Let’s go back to a hot Barossa Valley day in January 2014.
In St John’s manse, Joy and Amelia and I were eating our mutton and drinking our wine.
We sat back and watched French murder on DVD.
We were revelling in the cool change – all the windows wide open and the cool airs wafting in through the screen doors.
Peace and cool
… the women in their light cotton house dresses, I in my shorts and “Yes” concert tour tee shirt (British prog rock never lets you down.)
The sounds of Summer.
The galahs bedding down late in the church trees.
The occasional car.
The hissing of summer lawns as the sprinklers refresh the grass I’d cut that afternoon.
The French talk blending perfectly with the summer evening.
Serenity (with French violence) …
Suddenly the Black Dog strikes!
No, not THAT black dog
… not the black dog that plagued Mr Churchill … that plagued Reverend Fox … that plagued the peace of mind of those two gentlemen as they sat, years and a world apart, in their melancholy struggling to set their minds on the hard, misunderstood tasks ahead of them.
Our Black Dog
… Diesel the Wonder Dog
His nose propelled the sliding back screen door open
and that door yielded to his enthusiastic anxiety to share the wonders of unattended sprinklers in his back yard.
Fun that must be shared, if en passant, with the family.
Suddenly the screams are not confined to the flat screen.
Suddenly the accents of dismay and suffering have an Australian twinge.
Bare legs recoil
Footprints on tee shirts
Black hairy grinning face.
The Summer of 2014 was not so bad.