About Some of My Friends Have Tails
From the phenomenal best-selling author, Sara Henderson, comes an entertaining book that will delight readers everywhere.
Sara Henderson’s love of animals was firmly established in her early years and continued throughout her life. In Some of My Friends Have Tails, she shares the tales of her many extraordinary relationships with animals. There is Rosa the goanna who swam in the family pool. Pye-wacket the cat who grew up believing he was a dog. And Sundowner the poddy calf who loved eating the washing, 35 mm film, and sheet music off the piano.
But not all the characters in Sara’s life are four-legged. We meet the sixteen-year-old housekeeper who was smuggling drugs, and the Italian gardener who sang opera at dawn. And there are some familiar faces as well: Charlie, Uncle Dick, Max, and Marlee.
These stories range from the funny to the heartbreaking, from Sara’s earliest memories to the present day, and take place in many countries. Over the years, Sara Henderson touched the hearts of the thousands of Australians who heard her speak, read her books, and loved her stories.
Dedicated to Danielle, Martin and Natalie
The unconditional love of ‘man’s best friend’
The bravery of the noble horse
The soft wet caress of a friendly dolphin
The many marvels and miracles of the Kingdom of Animals …
If you have never experienced any of these things
Then you, my friend, have never truly lived …
Have missed some of the real, true pleasures of life.
CONTENTS
About Some of My Friends Have Tails
Dedication
Epigraph
PREFACE
1 COCKO
2 TWO DOGS, ONE CAT AND A COCKATOO
3 MANILA, DASHER AND BLAZE
4 SMELL THE ROSES AND DRUGS
5 AMERICA, PRINIE AND THE CRABS
6 LEAVING PRINIE AND DIFFICULT
7 UNCLE DICK’S LOVE LIFE
8 FRUIT BAT AND CHARLIE
9 DENNIS THE PODDY CALF AND ROSA THE GOANNA
10 PYE-WACKET THE MARMALADE CAT
11 HOTTENTOT
12 SUNDOWNER, SCRUFFY AND BUCKSHOT
13 BEER, CHICKENS AND DONNA
14 PRIMA DONNA
15 MAX
16 FILLING IN TIME
17 VILLIE AND THE FLYING DOCTORS
18 ET TU BRUTUS ET AL
19 BOOTS AND ALL
Pictures
About Sara Henderson
Other Titles by Sara Henderson
Copyright
PREFACE
I am fortunate to have been associated with the world of animals since I was a very young child.
The love of my dogs.
The brave and faithful horses I have known.
The gentle nudge or soft caress of a loving cat.
The trust in the knowing eye of an injured wild creature.
All these experiences I firmly believe have given me a better balance to my life. And certainly given me remarkable memories and endless pleasure.
Journey with me through these pages and I hope I can show you another world.
If you too are fortunate enough to know the Kingdom of Animals, still come with me on a smiling, head-nodding journey, whispering—‘Yes, my dog does that!’, ‘My cat is just like that!’, ‘This could be my horse, my poddy calf, my milking cow, my cockatoo!’
Although animals take up a good portion of the book, there are more stories about the characters in the other books and a few new characters.
This is a truly international book. I started writing at the beginning of the ‘wet’ season on Bullo, in temperatures of forty degrees Celsius. It then travelled with me to Darwin, then London, ten days around England for the launch of my first book and then to Austria for a holiday in the snow, minus fifteen degrees!
Well I did have to write seven hours a day to finish the second half of the book, so I wrote from 5 a.m. to lunchtime and then I had the day off.
Together we travelled through a snow blizzard to the airport in Munich, Germany, then off to Frankfurt and on to Johannesburg, South Africa for another book tour. On to Durban, Cape Town, back to Johannesburg, then to Perth, Sydney, Darwin, Bullo where it was finally corrected and, in finished manuscript form, travelled with me to Sydney. The manuscript was read by my editor while I toured Sydney, Melbourne, Wagga, Brisbane, Toowomba, Brisbane and ended up in Caloundra. The book and I were reunited again in Caloundra where I did the final corrections and it departed for Sydney and typesetting and I flew to Darwin. Marlee met me in Darwin with a suitcase of photos and the next day was spent choosing the photos. They went to Sydney and Marlee and I flew back to the station where the final touches, dedication, preface, and epigraph were written and faxed to Sydney, and there you have book number three!
So much for the quiet log cabin in the mountains and uninterrupted thought!
I hope you have some of the enjoyment reading this book that I had writing it.
1
* * *
COCKO
The telegram read:
SENDING BABY COCKATOO OVERNIGHT MAIL STOP YOURS CENTRAL MONDAY 7:30 AM.
‘Good Heavens,’ said Mum. ‘Your Aunty Nin is sending a baby cockatoo on the mail train from Canberra!’
Most of the weekend was spent preparing for the little Ford Anglia to make the horrendous journey to Sydney’s Central Railway Station.
Mum said to Poppa, ‘I can drive you into the city to work on Monday; you won’t have to take the train.’
There was a long pause before Dad replied. Then he said very quietly, ‘No, I’ll take the train. Two destinations on one trip might be too much for you to handle.’
Mum, completely lost in her battle plan of venturing out onto the major highway to town, did not take offence to Dad’s unspoken suggestion that the journey would be a disaster from go to whoa.
Monday morning at six o’clock saw us, Mum and me, ready for the big journey. I was around five-and-a-half-years-old, so not much help to Mum on this great navigational feat.
There were many ‘pull overs’ to the side of the road to study the map ‘to town’ … well-l-l-l, we didn’t have to pull over far. Mum never drove over fifteen miles per hour, and with two wheels almost in the gutter, she had to actually go around a few parked cars we encountered along the way. This involved a complicated procedure, and took up endless time.
Mum would wait behind the parked car until the traffic cleared. The definition of ‘cleared’ was, not a vehicle in sight … in either direction. Mum would then propel herself out the window, at least up to her waist, with right arm fully extended, index finger ramrod straight, and pointing towards heaven as she struggled to engage the clutch, whilst still hanging half out of the car. With a terrible noise issuing from the abused gearbox, the valiant little car would lurch and hop around the parked car to once again continue the journey to town, via the gutter.
The car did have a cute little indicator that popped out of the upright between the front driver’s door and the back door. It was, if my memory serves me correctly, a yellow indicator light. But it was too chancy that the indicators might not work, and Mum never left anything to chance.
There was another indicator on the left side of the car, but Mum helped it along too. To inform the driver in the car behind that she was turning left, she would again propel herself out the window up to the waist, but instead of the ramrod arm and index finger pointing to the heavens in the direction of right, the arm would now assume a graceful pose, straight out of Swan Lake’s opening scene, giving the illusion you were about to witness the ballet. The illusion, soon to be destroyed by the ramrod pointed
finger and the repeated jerking of the whole upper body, indicated that the car, and indeed Mum (if she didn’t fall out the window and could engage the clutch far enough) were about to kangaroo around to the left.
Mum always maintained the automatic indicators were too small for a following car to see, hence the elaborate procedure to make her intentions clear to anyone behind. Of course, if some car did happen to get close enough to see even the car, let alone the indicators, this would throw Mum into complete panic, and reduce the whole operation of turning anywhere to utter confusion. Everything would stop, including the engine, until the car passed and was out of sight. Then we would begin again.
This is why we left home at six o’clock in the morning to be in the city at seven-thirty, when the city was only a twenty-five minute drive away … by normal driving standards.
When we got close to the industrial area, there were many more parked cars and trucks, and it took forever for Mum to navigate around them. It got to the point where there were so many cars and trucks parked, Mum was forced to stay in the main stream of traffic. But, at the first possible chance, she went through her Swan Lake routine and left the highway by this unusual method, leaving the traffic at a standstill!
After wandering around the suburbs and inner city for an inordinate length of time, we finally stumbled across Central Station. The mail train from Canberra was already in, and was standing huffing and puffing, slowly reducing its steam and having a breather after its long journey. It was pretty exciting journeying to town with Mum in the little black car, but to stand on the big platform at Central, and look at the Canberra Express billowing steam everywhere, flexing the mighty power it still had in reserve after a long cross-country haul, well, at five and a half, a long-drawn-out ‘w-o-w’ about sums it up.
The scene is still very clear in my memory; early morning, no direct sunlight had yet broken through the city buildings, yet sunlit steam swirled up high above the roof of the station enveloping the entire scene in sparkling grey, ghostly, mist-like obscurity. The bustle of people, people hurrying off the train, people rushing to meet them, people saying goodbyes, ready to board the train. Porters everywhere, removing luggage and freight, pushing large trolleys weighed down with luggage, disappearing into the luggage van. It was turning into the most exciting day of my very short life.
Mum marched up to a porter on the goods wagon and demanded a box addressed to her. He looked at her with a tired, impatient expression and told her in a very dead monotone voice, that all cargo was dispatched through the goods freight office: he pointed to the other end of the platform. With an expression of complete disapproval, Mum wheeled around and, with me in tow, marched off down the platform.
The man’s manner had displeased her; I knew this because he had not been given her normal courteous ‘thank you’. In my few short years, I had seen the scenario many times; indeed, on a few … many … occasions, I had caused that very same expression.
We arrived at the correct counter, only to be told there was no box addressed to Mum. Waving the telegram as proof didn’t help, the clerk patiently told Mum. The telegram didn’t prove the bird was on the train; he needed a dispatch number.
Mum argued that surely they would keep a live bird separate from the general cargo. The man must have been a twin to the porter on the train, and he got the same look from Mum as she departed in a storm of protest, with me still in fast tow.
We disappeared down the ramp to street level, leaving dreadful visions of what was about to befall the staff of goods freight, when Mum got into gear, on the phone.
We started the long journey home, which didn’t take as long as the morning journey, because Mum had her mind on hanging and quartering most of the freight staff at Central Station.
We were having lunch when another telegram from Aunty Nin arrived stating dispatch number of one live cockatoo. The rest of the day was spent on the phone gathering her troops for war, after being told the parcel still wasn’t there. She was most upset; somewhere in the cavernous confines of Central Station was a few-days-old cockatoo, and if she didn’t find it soon it would be too late.
The next morning very early, the way Mum rammed the hats on my head, then hers, made me pity the poor clerk at the freight office. With the all-important dispatch number in her hand, we were heading for war, and I had no doubt who would win.
Mum’s driving, for one thing, changed dramatically. We stayed on the road, and the speed increased to twenty miles per hour; we were flying—for Mum, that is.
She had rallied together everyone she knew working in the railways, even my sister’s current boyfriend who worked in the offices upstairs from the freight office. They met us outside freight, and we descended as a delegation.
It was actually Jack, Sue’s boyfriend, who was responsible for finding Cocko and saving his life. He took Mum back into the enormous freight warehouse, where the public were forbidden to venture, and as they prowled up and down the endless rows of freight, Mum heard a feeble but penetrating squawk issuing from a mound of boxes.
She had the clerk moving the pile of freight at an alarming rate; if he dared to pause, she yelled, ‘Faster!’
He complained it was the porter’s job to move freight, but one murderous look from Mum, and he was working at top speed.
The box was at the bottom, and in the middle of the pile. A panting and perspiring clerk handed Mum the box. Clearly written on all sides were the words:
LIVE BIRD. GIVE WATER IF NOT PICKED UP IMMEDIATELY (in smaller print).
With our escort carrying the box, we walked to the parked car, after Mum had ‘dressed down’ every clerk and porter in the vicinity and the poor bird had been given many drinks of water and a large quantity of the clerks’ morning tea biscuits.
Mum thanked, then dispersed, her war troops, and we started our triumphant journey home. Straight down the highway like a conquering hero, at speeds that would amaze anyone who knew Mum’s driving style.
2
* * *
TWO DOGS, ONE CAT AND A COCKATOO
It had been quite a campaign, one and a half days of intense combat. I had managed a few catnaps along the way, but Mum had gone at full steam.
By the time she had had the regulation cup of tea and a Bex and the bird had been made comfortable and fed something more substantial than biscuits, it was the end of the day. Our evening meal was a simple affair of baked beans on toast, rolled oats with sugar and milk for the bird, and that was how ‘Cocko’ came into our lives.
For those readers thinking, What a memory for a five-and-a-half-year-old! Not so. I listened to Mum tell that story again and again, to any captive audience, for at least the next ten years.
As Cocko developed into a beautiful bird, and the greatest character ‘in feathers’ you could ever hope to meet, the story of how Cocko nearly died became an integral part of my childhood, as did Cocko himself.
Cocko did not start out as a beautiful bird. When Mum opened the box in the freight office, there in one corner was this scrawny, squawking, mostly featherless, purple-skinned, bug-eyed … thing. A few downy, fluffy feathers here and there. After Mum encouraged it to drink some of the clerks’ warm tea, with lots of sugar and milk, and eat their morning tea biscuits, this funny-looking apparition snuggled up against her and went sound asleep in her hand. Unfortunately, it had to go back in the box for the drive home, and it screeched and squawked the whole way home, only stopping when Mum picked it up again.
It squawked all night; we thought it would never stop. The only peace was when Mum was stuffing food down its throat, or holding it. Cocko was without a doubt Mum’s bird; he adored her. This is understandable, I suppose: after spending the first days of his life in a box, a pair of gentle hands took charge and changed his life for ever. Along with the hands, there was a kind voice, and he soon learned about all the other parts that made up the wonderful person called ‘Mum’.
It would be a normal reaction to stay close to such a person, and Cock
o did, for the rest of his life. In Mum’s capable hands he blossomed into a splendid bird, and a lively character. He grew up with six kids, two dogs and a cat.
Although he was one hundred percent Mum’s pet, everyone loved him, and he in turn paid attention to the whole family. I dressed him in doll’s clothes and wheeled him around in my doll’s pram. Cocko took it all in his stride. On his back, with two scrawny claws up in the air and a bonnet on his head, he would lie patiently as I wheeled him around the garden and up and down the street. Luckily for Cocko, I soon gave up dressing him as my doll as my interest in tennis grew. Which was fortunate, because his reaction to seeing me approaching pushing my doll’s pram was to let out a loud squawk and fly off his perch to land on top of the highest tree he could find. No amount of coaxing would get him down.
Mum played competition tennis during the week on our courts in the garden, and so I spent a lot of time on one of the vacant courts playing. Cocko followed Mum everywhere; he would be climbing the wire netting, or the light poles, or doing trapeze highjinks, screeching and squawking until Mum would finally have to scold him for making too much noise. He soon learned to settle down and watch tennis.
The ladies’ mid-week competition, as well as the weekend tennis, was A-grade top district tennis and all sets were umpired. Cocko grew up over the years watching and listening to these very competitive tennis matches. Perhaps it was inevitable that he would pick up tennis lingo.
Sitting on top of the netting, he called the score, or called a ball out. He was so good at voice imitation that no-one could tell it was a bird. He didn’t have that ‘Polly want a cracker’ type of parrot sound at all. As he grew up, everyone spoke to him in a normal voice, not a ‘parrot’ voice, and he responded the same. He could imitate male and female voices. In the family, he was so good at different people’s voices you couldn’t tell him from that person, especially Mum.
Some of My Friends Have Tails Page 1
