One of my favourite memories of Greta the Dachshund involves a farm, a fence and a hill.
There is a small stone cottage on a boutique farm in the hills of the Australian Capital Territory. It has rose bushes out the front, a broad view from the back door and one of those very long and very straight driveways. Greta, Evie, Dani and I walked slowly up this driveway one afternoon years ago. There are large Oak trees framing both sides of the driveway from the street all the way down to the cottage. Their leaves touch above dirt wheel ruts and create an extended tunnel of shade and dancing light. Patchy grass grows in the very middle and on the very edges – green and brown stripes wiggle up the gentle hill in front of us. The fence on either side seems designed to keep the infrequent cows and the infrequent cars on their respective sides. There are timber posts laced together by four or five lines of straight, taught wire. Beyond are lumpy grass fields and a blue sky. Evie sniffs every tree and half the dirt on the way up the hill. We see a cow, it raises a laconic head briefly. Greta trots in front of me, then behind me. She is watching all the time. I think she needs to know that the whole pack is together. She is also constantly scanning for danger, a threat like a toddler or a balloon. The sounds are of leaves, peace and shoes on dirt. Suddenly from behind me on the right I hear a loud twang like a giant guitar string vigorously plucked. As I snap around I can see it was Greta’s spine on the bottom fence wire which made the sound. She is 20 metres beyond the fence and at full pace. Her small body glides for a moment while her front and hind legs extend to their full before she contacts the field and coils vigorously. This is not a run, she is at a maximum sprint – silent and determined, at the height of her dachshund athleticism. The rabbit in front of her moves with the same primal intensity. Within seconds Greta is 70 metres away and chasing up a slight rise. The rabbit crests the hill and disappears as Greta follows with no hesitation. I look around in the stillness that follows. Should I jump the fence? How deep are rabbit burrows? I clip Evie back onto her lead and wait. Blue sky meets green grass in a wobbly line along the horizon. A distant cow chomps and turns around. Then a splash of brown breaks back into our view. Greta surges over the hill and returns at a familiar maximum velocity. Streaking with intent away from the place she had just exploded into. She went away with instinctual passion, she returned with uncertainty and terror. A flaming dragon on the way out and a tiny couch hound on the way back. “I’ve made a terrible mistake” I read clearly in her body language. She whips under the low fence wire and I clip her lead back on. I look at Greta, she looks at me. Evie pulls to sniff another tuft. We continue walking slowly under the trees. Life returns to normal. So long sweet little dragon dog, you’re over the hill now. Go for it.
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In 2008 at the World Championships in Vancouver, the Australian open team was knocked out in a Quarter Final by Great Britain. In 2012 at the World Championships in Sakai, the Australian open team was knocked out in a Quarter Final by Great Britain. In 2016 at the World Championships in London, the Australian open team’s Quarter Final against Great Britain was delayed by a very rainy day. The night before the Quarter Final round was marked by constant rain. It was the kind of rain that closed fields and disrupted plans. Placing games down the bracket were cancelled and teams scheduled for knockout top-end games had their time slots changed, postponed then rearranged. Sometimes the hours between breakfast and an elimination game are very uncomfortable. Hours seem to stretch, slow and then suddenly accelerate until you are finally on the field before you are ready. Too much time to think, then too much to do. On this day the team waited for a game time that kept changing. The original 11:30am Quarter Final slot came and went. We went to a pub that had been serving groups of people loitering, milling around and waiting for over 500 years. It stopped drizzling and the sky lifted from grey to white. The game was rescheduled again to 5:30pm and we went to the fields. It started to rain again. Our team stepped off the bus and trod across heavy grass in groups and clumps to the field. Team GB was already there in full regal blue uniforms. Their players jumped and sprang while throwing and warming up; they exuded confidence, authority and home. The English sky poured rain and cloud down on the teams as we dug out our cleats and stepped on the field two golden shirts at a time. The GB players yelled and hooted. They called for more; “Mooooore” was their jubilant chorus. More rain, more wet, more home. We began to move on our half of the field as they whooped and revelled in the home field advantage they felt building and unstoppably rolling for this match - the third consecutive World Championship Quarter Final elimination for our two teams. This was our ultimate rivalry. The Australian mens team, the Dingoes, needed to win this game. Lightning snapped. Close and loud. The game was postponed and officials and teams moved inside. We sat inside a tiny brick locker room, 30 people: players, coaches, physiotherapists and manager. Smiles started to emerge around the room. Nervous laughter slid towards joyful laughter. Time moved some more and the pressure of multiple wet hours suddenly felt almost light, fun. Almost. We walked out and warmed up quickly under a misty sky. The Quarter Final began. GB was good. The Dingoes were better. It was close and they felt like they had the world on their side. 14 minutes into the game the sun came out. We were in front 5 to 3 and the mood had changed. The ‘more’ calls had stopped, a rainbow rose above the field and the Australian team marched up the field. An hour later the Dingoes had won through to a Semi Final for the first time since 2004. It was the best rainy day I’ve had so far. If you're interested, this is a 3 minute video recap of the day: If you're really interested, this is an hour and fifteen of soggy/glorious game play: There is a foot in my house that is 40 years old - it is lanky, hard and has a pinky toe that is surprisingly dexterous.
There is a foot in my house that is 34 years old - it's ligaments are sometimes loose and sometimes tight; it’s not sure how it feels about this. There is a foot in my house that is 4 years old - it spends equal amounts of time above it’s head as it does below it. There is a foot in my house that is 4 weeks old - it has never been in the ocean, or on the sand. It has never been stubbed, stomped or stabbed by a prickle. It’s skin is pink, soft and lightly scented. Roughly once a day it finds itself on the inside of a half changed nappy. There are many ways to mark time: days on a calendar, the sun across the sky, the wrinkles at the corners of your eye. Today time is measured by growing feet and the stories they tell as time flies. Today I offer five unsolicited positives.
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AuthorHigh school teacher Archives
September 2023
CategoriesThemes |