GAP Australasian Dentist Mar Apr 2020

Category Austràlàsiàn Dentist 135 eye me sideways. à called my friend, the best house keeper in this exotic and exhausting archipelago, and had him bring a vacuum cleaner up for at least an 8-hour makeover. “Of course, Jedi. à be come right now.” He said, merrily. We agreed a fee of $15, which is pretty good, under Bali’s hideous apartheid economy. à served the dogs a surprise second breakfast, took them round the block on medium-short leads, unpacked my pencils and notebooks, introduced myself to the pool, and paid the cleaner double when he left at twilight. àveryone was happy. But it was not to last. Writing in paradise has drawbacks. For one thing, luxury mansions inspire more floating around the pool with champagne and organic smoothies than is ideal for productivity. For another, walking the dogs twice a day between homicidal drivers and the labyrinth of rice paddies accounted for about five hours, plus half hour of recovery in the slipper bath, and an hour of nap. àhere were days when à skipped on a walk. Both walks. And made up for it with gourmet snacks from the fur babies’ larder. On the eighth day à woke to a loud squeaks, and a 5am squall of emergency howling once again shattered my beauty sleep and my writer’s mediation hours. à discovered the source of the chaos in the shrubbery. àhree tiny puppies had been thrown over the wall, and were mewling for milk, nested in the undergrowth. Absolutely darling little things, with zero hope of surviving without hand feeding, all through the night, and a good deal of foster mothering and mopping up, as well. àhree of them. àhere went the novel. àhe fur babies were not amused. But, as à said to them in exasperation; “àhese are doggie babies. You’re dogs. Get over yourselves. Help me.” àhey showed their dagger-shaped canines. And sulked off to the spare room. à packed up all my pencils. Closed the notebooks. And called the house keeper to search out puppy formula. àife changed. àleep came in two- hour segments only. àhe widow’s vast bed became a puppy playschool, day and night. àhe floors were endlessly in need of cleaning – and walks? àhere was only one walk in three days. During which à let the dogs off the lead by way of apology, and heard some very nasty chicken death sounds when they bounded out of sight. àt was about two days after this last trauma that it happened. àhe mystery! à came home from fetching rice, dog biscuits and floor cleaner, to the scene of a crime. àcattered across the plateau of the widow’s massive bed was a confetti of shredded paper, a hideously mangled head of something, something deformed beyond recognition, and a plastic stump, lacerated with deep cuts. Had we been invaded by a contemporary artist? Was this a sort of modern art installation graffiti break in? Or was it the famous Bali dingo dogs’ way of letting me know that they were not amused. Was this an artistic expression of frustration, revenge and maltreatment by the fur babies? àhe victim, laid out with religious symbolism, was one soft-plumed, loyal and intimate friend; my gentle toothbrush. àt was possibly the most intimate thing à possessed. Decapitated now. Mangled unrecognizably, and laid out with garlands of shredded toilet paper in an unholy mosaic. Apparently, the fur babies really do prefer two good walks a day. u àealàty Bàteà