Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Who's Been Bonking on My Front Lawn?

If you drive past my house at 6:00pm on any day of the week, you’ll spy a cranky-looking Pinky, positioned on the front lawn, with a hose in her hand, watering her decidedly pricey lawn as if she were Marie Antoinette tending the royal gardens at Versailles.

With water restrictions in place we’re only permitted to have the sprinklers on twice a week and the brand new turf is crisping up in the sun like kale under a grill.

I’ll tell you one thing; if that grass dies I’m going with it. I’d take a fudging bullet for that grass.

I stalk around the perimeter with a magnifying glass searching like Inspector Clouseau for tell-tale brown bits. 'No blade of grass will perish under my watch,' I mutter under my rasping breath.

Lately, I’ve discovered unusual droppings all over the lawn.

“Scotto!” I shrieked out in urgent panicked tones the other day. “The fudging wallabies are coming up from the river and eating my hideously expensive grass! Do something Scotto!”
So Scotto immediately emailed our expert grass man, Buffalo Bill.

“Dear Bill, What can we do to stop the pesky varmints from eating up Pinky’s life savings? Please help!”

“Can’t think of anything off the top of my head,” Buffalo Bill answered. “You could try a 22.”

I did think about it for a moment, but then I realised I haven’t killed a warm blooded creature in my entire life and don’t want to start now. 

There was a mouse once which I thought was dead and threw in the bin, but it miraculously came back to life and it wasn’t me who accidentally stood on it in the first place, anyway.

I feel guilty when I spray cockroaches and watch them lurching around with nerve damage until the pitiful insects finally flop upside down with their legs spasmodically twitching in the air.

I could never shoot a cute, furry little Australian marsupial… even if the fudging little bastards are eating my children’s inheritance.

Scotto googled it and one site suggested spreading blood and bone all over the lawn because wallabies don’t like it. 

Sponsorship welcomed...

Probably because the blood and bone is made from ground up kangaroo and wallaby that someone shot with a 22.

Ah, the circle of life, eh.

There are a lot of wallabies hopping around our suburb at the moment (breeding season I suppose) and on Saturday we drove past a dead one on the side of the street. It had presumably been hit by a car and looked rather stiff.

“We should pick it up, take it home and put it up on a spike… as a warning to the others,” Scotto suggested.

“How about not,” I replied, noticing the flies swarming around it. “It appears to be quite rigid and inflexible. I don’t think we’d fit the tail in. Besides, we live in North Queensland, not downtown Westeros.”

I can just imagine what’s been happening on my lawn just before dawn every morning. 

The wallabies have been spreading the word that “number 29 has the newest, juiciest buffalo on the street” so they’ve been gathering at my place, enjoying an erotic shagathon, relishing a scrumptious munch of the finest buffalo in the suburb and then taking their morning constitution at leisure on my grass.

I’m surprised they haven’t knocked on the door and asked if they can borrow some mood music, candles and a fudging cigarette.

Any suggestions for getting rid of pesky varmints?

Mexican Wallaby sleeping in my bed!