Hund. Son of Dog. First of his name.

Thicc boi. In neck, in body, in mind.

Wants to fetch stick. But won't bring it back

Thinks there is endless supply of sticks.

What is personal space? Something for lesser dogs

Everything is a seat for Hund

Feet, lap, couch, car, table, shoes.

Sporty guy. Loves to run, loves to swim

Loves to hunt rats in the kiwi vines

For the sport and also his human's 'GOOD BOY!'

Best friend is Luna. Brown Kelpie with underbite

She's cute and loves to wrestle and swim in waterhole.

Life on the farm is full of adventure

So many things to bark at - Hund is a big security boy

Human doesn't always appreciate high level of security

This bamboozles Hund.

Likes to jump. In human's arms, back of ute

Will climb avocado tree, 'cos that makes human laugh

Rides in car are fun. The vet is not fun.

Please no more vet for Hund.

Favourite thing is barbeques

And parties. And sticks. And pats. And swims in waterhole.

And running. And bones. And dinner. And cuddles.

And chasing the car. Or tractor. Or motorbike

So many favourite things. Life is good.

Cowboy hat pulled down with collar straight up, hand on the trigger, walking right into whatever the next adventure life holds. His steps measured realizing the power of luck isn't so much in his corner, as it's more situational. The thing about situations is they change on a dime. Sometimes we walk in tall cotton other times life is cattywampus. Life is what it is, until it isn't.

When I asked where he was headed, he looked at me and half grinned stating, "I figure north is a direction and south is just a lifestyle." He disappeared. Vaya con Dios.

It was pure luck that ovum # 102,364 was released via ovulation from my mother on that exact day in that exact year and was waved down the ciliated tube to meet a suitable suitor. It could've been any of the other hundred thousand eggs she was born with and, if so, I wouldn't be me.

It was pure luck that spermatozoon #43,438,822 was the exact vehicle to deliver the right exact half of my father's DNA. Had it been any other swimmer, then I just wouldn't be me.

And I really do like me, so I am very lucky.

Three whispered words shatter the atmosphere that had been formed over the past two hours. A social faux pas indeed, but a moral disgrace. His face remains unchanged, even when rows of people gasp and stare at him with a myriad of emotions. Disgust being the prevailing one. The woman at the microphone freezes, hand still outstretched, beckoning the man who had coldly rejected her invitation in front of hundreds. She opens her mouth a few times, words unable to form due shock. The man repeats himself. "No thank you." And then he stands, and leaves his parents' funeral midway.

"No thank you, I'm full." Is a gunshot in the air.

My ears ring, tongue licking lips to clear them of the gunpowder.

The duellists beneath this yellow lighting- a ninety-one year old immigrant grandmother, and a thirty-something girlfriend.

I watch, my eyelids peeled against my will (my torturer; the grip of familial penchant for drama).

My grandmother grins. All rates-ratus (grab a pipe, or a glass of wine)

"Ai-th-ee, please see this whorish-mule of a woman out."

She says to my brother; the boyfriend.

Shotgun shells litter the floor as she pushes her chair back, and disappears to pray.

'Oh honey we have to do something about these grey hairs. They aren't doing you ANY favours,' Marcel grimaced as he ran his fingers through Astrid's fringe.

Astrid glanced up from her glossy magazine and focused on the face in the large garishly lit salon mirror.

At the smile lines around her mouth, crows feet at the side of her eyes and a sprinkling of grey through her auburn hair.

'No Marcel,' she said. 'My body is a canvas of a life well-lived.'

He raised an eyebrow incredulously.

'I like the salt and pepper. So just a trim thank you.'