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On the way back from Goulburn this afternoon, we binoed some ducks on the
embankment of a farm dam, a bit south of Gunning. We identified four Australian
Shelducks, and seven Pacific Black Ducks, but couldn't get a handle on another
pair.
I got out our newly-acquired, secondhand spotting scope and attached the
wobbly aluminum tripod which will be replaced one day, and identified a pair of
Freckled Ducks. The farmer came hurtling up in his truck and demanded to know
what we were doing. We explained, and he had a long look through our scope and
was very impressed.
"Can you use this telescopic sight on a rifle as well?" he asked.
"You could, if you had a 10-bore elephant gun and a tree fork to rest it
on," I said. The brats giggled delightedly and Mr Farmer laughed too. Then he
mentioned he'd seen a pair of "Native Companions" in a paddock
near Jeir Creek recently.
"Brolgas, huh?" an ever-vigilant brat chirped.
"No, no!" Mr Farmer growled, impatiently, "These were Australian Native
Companions, brolgas are Saurus Cranes." I shot a withering glance
at the brats which read, "Remain silent!" And they did, and we parted
amicably.
Back in the ute, Linda said, "That old bloke was wrong about the
brolgas." "And we're entitled to voice our opinion, Pop," Sami whinged. I
ignored them and switched on my new Dixie Chicks CD that they'd given me for my
birthday.
Back home, I asked what they would cook for dinner.
"Grilled chicken with Cajun salad," Brat #1 replied.
"We'll grill the Dixie Chicks," Brat #2 enjoined. "How can you listen to
them? They sound like copulating cats." I belted her across her backside with a
tea towel.
My little darlings are good cooks and astute birdwatchers but, alas, when
it comes to the appreciation of fine country music, they can
be annoyingly stupid.
John Layton.
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