There is a lot to explain in this painting, which depicts a cross-section through the earth, with the earliest form of horse ancestor, small and a bit cat-like, at the base, then its gradual evolution through donkey-like forms to the horse we know today. In the chasm are the horse-inspired art forms which humans have been rendering for centuries; from simple carved stones through Chinese pottery, Victorian rocking horses, etc etc to the absolute culmination - the plastic and nylon My Little Pony.
Peering into the chasm is a puzzled youngster, while behind him are two veterans sharing a little joke at his expense.
I had a lot of fun creating texture in the rock, using a tiler's comb through polyfilla for strata, crackling medium and a nylon net lemon bag. The horse ancestors were cut out of paper, firmly embedded and painted over.
It's back to Tales of the New England for the rather rough short story; hope I don't offend anyone, but it was my mother's favourite (!).
The poem is one of two Walk with Dog poems I have written - I guess I just like the concept.
The Stud Groom
YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, I’m a stud groom. I groom studs. Bulls, that is. There was Frank Couper too, but he didn’t need grooming so much as – well, yeah.
Frank looked like one of his bulls: big bull neck and shoulders, going a bit grey by the time I met him; big jaw, short wide nose and pale blue, slightly bulgy eyes in a broad red face.
Frank loved those bulls. His wife and kids hardly counted with him. First thing in the morning he’d be out there, checking them out. He’d run his hands all over them, making sure they were putting the weight on, that their feet were okay, palpitating their testes. Yeah, that’s right, palpitating their testes.
Lots of things go to make up a good stud bull – legs, feet, head, eyes, but Frank was particularly obsessed with testes. He used to measure their scrotal circumferences and write them down in a little book. He said that bigger balls on a bull meant higher fertility, and bigger udders on the daughters. That could even be right.
One thing for sure; when he was fiddling around under those big fellows they just stood there with blissful looks on their faces. It was the closest they ever got to the real thing until they were sold.
The bulls were kept in pens. My job was to feed and water them twice a day and give them show practice. That’s getting them used to wearing a halter and being led along and stood up nice and square for the judges. They also had to get used to being washed, brushed and blow-dried.
Maybe that doesn’t sound like a full day’s work to you but believe me, struggling around with those big boys was no picnic. I also had to start the young calves. I think it would be impossible to handle a big bull the way we do if he hadn’t been accustomed to it from a baby.
I was pretty amazed that Frank chose me for the job, because I heard that his first groom was a real doll and I’m, well, rather plain. In fact the closest thing I’ve ever had to a compliment as, “You’re a big strong girl, aren’t you!”
I could see that Frank’s wife Faye, a sour-faced blonde fashion-plate, was satisfied with his choice. No danger there, she probably thought. But randy old Frank was in there before I was barely unpacked, in my shed down by the bull pens.
I realised later that he chose me because he thought an ugly girl would be an easier lay. I don’t hold that against him at all. He was – yeah, a real stud.
As I said, he came in the first night, to talk about my job, he said. He brought a pack of stubbies along.
After a bit he says it’s hot in here, and off comes the shirt. Big sweaty chest covered in red and grey curly hairs. I just drink my beer and watch.
“Still hot,” he says, and off come the jeans.
“What do you think?” he asks me.
“What’s your scrotal circumference?” I say, and he invites me to find out.
Yeah, well, that became another part of the job. The night work. I supposed lemon-face Faye thought he was inspecting the bulls by torch-light. Finally the bulls got the better of him though.
One night we could hear some banging outside after the banging inside was over, if you get my drift. Frank said he’d check it out on his way back.
Apparently Dandenong David, the biggest and best bull (enormous scrotum!) had jammed his foot in an empty can. Frank, trying to pull it off, slipped in one of D. David’s fresh deposits and slid under the bull’s belly.
A huge heavy hoof went straight through that broad hairy chest and squashed it flat – ribs, lungs, heart, liver, backbone. I think Frank was dead before he knew it.
Faye decided to sell up. I stayed for the funeral. Her friends clustered around to commiserate.
“Ay believe he went out in the way he wanted to go,” Faye said in her mincing, affected manner.
I opened my mouth to say something, found Faye’s steely eyes boring into me, and closed it again.
~END~
I Walk With Dog - a sonnet
Tho’ my road be rough and strewn with cinders,
cluttered with rolling stone or log,
cat lovers glaring from cat-littered winders,
I yet raise my chin and walk with Dog.
Tho’ the sea-mists rise and engulf the land
so I scarce can see for the foggin’ fog,
yet I feel my dear companion’s hand –
or paw – guiding me as I walk with Dog.
You can rev your cars, shake your strychnine jars
yet still we leave thee all agog;
tho’ you try to block us with bollards and bars
I still raise my chin and walk with Dog.
Tho’ your resolve not weaken, nor opposition sag,
I’ll walk with Dog and neither of us will carry a doggy bag!
(Please do not think that I support the sentiments expressed here. I am a great believer in the doggy bag.)
~END~
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