The Reservoir Animal Lovers Society

Seems that a lot of people think I hate animals and that I'm a bit heartless and that I should be falling into line and getting all gaga over Buckley the Dog, Sam the Koala, Bibi and Raden - the hot underwear model. (An aside - a fair number of hits since this post have come from Google searches like 'Raden in his see-through underwear’, and the even more mirthful ‘transsexual blogpost’.)

I want to set the record straight. I don't hate underwear -shit- I mean, animals. I've always had pets. Archie, Lewis and Tyson have pets and will for the time they live under our roof. In fact we have 8 animals on our property. Even more if you count the Sea Monkeys.

Animals have their place in a well-rounded human’s life. Here are some personal stories that will make it clear that I am an animal lover and hopefully get all you angry emailers (mostly PETA freaks) off my back.

1. When I was eight my pet cat 'Flippy' ran away. I searched for her for days. Never gave in and finally found her in my next door neighbour’s lounge in front of the heater. I was just so happy. When I got home I shaved her back and wrote my name on her with a permanent marker. That's how much she meant to me. When she died of hypothermia two weeks later I was devastated.

2. I once caught a mouse on my Nana and Pop's farm and with childhood enthusiasm, called it Mousey. Over a period of minutes I put it in a bucket of water, pretended to fish with it by tying a string to its tail and buried it in sand to watch how long it would take to climb out. It was a warm day and I fell asleep in the sun. When I woke up Mousey was dead. Here's the clincher and the proof that you're looking for – I felt bad about it and admitted my crime to Nana. I was very angry when she laughed and told me to give it to Flippy.

3. When I was house-sharing in Melbourne I bought my housemate Kylee a little kitten as a present. She called it Schmitten. I accidentally killed it while she was out. I knew Kylee would be heartbroken so I threw the body over our fence. Because it landed on the neighbour’s roof in plain view of anyone walking by I experienced a high level of stress while I helped Kylee search for the little kitten all over the neighbourhood. Several times Kylee looked up towards the sky, as if to see Schmitten flying overhead (which she would have seen if she’d been there earlier) but somehow missed seeing the body on the roof. I swear I saw the little bastard turn its head towards me, more than once.

4. We used to have two ducks, Floppy and Flap-flap. They were so cute when they were tiny and yellow. I loved them so. Problem was they grew into massive white monsters who shat like automatic tennis ball launchers. In no time at all, our entire backyard was a residential pile of shit. The final straw came when I slipped in it and broke my leg, only days before a powerlifting competition. It was their time to leave but, being the animal lover that I am, I relocated them to a local park with a big pond and dozens of other ducks where they could frolic in virtual duck heaven. A week later the council did a massive culling of all the ducks. Floppy and Flap-Flap frolic no more.

All these stories provide very strong evidence that I am an animal lover. But the clincher has to be the guilt and horror I live with to this day –

At night I feel a cold feline body settle at my feet, I hear the pitter-patter of tiny paws on my roof, I see my pillow sinking under a mousey weight and hear ducks shitting with the force and consistency of machine gun fire.

Why do they come to me to die? Why do they come to me to die?!

And here is number 5 in My Backyard - The Series

My Backyard 5 - Reflections of a Broken Leg

My ducks are uncoordinated,

more suited to swimming than they are to walking.

Their legs are at the back of them.

Their necks carry their heads too far from their bodies.

They are, it seems to me, in a perpetual state of falling forward.

When I am bored, I walk behind them with intent.

They waddle away from me.

They waddle slowly at first

but the faster I stalk them

the faster they waddle.

I’ve worked out, over a few months,

that if I raise me knees with each step

the ducks will see this as an increase in pace

and they will waddle faster than their natural structure allows.

There is something I find rewarding

about increasing the pace of an animal’s gait –

my ducks are armless,

they struggle with balance,

I hate to see them suffer

but when they reach their ultimate speed –

when they fall over and quack

I like it.

I like it –

that I can cause that to happen is affirming.

Most things are beyond me,

there are things I have no control over

but when the ducks reach their maximum speed,

when they fall over and quack as if their lives were over

I like it.

I like it.

I do.

"At Least" Has Nothing To Do With It

This post is for all the halfwits (mostly complete strangers) who continue to imply that our family is somehow incomplete.

In fact, this post is an open letter to three halfwits in particular - the tooth-challenged woman at the DVD store who asked what the sex of Tyson was and then tilted her head and said, "Awww, you missed out on a girl". It's for the baby-faced Real Estate agent who said, "So, time to try for a girl again?" And it's for the obese Nanna who stopped us on the way out of Archie's Kindergarten yesterday to console us with, "Three Boys? Oh well, at least they’re all healthy".

All I really want to do is tell you to go and eat a shit sandwich but before I do that I’m going to say a few things I wish I’d said at the time and make fun of you in the process. Here goes.

For the record, Reservoir Mum and I never planned for two boys and one girl, or two girls and one boy, or three girls and a partridge in a Plasma TV. Our dream was to have three kids. Why three? Maybe because Reservoir Mum and myself are both from three kid families. Maybe because we had a five-placed dinner table and wanted to fill it. Maybe because I have three testicles and wanted to give them all a run. Who knows? For some reason three felt just right to both of us.

You hearing this DVD woman? Because I know what you’re thinking, (I’m not psychic but I tell you what – I know this for sure), you’re thinking that we only had a crack at a third child because we wanted a girl. You’re thinking that if we’d had a boy and a girl that we would have skipped on the third and lived happily ever after. You’re saying that Tyson, my brilliant son, was a gamble we lucked out on. That he somehow didn't meet our expectations. That we're dissatisfied with him. Well, while I'm stopping myself from swearing too much and you're readying yourself for a tasty shit sandwhich, we'll have a look at his face –

He's our third child. He is exactly what we were wanting. It gets no better than Tyson. And no better than Archie and Lewis. Reservoir Mum and myself have seen many other kids – male, female and hermaphro – and none have ever compared. Our kids are the greatest kids we’ve ever seen.

You hearing this Nanna three chins? You might want to think about this before you walk up to the next family, stick your face in their pram and downplay their children. At least they’re healthy??? How about you stick ‘at least' up your clacker and we’ll hold on to ‘they’re healthy’ because they are healthy and 'at least' has nothing to do with it.

Maybe you’d be happier if we’d had a retarded female. ‘Well, at least it’s a girl!’

Bottom line is our dream came true because we have three children. We are in love with them. And very happy. Don’t commiserate with someone who’s won the jackpot. It makes no fricken sense.

I’ll be carrying the address of this post around on slips of paper in my wallet. Next time someone takes it upon themselves to suggest that our family is somehow incomplete I won’t say a damn thing. I’ll just hand them this post on a platter.

But just for myself I’m going to reply directly to you three. Let’s hear those comments again

The woman at the DVD store: Awww. You missed out on a girl…

Reservoir Dad: Awww. You missed out on some teeth.

The babyfaced Real Estate Agent: So time to try for a girl again?

Reservoir Dad: So. Time to try for puberty again?

The Nana at the Kindergarten: Three boys? Oh well, at least they’re all healthy.

Reservoir Dad: Three chins? Oh well, at least they’re not hairy.

Oh, and here’s your shit sandwich.

Trust me. It’s in there.

Study - Massive Plasma Improves Skills in Children

This is for all you smug bastards out there who are as sure as shit that television rots the brains of innocent children. Stop sending me the latest studies (sponsored by biased parties like the Australian Society of Libraries or Swingsets Pty Ltd) that 'prove' that kids who watch the most TV are the dumbest, the most violent and the least likely to comply with their Ritalin prescription.

It's simply not true.

I now have rock solid proof that watching television is so beneficial to all children over the age of six months that, from now on, I am going to consult my massive Plasma before I undertake any educational activities with Archie, Lewis and Tyson.

How am I so sure that television is good for kids? Well, unlike you smarmy, easily swayed parents who base all their decisions on randomised, placebo-controlled trials I prefer to use more reliable anecdotal evidence and specifically, anecdotal evidence as provided by me.

I chucked on a Yo Gabba Gabba DVD for Archie and Lewis while I was getting Tyson to sleep the other day. On this particular DVD there's a 'Cool Tricks' section where a young boy hangs a spoon from his nose.

If I was impressed with the fact that a seasoned performer who was talented enough to appear on a DVD could achieve such a feat, imagine my surprise and joy when I came back downstairs to see this –

TV is bad for kids? TV rots your brains? Don’t try that fluff on me anymore. I am so impressed with my Plasma’s ability to pass on useful skills to my children that, tomorrow, I'm going to chuck on a ‘Home Improvement’ DVD before I head off to put Tyson to sleep.

We need the house painted, some floorboards replaced and a wall removed. Can’t wait to see what it looks like when I get back downstairs!

And now to continue My Backyard - The Series:

My Backyard 4 - Everything That Arises

When it rains

my ducks stick their beaks in the mud and search for things –

slugs and bugs I guess.

They have white feathers.

Their whole bodies, apart from the orange bits, are white.

Despite this, they spend hours slurping around out there.

It seems a little strange

but they stick together.

You should see them – I could watch them forever.

There is no point to this.

They are ducks.

They stick together.

Their white and orange bits are covered in mud

and, it seems, they are happy.

It’s very challenging,

you have to watch and watch

but if you keep watching,

thoughts you once considered important, will pass

and days of seeing nothing

but white feathers and black mud

will tell you something, at last.

Transexual Hugs Wet Man While Strangling Dog

Okay, so the title isn't quite capturing the truth. I just thought I'd try to alter the facts of the story, just a little, to get a few more hits. I mean if it's good enough for the major Australian Newspapers...

What's this post go to do with home-dadding? Just about nothing apart from the fact that I am a home-Dad (or a house husband, or a domestic engineer, or whatever you wanna call me) and that animal related sensationalism is becoming so regular now that I think we can all pass on the fibre-enforced cereal and keep a hop in our step with the exploits of Buckley the Dog's scholarship fund, Sam the stuffed Koala's right to be sat next to Pharlap and now... well, this -

Seems that the guy (Raden) in this picture is a hero. Even without knowing the story you can get the gist from the dramatic photo, can't you? He's just jumped from a pier into the swirling waters of Brighton Beach and risked his own life to save a little doggie from certain death. Sue, the terrified owner is obviously so overcome with gratitude that she falls into Raden's arms for an emotional wet embrace. She must really really love that little dog.

The report that goes with the photo makes us aware that after Bibi was blown off the pier, Sue watched on 'helplessly' as Raden 'dived' into the raging sea to save little Bibi. The 'humble hero' then handed Bibi back to Sue but played down his selfless bravery as all 'humble heroes' do.

Sound like this story should take up Page 3 of a major newspaper? The Herald Sun thought so, with the dramatic headline 'Hello Bibi, I feared you were gone' and the sub headline 'Hero braves stormy weather to rescue pet dog.' It all sounds so stirring and heart-warming and when I see the picture of little Bibi wrapped up in a warm blanket with his fluffy little face and puppy-dog stare I just want to believe everything they're throwing at me.

Bit worrying then to see a few photos on the Herald Sun website that don't quite match the story. One photo shows Raden casually removing his pants and shoes. Another shows that Raden didn't actually 'dive' into the ocean but lowered himself very tentatively into the soup when Bibi was only a meter from his grasp.

Sounds like I'm being a bit picky? I also happened to listen to Fox FM's interview with Raden. Seems like the real hero is the photographer of the dramatic scene. He was there long before Raden, watching widdle Bibi paddling around in the surf. It wasn't the screaming and breast thumping anguish from owner Sue that drew Raden to the resuce but the photographer who suggested Raden hop down and get the dog while he snapped a few photos. Even asked if he was carrying any rope so that he could lower himself down!

Would I have agreed to this? Would I have gone in to get Bibi? I mean he's so cute, the fluffy little bastard, how could I resist? Well, I would resist. Unless of course, there was something in it for me. Maybe if I was an underwear model I might do it because then I could strip down to my Calvin Klein's and do a lot of dancing around in front of a recognised photographer. Pretty good career move.

Hey! What? Turns out Raden is an underwear model. So bingo.

When asked on the Matt and Jo Show if there was a sense of urgency about the ordeal Raden admitted that he wasn't in 'too much of a hurry' and that Bibi had already been 'in there for a while'. And just before he was about to lower himself into the water Sue, displaying her unconditional love for Bibi, turned to Raden and said, 'Don't worry about it.'

Not sounding so dramatic and heroic now.

That didn't stop our Raden though. No, even if Bibi's owner didn't want him saved, the photographer did and urged Raden on! Stirred by the concern the photographer had for the animal, Raden settled himself and uttered these stirring words 'Okay, you just keep taking photos' and committed himself to the welfare of the yapping little shitzu.

So sounds like everyone, except Sue, is a winner. The photographer has sold photos all over the joint, Raden has had his hot wet modelling ass in major newspapers nationally and internationally as well as exposure through radio and television interviews and Bibi had his dip in the ocean cut short by about five minutes, after which time he would have been gently buffeted to shore.

Sue on the other hand seems to have got a dog back that she maybe didn't really want. Didn't want to dip her own hand in the ocean to get the dog, did she? Wasn't even thrilled enough in little Bibi to urge someone else to do it for her. She says 'I wasn't quite sure if I could make it to shore with a struggling dog', and I hear 'Stuff it, I'll just get another dog.' (Also evidenced by the photo which indicates she was so upset she couldn't drown the dog that she was going to do her best to choke it to death.)

Here's a tip, Sue - next time get a heavier dog that's not so likely to get blown of piers. But, seriously, I do understand where you're coming from. We have a few little yap-yap mongrel dogs in our street too.

Next time Melbourne has gale force winds, I might just take them for a lead-less stroll on a pier.

Reservoir Dad's Question Nightmares

Sometimes after a long 12 – 16 hour day with kids you just want to ship them off to bed as quick as possible so that you can clean and sweep and fold and stuff and crash in front of the TV for some well-deserved Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares. (Me and Gordon Ramsay are so alike it’s scary. Sometimes he points at some dull space cadet and says something like ‘You’re a fucking idiot’ and I can’t help but chuckle in amazement at how I was thinking the exact same thing.)

It’s when you’re absolutely knackered and pressured for time like this that you’re less likely to patiently answer a child’s left-field questions in a rational manner. And this may explain my response to Archie’s question ‘how do our eyeballs get inside our heads’ while we were cleaning our teeth last night.

It is a very good question and sits comfortably aside such classics as ‘Why is everything so green?’, ‘Why doesn’t my shoe have teeth?’ and ‘How come Gran is getting smaller?’

All home Dads know that questions like these are much easier to handle after several beers and a six pack of Red Bull but they weren’t within reach and, anyway, Archie’s going to have to wait until he’s sixteen to start experimenting with alcohol and stimulants (okay, okay – fourteen, by today’s standards, but don’t let them listen to the IPod too loud alright, it’ll damage their ears!)

So anyway, Archie asks me how our eyeballs get inside our heads and I tell him that the Porcelain Doctor, who makes little boys, collects the crystallized raindrops that fall from the sky after meteors smash though the clouds. Then he dips one end of each raindrop in either blueberry sauce, chocolate pudding or green stuff and pops them into our skulls.

I thought that might give him something to think about while he got to brushing his teeth but instead he put his toothbrush down, touched the side of his eye and said, ‘I want to take them out’.

I could hear the clock ticking and Gordan Ramsay standing behind me saying, ‘Are you a fucking nitwit, get him to bed for fuck’s sake’ and I turned the toothbrush over and said, ‘You can gouge your eyes out with this, or you can wait until tomorrow and I’ll buy you some marbles.’

Thankfully he chose the marble option and we got off to bed quick-smart so that ‘tomorrow will come quicker’.

Later that night Gordon Ramsay slapped his hand in frustration and said, ‘Fuck me!’

Talk about being on the same wavelength! That man is my Dr Phil. Yeah, and what he said about Tracey Grimshaw was spot on.

Speaking of Stuffed Here Comes The Count

So now the plan is to stuff Sam the Koala and stick him next to Pharlap at the Melbourne Museum.

You know what I reckon? If you’ve had your house burnt down, your habitat destroyed, your extremities cooked and your death ensured by cyst-inspired urogenital chlamydiosis your pretty well stuffed already.

Speaking of stuffed, Reservoir Mum thought she was just about stuffed last week while hanging out at the pool with Archie and Lewis.

She was sitting on a stool, poolside, next to four Muslim women wearing full body Burkahs. One of the women was dressed entirely in black. Lewis exited the pool, stood in front of the women, poked a toddler finger in their direction, said 'Look Mummy!' and started counting -

‘One, two, three… and a black one!”

Reservoir Mum was horrified but lucky enough to see the collection of balloons close by and said, “Yeah, Lewis. Lots of balloons there aren’t there?”

Lewis nodded and said, ‘Ah-ha,’ which sounded so suspiciously like Allah that Reservoir Mum couldn’t stand the possibility of offending any longer and hightailed it into the pool to dish out some backstroke lessons.

Good thinking Reservoir Mum.

Sam the Koala and Mr Tree

I’m a bit hesitant to voice my thoughts on another media-hyped animal story after the email hammering I copped for my thoughts on ‘Buckley the Dog’ but I can’t help but get a bit bemused by the media attention and the outpouring of public sympathy over the death of ‘Sam the Koala’ this week.

For those who don’t know, Sam became famous world wide after he was filmed, singed and sooty, taking a drink from the water bottle of Firefighter David Tree during the Black Saturday fires in Victoria, Australia. She became the ‘symbol of hope’ in the face of the devastating fires.

Putting the ridiculous media attention aside – leading stories in newspapers, television and radio broadcasts, thousands of obituaries from the public and crazy awards from PETA freaks – the biggest dampener of this story has to be the fact that Sam the Koala has become the ‘symbol of hope’ for a disaster she wasn’t really a part of.

As reported in Media Watch earlier this year, Sam was actually injured in a back-burning operation a week before Black Saturday. This fact was probably glazed over and underreported for more than a few reasons, but here are two I can think of

– the Herald Sun were making a killing (no pun intended) over the story selling copies of the paper and thousands of ‘Sam the Koala’ posters.

– the Koala brings 1.1 billion worth of tourist dollars to Australia (a fact that Deborah Tabart used as an argument against the culling of Koalas at Kangaroo Island - "11% of all tourists said we will never return to your shores if you don’t take care of the koalas.")

I am not species-ist. I don’t like to see animals suffer and believe it or not I was actually moved by the story of Sam the Koala and Mr Tree. But the media are milking the public sympathy now and as the inaccurate reporting of the story proves the main motivation is the $$$moolah.

Lenny the lamb (a nice addition to my dinner plate last night) didn't get any obituaries that I could find. Kevin the Cow wasn't mentioned in the Herald Sun once. And I listened to the radio all day but no word on Castrate the Pig. And here's another quote that puts a bit of persepctive on all this -

"Every year we cull 5 to 6 million of another national icon, the kangaroo."

It just seems a little Freddy the Fishy to me.

Anyway, please send all abusive emails to reservoirdad@gmail.com.

And just to prove I like animals, here is No. 3 in the My Backyard series:

An Ode to My Ducks

Duck, stop your waddling and listen.

I could tear your heads off.

It would be easy.

I am stronger.

I could twist your necks.

I could impale you like Vlad the Impaler.

I could hurt you, for the sake of hurt.

With these hands, with the power I have,

with the way you look at me,

I could draw out a long and satisfying suffering.

Sometimes I consider it.

I watch the way you busy about,

the way you sort through mud,

the way you huddle with the others.

I'm alone here.

You’re alone there, eventually.

And I watch you.

It would be easy.