|Grandma! Look, a beetle!|
Coming out of the barn he is confronted by a mob of weaners watching him through the fence. One among the group of red Santas is creamy. I try to hurry him along to follow me but he stands transfixed. I follow his gaze to the calves. Eventually he speaks, “A goat.” It’s a statement but said with that wavering pitch pattern that indicates, “I know it can’t be. But what is it if it’s not?”
The chook pen backs on to the bull paddock and the chooks and bulls share the shade of a big gum tree on the fence line. The bull is standing motionless with just his jaw moving as he chews his cud. Mr 2 years old’s voice from under the gumtree, becomes a blur in the background as I hurry around feeding the various cages. He catches my attention with this question as he runs back to me, “Is he real?”
|On My 10th Birthday|
The bullocks are being yarded for sale. One in the mob has a huge set of horns. I take the boys hands and lead them down the lane to where the bullocks are penned. They stand leaning through the rail for a closer look at this spectacle. A deep voice drifts up from around my knees, “I think he’s a Gruffalo”
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