The Pukeko Tragedy

A Pukeko

I work as a part-time nanny for a family with three children. They live on a large farm property where wild birds can usual be seen from the winding driveway.

Yesterday as I was driving the kids home, they spotted three Pukekos at the edge of the drive and pointed out that one was hurt. I decided to go after it to see what was wrong.

The two healthy Pukekos ran off in one direction while the other limped slowly away. I could follow him by the trembling of plants over his head.

I caught him to a chorus of protests from him and questions from the children. He wailed pitifully as I tucked him against my side for a better look at his leg. It was severely broken and the bone was protruding from the leg. There was some nasty swelling above the injury too.

I looked up to see the children's father watching from the house and I asked them to get me a towel or soft cloth to wrap the bird in.

I walked the rest of the way to the house to find that the dad had brought out a crate and the children a towel.

I had begun to stroke the bird's back and neck and speak to him in a calm voice. He settled down and just looked at me with his red eyes.

I promised the kids I would take him to a vet and after I loaded the crate in my car I tried calling the Willowbank wildlife park. I couldn't get through but I remembered there was a vet on the way to my house. Since we were in the country I thought they might deal with wild animals too.

The receptionist at the vet was very nice but she suggested what I was most afraid of; euthanasia.

I said if there was any way the leg could be set and bound I would want to try that first. She offered to get a vet to come and take a look.

A tall young woman came out next and we discussed the injury. I knew what she was going to say but she offered to take a look anyway.

Her assistant brought a towel and the vet reached in to pull out the bird who protested weakly.

"He's skin and bones," she said. "This injury isn't new."

It was clear that the animal was suffering and if it had been left in the wild it would have slowly starved to death. I knew the kindest thing for it would be putting it to sleep but I was still sad.

I stroked its neck one last time and said I was sorry.

The vet and her assistant were very kind and sympathetic. The vet assured me it would be painless and quick so I let them have the broken bird.

For the rest of the day I felt a lingering sadness although I tried to think about the bird not being in pain and suffering.

It didn't really help much.

Posey Up The Nosey

Last night the NPR was borrowed to babysit while my friend A worked late.

The plan was for me to follow her home so I could pick the NPR up.

When she arrived I caught the glimmer of a fancy earring worn by her friend R who was sitting in the passenger seat.

"Were you guys out having a good time without me?" I said, narrowing my eyes.

"No, we weren't. I promise," A said. "It was totally work except we did gossip a little."

I followed A to her house wondering what it was about the fancy sparkle earrings that made me feel like the only kid in grade school who didn't get a birthday invite.

When we stopped at A's house R got out of the car and assured me that good times were not being had without me.

I wanted to believe this but her earrings were so sparkly.

Definite party earrings.

I found a subdued NPR on A's sofa. Apparently the kids had just gone to bed and she was pooped.

On the way out A decided she would send me home with a collection of flowers fresh picked from her yard. ( Probably out of guilt for having a good time without me.)

Anyway, she was adamant that the dianthus had a wonderful smell and I was keen to have a sniff.

Unfortunately, she foisted a bunch of them up at my face and the exact moment that I decided to lean down to get a sniff and the result was the partial insertion of a bloom up my left nostril.

After snuffling a few times to clear out any pollen granules, I thanked her for the flowers and drove home with my wild bouquet.

I still think those earrings were highly suspicious. 

Sermon on the *Deck

A few nights ago I went to keep a friend company at her shop while she was working on flower arrangements for an upcoming wedding.

I had also been promised wine.

When I arrived we nipped into the vino immediately.

I think we went about 50/50 on the bottle which led to the usual results with me; a wild freestyle dance session followed by me prancing around with a wreath of baby's breath on my head singing, "Match maker, match maker, make me a match! Find me a find, catch me a catch!"

Thankfully, the store was closed and my audience was confined to my amused friend and the occasional passing car.

But this was only the beginning of my dramatic evening.

My friend's store has a small apartment unit attached to the back of it and a nice British lass who works for the Humane Society resides there.

On that very same evening she decided to have some friends around for a BBQ.

Somehow I ended up sitting among them on her back deck.

My friend joined us and brought out a magazine article featuring a woman she knew who owned a clothing store that specialized in women who were "size 0."

In the article the woman downplayed her business sense and admitted that her father was "very wealthy."

The sole male in the group also knew the woman. He and everyone else seemed to enjoy having an eye roll over the tone of the article.

Suddenly I recalled something my friend had told me the woman. "She had her ladybits cut!" I bellowed.

My friend bulged her eyes at me in a warning to stop right there but the demon drink made me feisty and defiant.

One of the other gals mentioned a documentary I had also watched about labioplasty and this led me to make "The Sermon on the Deck."

For the next few minutes I rained down verbal brimstone on the assembled party, alternating between shaking my fist above my head and making swirling gestures around my reproductive area.

I used words like, "vuh jay jay," "lady business" and "labia minora."

I said it was abhorrent that society could make a woman feel so horrible about herself that she would feel compelled to modify the very essence of her womanhood

I believe this wholeheartedly, I just don't think it's the sort of topic you should unleash on people you've just met and who have recently eaten some luridly suggestive beef cutlets.

The girl who had seen the documentary seemed to agree with me and we talked about how part of the film had been about women having "hoo ha" casts made and displayed in a collection to show the variation of size and shape in female anatomy.

We both felt that this was an important step in showing women that there is no "normal" look and empowering them to feel secure and proud of the way they were made.

Again though, if I hadn't been sauced I definitely wouldn't have taken that particular style to express my views on the subject.

A subject I introduced while being sauced.

I don't think anyone from the gathering will ever refer to that night as "dull."

*When Kiwis say this word, it is often pronounced "dick." This is a source of endless delight to me and the NPR.  

The Social Science Complex

I have just read through my second issue of New Scientist and I have come to the conclusion that my type of science will never be featured therein.

New Scientist devotes its pages to articles concerning those who regularly use test tubes and Geiger counters in their work. (You know, people who have legitimate cause to wear a lab coat-i.e. not me.)

The closest thing New Scientist had to a non-hard science article was an article on Alfred Russel Wallace, a self-taught biologist who came to the same conclusions as Darwin and shared credit with him over the theory of survival of the fittest. But even he had the respectable habit of pinning exotic bugs to display boards and he was recognized by the Linnean Society.

Will Social Science ever be taken seriously?

Is it too late for me to switch to Kea behaviors in social groups?

Sigh.

My "lab coat" is bound to be a rain-proof parka and in place of test tubes I have a digital recorder, pen and paper. 

Understanding the principles of physics is important. I too am intrigued by the weakness of the electromagnetic force found throughout the universe. 

I am also pleased by the research that suggest bilingualism keeps your brain flexible. 

But what about my interest of indigenous self governance? 

I suppose if I wanted to read about important breakthroughs in First Nations' struggle for autonomy I would have to search the pages of Psychology Today and even then, the article would probably be authored by someone with an M.D. and have a neuroscience slant (more lab coats and test tubes).

Is it possible to gain the respect of the scientific community when one has a weak grasp of the maths and no background in Organic Chemistry?

We shall see.

Roast Busters, Rape and the Demise of the Auckland Police Department's Credibility

Once there was a group of young sociopaths who thought it would be really cool to intoxicate young girls, rape them and then brag about it on Facebook.

While many a criminal has been caught after bragging about their crimes on Facebook or filming themselves confessing, these boys still have their freedom-despite the fact that police in Auckland knew of their Facebook page for two years and allowed them to continue using it.

Police claim it was for "operational and tactical reasons."

It would appear that their tactics involved letting the boys rape with impunity and then watching them brag about it afterwards.

When public pressure fell on the department to do something, Detective Inspector Bruce Scott said, "There's nothing more the police can do to take the case to court unless one of the girls lays an official complaint."

He added, "None of the girls have been brave enough [sic] to make formal statements to us so we can take it to a prosecution stage or even consider a prosecution stage."

Here are some more gems from the mouth of Detective Inspector Scott as per an article in the NZ Herald:

He insisted the group had been "vigorously investigated'' but that there was nothing more police could have done to bring a case to court.

"We continue to look for evidence that will assist us in determining whether there has been any criminal offending and then once we've got this evidence we can make a determination on what our next move is,'' he said.

"We continue to talk with girls involved in the group. The difficulty is that we don't want to re-victimise the girls, some of them don't wish to engage with us and we can't push them to talk to the police.''

Mr Scott told 3 News the fact that one of those involved in the Roast Busters' page was the son of a police officer had not influenced the inquiry or the decision not to prosecute."

That's right, one of those affiliated with the group is the son of a police officer. 

The NZ Herald reports that his name is Tristan Burrow and he is the son of Constable Craig Burrow. 

Another is the son of Anthony Ray Parker, a bit actor who was in the movie "The Matrix." There is a picture of him making a duck face in one of the Herald articles and he is quoted as saying the situation is a "family matter." 

Apparently, he doesn't understand that having sex with an incapacitated minor and then bragging about it in front of the entire internet makes it a matter for the girls' family, the authorities and anyone with a shred of decency who feels outraged that nothing has been done. 

The two shitbags participants who have become the face of "Roast Busters" are Parker's son, Joseph Parker and Beraiah Hales. 

Aside from being obvious misogynists the two seem to have some sort of homoerotic fixation on each other-although they both deny this.

Further scandal erupted when one of the victims came forward to speak with 3 News this week and told them she had filed a complaint with the police in 2011. 

She was 13-years old at the time and says she was made to re-enact what happened to her using dolls. 

The victim told the news that the police:

"Asked a lot of questions about what I was wearing, and I why I went out in a skirt...they said that I didn't have enough evidence to show, because I went out in clothes that were pretty much asking for it".

In an Op/Ed written for today's Herald, Toby Manhire says that four victims have actually filed charges in 2011 and 2012. Of the four, three were 13 years old. 

In New Zealand the age of consent is 16. 

When certain idiots in the media try to make arguments about whether or not the girls were sober enough to consent to sex they should be reminded that these children were legally unable to do so and that what happened to them was statutory rape.

The victim who spoke with 3 News said that in going to the police she was trying to prevent these boys from doing what they had done to her to someone else. 

Instead, what she found was an incompetent and draconian-minded police interviewer who thought her choice of clothing might have tempted those boys to lose control of themselves. 

And what a surprise that they concluded there wasn't enough evidence to pursue the matter.

Just to recap: a bunch of guys bragging about the sex they had with an underage girls and one of the underage girls reporting the same thing to the police wasn't enough to take the matter to court.

I guess in Auckland building a "strong case" for rape involves getting the whole act on camera, extracting a signed confession from the rapist, and getting two (preferably male) pillars of the community to vouch that the girl didn't do anything to bring the rape upon herself.

It wouldn't surprise me in the least to learn that the parent of the rapist who works as a policeman had a hand in trying to make this whole thing disappear.

Thankfully, an outraged public has made sure that's not going to happen.

* Update The following is a link to Jessica Hume's Change.org petition calling for government action against the Roast Busters:

http://www.change.org/petitions/prime-minister-john-key-bust-the-roast-busters-and-show-you-take-sexual-violence-seriously?share_id=ebLLcJOnhG&utm_campaign=signature_receipt&utm_medium=email&utm_source=share_petition

The Day The Whole World Got On My Nerves

What is it? Is it a change in the way the wind blows? Is it a planetary alignment? Is it Aunt Flo?

Why are some days filled with countless little nagging things that add up to make you want to lose your sh**?

I underestimated my bank balance and had to scramble to put money in account so next week’s rent will clear. I was trying to pay my phone and internet bill but I couldn’t access my account because I’ve burnt through my paltry broadband allowance and the page for Vodafone (a company that has comically bad service) wouldn’t load. 

Can I just say how irritating it is to pay 75$ a month for broadband that runs out around the 15^th and a simple phone line where calling cell phones from it costs about 50 cents a pop? I’ll bet you didn’t know that New Zealand was trapped in 1998. Well, now you do.

I had to make numerous trips to the bank. First they told me they would charge me $10 to send my payment through to Vodafone. Then I had to walk to the public library and sit on a child’s star shaped stool at tiny child’s table to get on a proper internet connection. Then Vodafone wouldn’t let me get into my account so I had to request a reset of my password which took several minutes to arrive in my email.

There was a big juicy fly buzzing around my head the whole time this was going on and it landed on my arm twice. The feel of it's tiny body resting on me made me so livid that I entertained fantasies of squashing it to a pulp for the next few seconds in order to calm down.

I had to march back to the bank to get my online user number (which is a confusing number that has nothing to do with your actual account) and then go back to the children’s table at the library to pay the Vodafone bill

As I was walking to the bank again, the wind picked up and blew up my dress, causing me to flash people on the sidewalk. It seemed like the sidewalks were just filled with elderly and aimless walkers who moseyed and sashayed and took their sweet time while walking in front of me. I finally made it to the ATM so I could do a cash transfer but the gale force winds kept buffeting me about and caused the flashing of more panty to the elderly sidewalk users.

This afternoon I had to pick up the kids I work with and they were fighting with each other and giving me orders and doing all the things kids normally do but the fact that I am cramping, bloated and hormonally compromised at the moment made me feel mean and testy. 

I had to take them to their rugby games where more errant zephyrs blew us observers around like slips of paper. Also the parking lot was filled with directionless drivers who kept reversing and turning erratically which made me irritable as I watched them.

I'm going to take a deep breath, have an Advil and call it a day. 

In Which The NPR Uses "The Danger Voice"

I suspect I can be mildly eccentric over some things. I can't think of what any of them are at the moment, but I'm pretty sure if you asked someone in my family they could provide you with a list.

Anyway, last night I was reading through a paper from the Journal of the Polynesian Society and making good use of my pink highlighter while the NPR sat beside me drawing pictures of emotionally tortured anime characters.

She wanted to listen to some music from Spotify while we worked and I said I didn't mind.

She got irritated when I wouldn't give her suggestions for songs to play, asked what kind of DJ I was anyway and declared that my room was "boring" and that she was going back to her own.

A few minutes later I heard her call out, "Mom, come here" in what I can only describe as "The Danger Voice."

The Danger Voice is a tone that someone takes when there is a potentially fatal situation requiring immediate attention. It informs the listener that "sh*t is about to get real."

I sprang from my bed and headed toward the NPR's room, fully expecting to see some unsavory character menacing her with some sort of weapon.

Instead I entered the room to find her pointing toward her nightstand lamp with a frightened expression.

"This had better not be what I think it is," I began, leaning toward the lamp for a closer inspection.

It was.

There on the edge of the lamp was a spider, roughly the size of a large snowflake.

It had already laid out one cross section of web. It hung there limply, suspended by its bum and seemingly dazzled by what I can only imagine was the equivalent of a human being staring into the sun at close proximity.

I swiped at the strand of web and it came away stuck to my finger on one end and the spider's hinder at the other.

The web strand swayed back toward the nightstand and the NPR and I watched as the offending party touched down on its surface and scurried away.

The NPR looked contemptuous.

How dare I abet the enemy.

I lost my cool then.

"How many times do I have to tell you about tiny spiders and their threat level?" I said.

I stormed off wondering where this silly phobia began and recalling all the other times she had called me into her room in California to deal with minuscule arachnids of no consequence .

I thought if I told her how most animals do not attack unless they are threatened she would simmer down but she still insists that the spiders have diabolical plans for her.

Today she informed me that the same spider (she was sure of this) had crawled over the edge of her laptop last night and looked at her. She recounted how she had bravely blown it off the laptop and onto the floor.

"And you lived to tell the tale," I said.

In my own room at the moment there is a cellar spider hanging out in one of the corners and minding its own beez.

There is also a Wocket in my pocket and a Jertain in my curtain and I could care less.

I think I'll look for an Arachnologist at my university and see if they can't come over and conduct a one-day seminar on house spiders and their habits.