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Dickens always finishes his novels, as do other Victorians, by rounding off the stories of his characters. So here we go. Although I am definitely no Dickens, I have capacities I suspect he might envy. I can quote directly from Facebook (in blue) and link to WordPress.

While we were wrangling my daughter's menagerie, she was off-stage doing some wrangling of her own. You can read about it in the log of the journey from Slovakia to Warsaw with a pair of inventive twins.

The Liston menagerie has had a few adventures since we left.

Victor the rooster, one of the first Liston chickens, was taken by a fox two days after our departure. My daughter says:

He was an old warrior, almost seven, and maybe this was a better end than a lingering old age. I think it was the same cheeky fox that chased Leopard. We've got pacas and dogs all over both yards, so I think he had left the safety.

But that was not the end. He reappeared, minus an eye, and is once again flourishing, victor over a fox.


Boo the orgler (I promise! My last use of that word) and Scout his younger brother have moved to the farm of friends. Mel is one of the very few people who like Boo, and he and his brother will take on a new role as sheep guardians. Boo can spit at intruders and attackers, and be praised for it, rather than arousing my ire by spitting at the defenceless cria.

They are both “for the cut” as soon as the weather warms up.

Operation Orgle a success. We wish Boo and Scout well as they move onto a life of gainful employment. They have a creek, and a young forest of native trees and a horse.


The cria now has a name.

We are totally unsure about gender – s'he has lots of foldy genital flesh that might be balls or might just be pudge. In the interests of non-gender specificity we are calling it Johnny-May. Doesn't that sound like the worst trailer-trash name ever?

The name is an anglicisation of Jaś (Jan) and Maja. Aunty promised the twins she would name the baby after them.

Em resumes her indecently early morning-runs.

Murder mysteries often start with the early-morning lone dog-walker finding the mutilated corpse. Don't think this doesn't cross my mind whenever Emmy tries to pull me off the path in the 4 am gloom. It would have to be a man. I'm tired of the trope of the woman as victim.

Leopard returns to animal sacrifice, and Loki remains inoffensive.

The holiday slowly fades for my daughter. She is emerging from jet lag, and returning to domesticity.

As I come out of my stupor I notice that the crockery and cutlery fairy has paid us a visit. Thank-you, kitchenware support.


The animal carers and kitchenware support team are reclaiming their lives on the coast and in the bush respectively: digging gardens, burying wallabies, clearing a study of the detritus of years, going to the movies and buying tickets to return to Warsaw in March, 2016.