I loved your website. It made me feel at home, and also taught me a few things. As a Yank My family and I were welcomed with open arms when we moved to our new home in Australia. We loved Australia and its people straight away.

Since we had to adopt out our dogs when we left the States, we looked for an aussie dog to fill the void, and it was filled to overflowing with our kelpie cross named Molly.

When we returned much too soon to the USA Molly stayed behind with our daughter, and her new husband.

Then came the phone call in the middle of the night from our daughter, informing us that Molly was no more. On a family trip to West Australia she had taken a bait and she was no more.

I couldn’t sleep any more thinking of my distraught daughter and the kelpie that had such a large place in our lives down under. The result of that sleepless night was the following poem – My tribute to a faithful Aussie dog.

I hope my tribute to a true blue Aussie four footed friend meets your standards and reflects what Australia, it’s people, and came to mean to us Yanks in our all to brief sojourn among you. I hope you will find it worth posting on your web site….Dan Sabrowsky.

MOLLY
Per kind permission of Dan Sabrowsky

I lost an Aussie mate today, twelve thousand miles away -
A mate who loved to play and run to pass the hours away.
She came to us when just a pup – a little ball of fur;
But still, a bloke could never have a better mate than her.

She’d be right there to welcome you, when you came through the door;
And when you’d scratch behind her ears, she’d whimper for some more.
The highlight of her day was when the bloody Postie came.
She’d run and bark to shake him up: But it was just a game.

A soccer star – a frizbee champ – our Molly grew to be:
But oh, the times she loved the best were when she could run free.
A true blue pal, a bonzer mate – that’s what she came to be.
She helped us Yanks to feel at home in a land across the sea.

She lies now ‘neath the Southern Cross and the wide Australian sky.
I reckon it’s a fitting place for a mate like her to lie.

Old age is golden so I’ve heard said,
But sometimes I wonder when I get into bed
With my ear in the drawer and teeth in a cup,
My eyes on the table until I wake up.

As sleep dims my eye, I say to myself,
Is there anything else I should lay on the shelf?
But I’m happy to say as I close the door,
My friends are the same,perhaps even more.

When I was young my slippers were red.
I could kick my heels up over my head.
When I grew older,my slippers were blue,
But still I could dance the whole night through.

Now I am old and my slippers are black.
I walk to the store and puff my way back.
The reason I know my youth is all spent,
Is that my get up and go has got up and went.

But I dont really mind, when I think with a grin,
Of all the grand places my get up has been.
And since I’ve retired from life’s competition,
My shedules are all scheduled (with complete repetition).

I get up every morning and dust off my wits,
Pick up the paper and read the o’bits.
If I see my name missing, I know I’m not dead,
So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.

‘Twas getting dark, the team was bogged, the axle snapped in two,
I lost me matches and me pipe so what was I to do?
The rain came down,’twas bitter cold, and hungry too was I,
And the dog shit in the tucker box, nine miles from Gundagai.

Some blokes I know has stacks of luck, no matter how they fall,
But there was I, Lord love a duck,no blasted luck at all,
I couldn’t make a pot of tea, or get me trousers dry,
And the dog shit in the tucker box, nine miles from Gundagai.

I can forgive the blinkin’ team, I can forgive the rain,
I can forgive the dark and cold – I’d go through it again,
I can forgive me rotten luck, but hang me till I die,
I can’t forgive that bloody dog, nine miles from Gudagai.

Anon.

I remember the first time I tried it,
I was only a lad of fifteen;
And though she was younger than I was,
She was more composed and serene.

I was eager, yet awkward and backward,
Uncertain of how to proceed;
But a feeling of joy soon possed me,
The warmth of her hastened the deed.

It wa out in the barn,I remember,
The evening was scented with hay.
Her body moved gently towards me,
As my hands began softly to play.

At first I was wholly bewildered,
Then my cheek against her I laid,
Then her brown eyes were quick to relieve,
Of waiting and being afraid.

much later my heart pounded gladly,
(It seemed hours since first I began);
My soul was alive with newborn pride,
Of a boy who has grown to a man.

Twenty years have passed since that evening,
But my memory recalls even now,
That first thrill of joy, I felt as a boy,
On the day I first milked a cow.

I had the meanest mother in the whole world. While other kids ate candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can guess, my supper was different than the other kids’ also.

But at least, I wasn’t alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean mother as I did.

My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times. You’d think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were and where we were going. She insisted if we said we’d be gone an hour, that we be gone one hour or less–not one hour and one minute. I am nearly ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not once, but each time we had a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor belt was used more on our seats than it was to hold up Daddy’s pants. Can you imagine someone actually hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can begin to see how mean she really was.

We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our friends?

The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night and up at eight the next morning. We couldn’t sleep till noon like our friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night thinking up mean things to do to us.

She always insisted upon us telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and it nearly did.

By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a girlfriend, can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really there. I never had the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I’d had a boyfriend to elope with. I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12 and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15 and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year.

Through the years, things didn’t improve a bit. We could not lie in bed, “sick” like our friends did, and miss school. If our friends had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home from school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends’ report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for nothing less than ugly black marks.

As the years rolled by, first one and then the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school. With our mother behind us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out.

My mother was a complete failure as a mother. Out of four children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my brothers served his time in the service of this country. And whom do we have to blame for the terrible way we turned out? You’re right, our mean mother. Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up into God-fearing, educated, honest adults.

Using this as a background, I am trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled with pride when my children call me mean. Because, you see, I thank God, He gave me the meanest mother in the whole world.

Written by Bobbie Pingaro 1967

Hidden in the misty Scottish Highlands,
where the purple bells of heather gently sway,
lies the ancient wellspring of our rich endownment,
that lives in you,my faithful friend,today.

On a journey marked by love and dedication,
two centuries our fathers walked with you,
from the frost fields of northern habitation,
to the land of searing sands the Dingoes knew.

And your seed was sown with sound deliberation,
as your purpose here on earth was well defined,
for the harsh new land demanded high distinction,
sought the best of all, together in one kind.

So the fathers saw the best were brought together,
linked the ancient stock to eager working seed,
stout heartedness they gleaned from golden native,
and gave us you, our precious working breed.

Yes, you, my friend, my Aussie working canine,
with broad head, strong and muscular at jaw,
your ready ears pricked short and sharp and heedful,
your brown eyes ever watchful at my door.

Oh, it’s such a sight to watch you work the livestock,
yes, you know just when to duck, avoid that kick,
or bound across the sheep backs in the bulldust,
you’re a true blue Aussie icon, my first pick!

Some sceptics say that you can’t be a show dog,
too frisky, free,undisciplined, they say,
but all your ribbons proudly line our mantel,
and the way you worked, you earned your due today.

But I wonder who it was taught you language,
yes, I know you understand each word we say,
seems your deaf when Mum says”..off the lounge, bad doggie”,
But mention food….you’re by her feet to stay.

And if ever I am down and heavy hearted,
when human beings seem so unaware,
somehow you know and snuggle up beside me,
and I hear you pant “I love you.”, true …I swear.

So I reallly can’t imagine life without you,
why I deserve your special kind of care,
I think God favours Cattle/Kelpie/Stumpy’s,
’cause you’re all angels (wrapped in doggie hair.)

It was just a country village in a patch of mulga scrub,
Where the bulk of local business was conducted in the pub.
Here you booked in as a tourist, or if broke, in “Rotten Row”,
It made but little difference, there was nowhere else to go.

Here the mate and I got stranded with our usual run of luck,
With not a cent between us since we left “Old Toolebuc”.
And despite official statements, we knew we had become,
Just two more homeless, wandering waifs, on the streets in ‘91.

And to add to our misfortune, the worst I can recall
It was the social evening of the Christmas Festival.
But to join in the festivities, there was little we could do,
Only to ask the villagers to lend a quid or two.

So we asked a few inhabitants that we thought might understand,
How charity this time of year was spread throughout the land.
The response was somewhat negative, to what we did expect,
But all donations were received with genuine respect.

But the mate had no idea how to run the enterprise,
For he goes and bails the Sergeant up, mistaking his disguise.
Though we bitterly protested, to maintain our civil right,
He said it all depended on our takings for the night.

Then with a beckoning finger that boded us no good,
He led the expedition where the local fortress stood,
Followed by the residents(we were fearing an attack),
Who all the time were shouting, “We want our money back!”.

But soon we reached the calaboose at the end of our parade,
Where the Sergeant ordered us to stop, in front of its facade.
And instead of all the pagentry, lavished on V.I.P.’s
He wedged us in a cubicle with hands, and boots,and knees.

But a sympathetic lady, who was the Sergeants wife,
Wept in maternal anguish, when she saw us two in strife.
And she pleaded with her husband,”What those boys really need,
Is half a dozen stubbies and a decent Christmas feed”.

But the Sergeant, he was adamant, and not at all impressed,
Refusing quite un-husband-like, her pitiful request.
In fact, he told her bluntly, with a fair amount of cuss,
He wouldn’t be in the Police Force, if he couldn’t handle us.

So we sat inside the cooler, with abundant time to think,
How our innocent adventure had landed us in clink.
And as we contemplated what the future had in store,
We heard some stealthy footsteps, and some voices at the door.

It opened wide, revealing the wife of Sergeant Hill,
With plates of ham and chicken,and T-bone off the grill.
And by her side, quite meekly, was the Sergeant, standing there,
With half a dozen stubbies, for the charges in his care !!!

Well you ask me if I’m dinkum,
Ask me if I’m true blue,
Well I’m a dinkum Aussie mate,
“Cause I’m telling you

Can a fish swim underwater,
Do the Catholics have a Pope,
Or to be a bit specific,
Is a pommy scared of soap?

Yes you ask me if I’m dinkum,
If I’m Aussie through and through,
Well of course I’m bloody Aussie
and damned proud of it too.

Is the weather dry and dusty
In the great outback,
And the famous ringer Trumby,
Was his backside black?

So if you ask me if I’m dinkum,
Australian as can be,
Well they don’t come any Aussier,
Than blokes the likes of me.

Was Slim Dusty ever famous,
for a pub that had no beer?
Do you have to be half crazy,
If you want to learn to shear?

And you ask me if I’m dinkum,
And I have to say it’s true,
Can an old man emu,
beat a kangaroo?

Is “G’day mate” really Aussie?
Let me ask you that,
And could Sir Donald Bradman
use a cricket bat?

Do Aussie kids eat vegemite,
Or perhaps a pie and sauce?
Did the Man from Snowy River,
Feel at home upon a horse?

So don’t ask me if I’m dinkum
…..because I am,
Of bloody course!

Did a washing, mopped the floors,
Washed the windows and did some chores;
Cooked a dish of home-dried fruit,
Pressed her husband’s Sunday suit.

Swept the parlor, made the bed,
Baked a dozen loaves of bread;
Split some firewood, lugged it in,
Enough to fill the kitchen bin.

Cleaned the lamps and put in oil,
Stewed some apples she thought might spoil,
Churned the butter, baked a cake,
Then exclaimed,”For mercy’s sake.”

“The calves have all got out of the pen!”
Went out and chased them in again;
Gathered the eggs and locked the stable,
Back to the house and set the table.

Cooked a supper that was delicious,
And afterwards, washed up the dishes.
Fed the cat and sprinkled the clothes,
Mended a basket full of hose.

Then opened the organ and began to play,
“When you come to the end of a perfect day!!!

I wish for a herd that knows the way
to wash each other day by day,
That never bothers to excite us,
With chills or fever or Mastisis.

I sigh for a new and better breed,
that takes less grooming and less feed,
That has the reason, wit and wisdom
to use the seat and flushing system.

I pray each week-end, long and clear,
Less work to do from year to year.
And cows that reach production peak,
All in a five day working week.

I look for officials of the mob
To guide the farmers in their job,
And show these stupid breeders how,
To propogate a five-day cow !