I’m not listening

The Old Boy, the Wonder Dog and I are on holidays. We’re in a cottage/cabin/thing in the middle of cow and sheep country, about 20 minutes as the crow flies from the sea and in the foothills of a national park. (Spoiler alert to all burglars: our house is being minded.) We’ve been here before so, for all my long-term readers, you will remember me rabbitting on about the frogs in the dam and the goats in the paddock next door. The big billy-goat isn’t there any more so the others get a better look-in with the food. There are still yabbies (for the Americans think crawfish/crayfish/crawdad) in the dam and the yabbie net still remains unused, hanging on the cabin/thing/cottage wall. If I had to actually kill anything myself, to eat, I’d...

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