“Move over. I need to rest my gun there” isn’t something I’d prepared myself to hear. I was inspecting a site near the town of Dululu and the farmer was having dingo problems. Specifically, dingoes eating his calves. As we bounced along in his modified 4WD golf-buggy contraption, I admired the ruthlessness of a farmer. Being able to dispatch an animal isn’t something I’d ever been good at. I once cried while gutting and scaling a fish. It was a delicious fish but I still cried. We came to a small fenced area with a gate that was guarded by a monstrous bull.
Gee that’s a big fellow, I said as I chewed a stalk of grass in what I hoped was an authentic manner.
Yup. That’s Terry. He’s a bit of a wanker and had to be separated from the other bulls. He starts fights, you see?
I nodded. I’ve known some Terrys in my life.
Jump out and help me with the gate
Sure. Will Terry charge us?
Yeah, maybe. Don’t take your eyes off him.
I stared at Terry. Don’t be a wanker Terry, I said under my breath. Terry appeared to have super hearing because he started tossing his head and pawing the ground with his hooves while he ogled me.
When a bull starts pawing at the ground, does that mean he’s going to charge?
The farmer turned around, strutted up to the slavering bull and slapped it with his hat
Don’t be a fucking wanker, Terry!
Yeah Terry. Don’t be a wanker, I mumbled as we manoeuvred around the confused bull.