The Dictator of Our Household

In the grand castle of domesticity, there sits a feline monarch named Queen Shadow. Her coat is midnight, her stare is deadly, and her tolerance for stupidity is approximately zero.

She doesn’t own the house. She IS the house.

The rest of us merely occupy space in it, subject to her approval.

Queen Shadow rules over four unfortunate male subjects, all of whom have accepted their places in the royal hierarchy.

First, there’s Sharpie, the dog. Poor bastard. He probably started life believing dogs were supposed to be in charge. Chase cats, bark at strangers, protect the family. All that heroic canine bullshit.

Then he met Shadow.

Now he’s essentially a four-legged servant with a wagging tail. One disapproving look from Her Majesty and he remembers exactly who’s running the show.

Then we have the three male cats: Shupack, Sherbet and Sheriff.

You’d think three male cats might stage a rebellion. Form a union. Demand equal rights. Perhaps negotiate better sleeping arrangements.

Not a bloody chance.

Shupack, Sherbet and Sheriff know the rules. Shadow gets the best spot, the right of way, and whatever else she bloody well wants.

Sheriff might have a name suggesting authority, but let’s be clear. He’s not the sheriff of anything. At best, he’s an unpaid security guard who reports directly to the Queen.

And Sherbet? Well, with a name like Sherbet, he was never going to lead a revolution. He is the largest, a black ball of fluff; but shy  

Shupack could perhaps organise an uprising, but he’d probably have to ask Shadow’s permission first.

The extraordinary thing is that Shadow doesn’t actually have to do much.

She doesn’t need to shout, bark, chase or throw a tantrum. She simply looks.

And the boys scatter.

It’s a dictatorship maintained entirely through psychological warfare and the occasional strategically placed paw.

Even the human males in the household know their place. The Squeeze might think he has some authority, but Shadow has never acknowledged his leadership, and I doubt she’s about to start.

As for me, I provide food, accommodation, cleaning services and the occasional royal massage. Apparently, this makes me staff rather than family.

I don’t remember applying for the position.

There’s no salary, no annual leave and certainly no bloody superannuation.

But watching one little female cat maintain absolute control over three male cats, a dog and the human occupants of an entire house is rather impressive.

No elections. No opposition. No parliamentary debates.

Just Queen Shadow, reigning supreme.

And frankly, she’s doing a better job than most politicians.

The Squeeze Watches MMA...

I’ve made peace with it in much the same way he’s made peace with me yelling at the television when Geelong gives away a free. We both bring something to the relationship.

But if a Geelong player rubbed his balls on someone’s head, I’d want a fucking explanation.

In a fight in South Africa, Slade Shadowshot got Kevin Nsiona down on the mat and started thrusting his groin into his head. When the round ended, he laughed and gave him the finger. The camera cut to the ring girls cracking up. Shadowshot went on to win by submission in the third round.

I understand the appeal of a good fight. I also understand that a bloke who’s already pinned his opponent has several options available to him, and that every single one of them could involve keeping his dick to himself.

The bit that gets me is the finger. He’s gone to all that trouble to express himself through his underpants and still feels the need to clarify.

And now people online are debating whether it was legal. I can just picture the Squeeze leaning forward on the couch, giving this the same serious consideration he’d give a mechanic telling him the transmission’s gone.

“Well, technically…”

Technically, sweetheart, if you do that at the pub, your mates spend the rest of the night pretending they came separately.

Shadowshot put the clip-on Instagram and asked, “Are you not entertained?”

Oh, I am. But mostly by the thought of the Squeeze trying to explain to me why this is different from the time I caught the dog doing it to a cushion.

Oh My God...

The pain I am in at the moment. 

My spine has severe narrowing in a spot and is trapping my nerves at L4/L5.

Basically, I've got a mac truck running over my left leg every 3 minutes; just enough time for a break when someone comes along and sets me on fire... 

I have top hospital cover; and this seems the best they can do?

I've had this for a month now and I'm going to have to last until the 19/11 before they can give me an MRI (probably because I have to go upstairs afterwards to get my neuro to check on the shunts!)

All I can say is I must have been truly horrible person in another life... 

Before You Say “I’d Never”.

A baby is dead. A family is grieving. And somewhere, someone is warming up their typing fingers to explain how this could never happen to them.

I wish I had that much faith in myself.

Ten-month-old Scottie Crowell died after being left in a car in Kentucky. Police say her grandmother, a doctor, was supposed to take her to daycare but instead went to work, forgetting the baby was still in the vehicle. A grand jury has since declined to indict her, finding insufficient probable cause.

I read that story and felt sick. For the baby. For her parents. And yes, for the grandmother. I'm a Nan. I can't imagine what that would be like. Even if your daughter could forgive you; your son-in-law would never be able to. Myself, I could never forgive myself.

That is why I’m struggling with the rush to condemn.

People hear “forgot the baby” and assume it means “didn’t care about the baby”. I don’t think we can make that leap from a headline. The consequence is unbearable. That doesn’t tell us everything about the person who made the mistake.

I never put a baby’s stroller behind the car. It’s one of my rules, because I can imagine getting distracted, getting into the driver’s seat and doing something dreadful. I take that precaution because I know I can make mistakes.

Most of us have had a moment when we’ve thought, Shit!!! I almost left my baby. Then it didn’t. We got the chance to learn, change a habit and carry on. Some people don’t get that chance. My own mother walked me around to the shops and went home. When she walked in my Grandmother said "where is the baby?!!" at which point my mother bolted back to the shop. I was waiting there, unharmed!

None of this makes a child’s death less serious. Scottie should be alive. Her parents should have their baby. Compassion for her grandmother does not take a single thing away from that.

Nor does it mean every case should escape investigation. This one was investigated. The grand jury’s proceedings are confidential, so the public does not have all the evidence it considered.

What I do know is that a grieving family gains nothing from strangers competing to write the cruellest comment. I’d rather this story made us check the back seat, confirm a child arrived safely and build precautions into our routines.

“I’d never” is a comforting thought, but it isn’t much of a safety plan.

Call Me Stupid But... Fuck

Parents dropped their children at childcare and went to work.

An ordinary morning. A goodbye kiss. A little bag packed with spare clothes. They were entitled to expect their children would be safe but... 

Call me stupid, but I don't think I could trust any male looking after kids. That probably stems from the fact that I was abused as a kid; and my father was the Chief of Police!

Ashley Paul Griffith betrayed the trust given to him on a scale that is almost impossible to comprehend. He is already serving life imprisonment, with a 27-year non-parole period, for offences against 69 girls. He has now been transferred to NSW to face another 202 charges. Those new allegations remain to be determined in court.

Sixty-nine children in the case already dealt with. Every one of them a person. Every one belonging to a family whose ordinary life was torn apart.

And this fucking predator worked in childcare.

There is something particularly sickening about someone exploiting a job built around protection to gain access to children. Parents entrusted him with the people they loved most. He used that trust against them.

I keep thinking about those parents. The conversations they must replay. The mornings they remember. The questions they ask themselves, even though the responsibility belongs entirely to the man who committed the abuse. In reality, I never had any of that. I kept silent until my Dad died, mainly so he couldn't go around there and kill him.

Griffith’s existing sentence does not make the NSW proceedings an unnecessary extra. Each allegation deserves proper examination. Families deserve answers about their own children. 

And while the headlines follow his prison transfer, I hope the children and families receive something considerably more useful than another burst of public outrage.

Properly funded support. Consistent communication. Privacy. 

Help that remains available after the cameras leave.

We can all call him a monster. His proven crimes warrant every ounce of disgust. But disgust is easy. The harder obligation is making children safer - and staying beside those he harmed for as long as they need us.