The flying wolf

There is a long tradition of dramatic moving-house stories in my world. My brother and his long-suffering partner moved house with six water buffalo and a tonne of river rocks in 2003. S. wrote a song about the experience, which owed a lot to ‘A boy named Sue’ and ‘Hot-rod Lincoln’, and boasted the chorus ‘buffalooo-ooo’. They haven’t moved since.

My late best friend moved from Townsville to Stanthorpe in 2005, in a van containing two cats (loose) and a blue cattle dog with emotional problems. No animals were injured during the making of that move. A. and I then moved again, a year later, to Wylandra. The whole two day marathon was fuelled by fruit-loops eaten directly from the packet and black coffee, and all our friends disappeared when it became obvious that heavy lifting would be required.

My sister and her partner took the circuitous route to house moving, opting for two years on bikes, living in a small tent, so that they would be exhausted enough to enjoy setting up house at the end. This does not strike me as at all excessive, but you be the judge. See

However, it is the episode of the flying wolf that reminded me most recently why house-moving is a bad idea. The episode of the flying wolf also reminds me why racial profiling can be wildly inaccurate, and why I should interview potential friends to ensure that they won’t be moving to the other side of the world any time soon.

My German friends, upon discovering they were pregnant (and probably after too long in the Australian rural sector to still have any kind of judgement), decided to move back to Germany for good at the end of May. M. was still able to fly until mid-June, and D. had work that would finish around then too, so it was an obvious time to rent space in a shipping container, rabies-proof the Flying Wolf and haul arse.

Before reading on, you need to drop any ideas you may have about German efficiency and Teutonic organisation and punctuality. I love M & D dearly, but after working with them on and off for most of their Australian sojourn, I should have been aware that they have never been on time for anything. On the coldest day of the year so far, the Owl and I waited with coffee in hand for the rendezvous at a local bakery where I would meet them to navigate them to the vet in Brisbane that would give the Flying Wolf rabies-clearance and a sweet-smelling flea-bath. And we waited. And we waited. We were late getting into Brisbane. My attempts at cheering small talk all came back to unpleasant things. Cunningham’s Gap looked more than ever like nature was winning, the edges of the cliff fraying under the weight of destabilised vegetation. We had to stop at the public toilet at Aratula, forever associated for me with a twenty minute vomiting extravaganza en route to Andrew’s funeral.

We found the vet in a suburb of Brisbane I’d never heard of (it turns out there are quite a lot of suburbs in Brisbane I have never heard of) with three minutes to spare, only because a postie on one of those little step-through bikes stopped and used his GPS to show D., who is visual, the way so he could relate it to F., who is verbal, so she could write it down (and if you are confused because I am now talking about myself in the third person, you are not as confused as I was by that point.)

We sat in the park and I wished I still smoked and I understood entirely why M. wouldn’t let anyone except her hold the Flying Wolf’s lead, because if the dog disappeared at this point, we were all screwed (not to mention about $3000 poorer.) The Flying Wolf could have gone business class for the amount it costs to fly a dog.

The following morning we were, amazingly, twenty minutes early for our meet- up with the dog-flying woman from Thai air, reassuringly called Kylie and possessed of the flat affectless tones of a rural Queensland girl who knows one end of a beast from another. It doesn’t pay to be early. First were accosted, for no particular reason, by an over-zealous airport employee, who claimed that our perambulations along the fenceline were ‘making people nervous’, and then by three of Queenslands’s finest, all quite enthusiastically listing the things that were wrong with the Green Creature and coming up with a series of reasons why I should not attempt to drive it anywhere, despite the huge pile of impedimenta in the back which obviously needed to be taken somewhere. Just as I was wondering if I was going to have to cry, or if M. could be persuaded to do so for the sympathy vote, they lost interest and left, making me promise not to drive in the rain.

M & D, we miss you terribly. Life is duller without you.


2 comments on “The flying wolf

  1. You could perhaps add my move from Broken Hill, when my possessions arrived 12 hours late because my tenant was having it off with the removalist and driving his pantechnicon down the Silver City Highway when he should’ve been heading east.

    I still reckon the buffalo move trumps everything – besides becoming immortal in song.

  2. quollgirl says:

    I’d forgotten about that! Why can none of us do it painlessly?! There is an oft-cited truism that house -moving is almost as traumatic as death, and more traumatic than divorce,

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