It was 3 am when my blurry eyes found the clock radio. Al was jumping around the bed next to me, pulling the sheet off and shaking his arms around. I’d been on a body meltdown for the two days prior, a strange virus making me lie down and rest, the first I’d felt I’d had since deciding to move to the flat stony country. Delirious, and echoes of my dream of a mulga snake before my eyes, I woke up enough to realise that Al had been bitten. Not a snake, but a centipede.
He’s prone to allergic reactions, and I poured anti-histimine, anti-inflammatories, anti pain in the arse sting you in your sleep centipedes heat pack onto him. I’d seen him hurt himself a lot over the years, but never seen him in that much pain. It somewhat validated my unease about walking in the house barefoot at night, we often found them crawling around the carpet.
We found the culprit, and squashed him, much against my buddhist like tendencies but in tune with my protective wifely ones. I went outside to throw the writhing carcass in the bush, only to find a pig foot on the door mat. We’d arrived home from a Christmas spent camping and with family in Adelaide to find a feral pig at the dam. Al made short work of him, and before long he was hanging by the trailer forks, gutted and cleaned, then hung up in the neighbours cool room. The scraps of course ended up on our doormat, courtesy of the dog. Pork chops all round… Note to self, make wide moat around house to deter crawly and scaly visitors.