My Kids Are Driving Me Crazy

I’ve been wondering about the dog laws and the SPCA.
When the new super-council got together under loosehead Len from Manukau, they said that dog fees would be standardised across the Auckland region, so that one area wasn’t paying more than any other. What they didn’t say was that they would simply take a fee that was higher than any of the old councils and make that the new cost – and they are planning to charge over $200 for one dog!
What, I here you ask where is this coming from – wasn’t it supposed to be $160? Yes, it was; but read the small print; only if you pay your registration fee within the month of July, will you get the “discount” (that has risen from $47 in my case up to $160). No, if you need to call a plumber in July, if your power bill is a bit more that month, if your kids have used too many mobile minutes, if for any reason you don’t set aside the cash to register the dog, then the fee rises to over $200. Surely that should be sufficient for you to pay on time?
But wait, there’s more. SPCA president and champion-of-dogs, Bob Kerridge is instigating a campaign of civil disobedience at what he sees as blatant revenue gathering. He points out that the SPCA does far more work in looking after dogs than the council or the team it then outsources to has ever done. The SPCA has an annual budget of $6 million. Given the top heavy bureaucracy of council, they want double that – $12 million. Dog licence fees may not be used for any other purpose than dog welfare, so for the council to list among their reasons for the increase “scraping dead cats off motorways” is both facetious and untrue. Then arises the question of what dog owners receive for their money – and the answer is a small disc, to be attached to the collar. Given that all dogs have to be microchipped as well, not only is the disc superfluous it is also the target of thieves who prefer a “Ponsonby registration” obtained by nicking another animal’s tag.
The system this replaces rewarded responsible dog ownership. If a dog owner was prepared to attend a council sponsored course a “responsible dog owner” certificate was issued and a rebate given on fees. This idea has been dropped entirely and now all dog owners are treated as though they all own aggressive pit bulls that never wear collars, rape poodles, and are in and out of the pound on a monthly basis. To me and my little terrier this is anathema. We live on a large property where the dog can happily exercise in the back yard so that she never needs to leave the property except to go to the vet once a year for shots. If she does escape (like when the plumber left the front door open) she is microchipped and well known to all the neighbours. I can see Mr Kerridge’s point of civil disobedience here, and I hope to heaven he knows what he is doing, because I don’t want to be hit for over $200 just because I didn’t register Mopsy in time!

For many years our upstairs bathroom was a thorn in my side. It was dark and dingy and still (after 18 years) painted the dark red the previous owners had painted it. With no air-expeller fan to suck steam away from the shower, the ceiling sported a nasty layer of mould – and the shower stall was mounted on a rotting timber base (more about this in a moment).
Several years ago, our old bull-terrier, Koko, had imagined there was a rat behind the toilet and had excavated an enormous hole in the gib wall in order to investigate. There may well have been a rat behind the wall….a very dead one judging by the obscene pong that pervaded the bathroom through that gap! In a desperate attempt to alleviate the smell and to restore some sense of order I had ‘mended’ the hole with a combination of sheets of newspaper and gaffer tape. Not elegant, but it sort of did the trick for a year or two. Not a pretty bathroom at all and certainly not one in which one could linger.
All of this horror came to a head when Brad stepped into the shower – and had the whole rotten thing collapse on him, precipitating him almost right through the floor into the kitchen below with a great crash and a shower of rotten timber and broken glass. We were reduced to using the downstairs bathroom – all of six of us! You can imagine! Something had to be done.
Tradesmen were summoned: plumber, builder and electrician. To a man they all had the same reaction: The indrawn breath and the muttered “I dunno, it’s gonna cost ya!” We braced ourselves for the worst, ignored our shrinking bank balance and commissioned the builder to start first.
Jimmy the builder arrived the following Monday morning just as I was leaving the house and the sound of crashing, ripping and banging accompanied me out of the door. Brad, being the ‘home’ person in our relationship at the moment was elected Project Manager and I happily left him to it.
By the time I returned home that evening the entire top floor of our house resembled a construction site – or a bomb site. Dust absolutely everywhere, broken bits of timber with large nails protruding, shards of broken shower stall and drooping electric wiring greeted me. Brad and the builder sat out on the back deck having a restorative cold beer as I picked my way through the debris.
Debris was the theme of the next two weeks as the old bathroom was dismantled and dumped in the driveway and a new one began to take shape. We were getting used to taking turns in the one still-operative bathroom. I was getting used to showering while people cleaned their teeth and used to putting on makeup while chatting to a child who was seated on the toilet. (I know….I know!) The intimacy of family life!
The next stage was the gib-stopping and painting. Who’d have thought that this could be the messiest job? We all lived in on a fine layer of white powder as the new gib-stopping was sanded then we all tripped over paint tins left in the hallway when the painting started.
Of course, throughout this exercise the bills came in and, of course, they overran our budget. Visa cards were ransacked and vast amounts of dosh changed hands. However, every morning when I step into our beautiful new shower stall with the new gushing shower that you don’t have to run around under to get wet, I have to admit it was money well spent.

At this point I’m going to veer away temporarily from the saga of my life, to talk about having a clean and tidy house and the general sense of civilisation and ease that this state of affairs can bring.
I’m no domestic goddess, heaven knows, but I have found that a thorough house clean is a very beneficial thing on a number of levels. Not only do you end up with a clean house; you will also find you are calmer and happier when you can actually see your furniture because it isn’t hidden under mounds of people’s possessions and you don’t find yourself always dabbing at things in a distracted manner and despairing of ever getting straight.
You just have to tell yourself I CAN DO THIS – and get on with it (no excuses)! [Read more...]

We all settled in quickly to our holiday routine. Matt and James (the twins), started an immensely complicated and private game that seemed to involve creeping around the garden being spies. Marcus, the most artistic of my tribe, began a painting, setting his easel up in the middle of the veranda (where the dogs knocked it over about a dozen times a day) and Lucy, India and I hung about chatting to Charlotte and sunbathing in deck chairs on the lawn. We were idle and indolent and having the best time! We even galvanised ourselves into enough action to scramble down the steep path to the sea and attempt the first swim of the season. Brrr- but bracing! [Read more...]

With the Rugby World Cup and the school holidays out of the way I’ve finally found a few minutes to sit down and update what the family now refers to as ‘the saga.’ Reading back through previous episodes, I am appalled to see just how long it has been since I last wrote anything. Oh well! [Read more...]

Of course, gradually everyone’s health began to improve after the flu. The little kids (Matt n’Jim) were the first to get their mojo back…you can’t keep two six year old boys down for long! After chasing them back to bed about eight million times because they were running around in their pyjamas, we eventually gave up and allowed them to be ‘up’ and dressed and out and about again. Very shortly after that the rest of the tribe were once again back on their feet and Charlotte and Alexander started to talk about returning to their ‘hut in the bush’ (as Charlotte referred to their Coromandel home).

[Read more...]