiches”. Why??? I really have no idea – we just love shit and yes you can refer to a good meal by saying “I love this shit”.

But the only “shit” I find truly inspirational – yes I’m Aussie so of course there would be one, the “shit” I live by. “Shit happens” because let’s face it – in life shit does happen “good shit” ” bad shit” and all the “Shit” in between.

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.















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”.

I’m in Barney Rubble


Once again I’m deep in Barney Rubble,

Mum came in and burst me bubble.

For this I’ll end up doing bird lime,

Getting caught – Never the perfect crime.

I can see me brought before the Barnaby Rudge,

Off to the Jail he will make me trudge.

The cakes, I was only having a butcher hook,

I swear, it was the Hoover Hound that took.

Mother, my buddy, my best china plate,

You gotta believe Dino Dog, the one that ate.

Mum said “Don’t you dare take the gypsy’s kiss,

The crumbs all over your nose, hard to miss.”

Ok I’m guilty, but this diet has got me Hank Marvin,

Those cakes stopped my gut achin and my back archin.

If you let me off, I promise never again to half inch,

I can be good, a deal this Husky can certainly clinch.

You see jail would do me in – I’d be brown bread,

So let’s forget the theft and how bout a pat instead.

Max Woof



With or Without a Wolfhound – A Movie


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.


You have your snack dish sorted, chips, lollies, choc and some freshly popped corn. The lounge is calling, you stretch out and get comfy. The remote control now an extension of both hand and brain. You channel surf, picking the best movie for the evening. You settle in and watch. The story lines unravel as you intermittently snack and shuffle to get more comfy. You enjoy the plot lines and listen intently to the characters conversations, following the story with ease. The movie finishes and you linger on the lounge before heading to bed for the night.


You make a snack dish but it includes dog treats because you have no chance in hell of eating if they are not. You even purchase a snack that the manufacturer has named “Everlasterz” thinking this will keep the Hound busy for a while. As you approach the lounge, the Hound in sitting slap bang in the middle snacking. The “Everlasterz” treat snapped into two pieces and swallow in two mouthfuls. After manhandling one and half times your body weight trying to make a space to fit – you then contort yourself onto the lounge. After much searching for the remote you realise its under the now sound asleep dead weight beside you. More manhandling and a new weight lifting records broken you now have the remote – the very warm remote. This is when the hound decides that it’s the time to get up and stand in front of the TV. Now for those with normal size dogs – easy – you can aim around. Even a widescreen TV can be completely hidden behind a Hound’s mass, and especially the tiny the area that the remote needs to see. More manhandling, twisting and contorting to get the infra red beam around your small mountain. Show picked – forget comfort because now however long the show goes for you are going to be compressed into the surface of the lounge but a sleeping 75 kilo lap dog. You strain to move the mountain on your lap so you can reach the snacks. You touch the snacks – BAD MOOVE – Hoover Hound is now awake!!! Your ears try desperately to listen over the Hounds excitement at your snacks. You share – the chomping starts – you ignore – the clobber paws starts. Your plot now reduced to a couple of lines between pant, slap, slurp, crush, straining to look over, pant, dribble. Show finished and you now feel like you have run a small marathon, need a chiropractor and you have no idea what you have just watched. You’d go to bed but you’re not quite sure if you have a broken hip and can no longer manhandle the weight off your chest. You hope she moves during the night as you drift off to sleep – or slip into a coma.