Hi, there lovely people! One of my dear readers asked when she might see the next installment of the city versus country gal series from the Confess box. Well, of course, I had to oblige! Just one of the short stories in the series I’m currently compiling for publication. (here’s another: City Girl v Country Gal…heading into the west) Are you ready for a spot of ‘roo shootin’?
The girl can skin a roo…
Slim Dusty’s complaining that the pub has no beer as Nipples (christened thus by Dad for the Ute’s apparent color similarity to Mum’s magnificent areolas) bounces us across open paddocks under a star smeared indigo sky. Dad’s at the wheel deftly avoiding tussocks, trees, and bore-drains while Mum’s standing in the back, breasts splayed across the cabin, swinging the spotlight across the terrain. Suddenly, Mum taps on the roof and whispers loudly into Dad’s window ‘over there, on the right between the stringybark and the gidgee, two of ’em!’ Not sheep I tell myself, for their eyes are yellow and larger than the red ones staring into the spotlight’s beam.
Nipples grunts to a halt in a flurry of dust, the radio knob quickly turning Slim to a mere whisper, headlights off. Silence. The smell of gidgee and kangaroo spoor hangs heavily on the thick night air. The roos, caught in the glare, lift their heads and sniff the wind. Dad leaps out the door, slips the 303 from its casing lining the inside of the Ute’s well, cocks the rifle and peers through the telescopic lens. Carefully targeting the animal in the hope of a head or heart shot which will mean instant death and a carcass devoid of bullet holes, Dad quickly takes aim and fires. Mum and I uncover our ears, eyes straining to see if the roo is down.
Dad drives Nipples over to the area Mum’s trained the spotlight on, selects the 22, the 
smaller rifle just in case the first bullet failed in its duty to complete the kill, walks over to the inert form then turns to us with a satisfied grin. It’s a buck, a clean shot. I stare at the creature lying there, at the broad, muscular chest and tail as thick as one of Dad’s legs and equal in length to a solid, lean body. I squat down and inspect its whiskers and soft doe grey eyes framed with lush long eyelashes their glint now glazed to a milky white. Stroking the fur, I marvel at the softness of the texture on its tummy compared to the stiffer red hair running from neck to flank and down along the tail before petering out to a dusky copper at the tip.
The leathery black pads on its hind legs feel rough yet malleable. And warm. I shake the roo’s paw, so small in proportion to the size of the animal and say ‘pleased to meet you, sorry about this old chap’ and hear Dad chuckle. A look passes between my parents, and I realise I’ve just passed an unspoken test. Will she cope? After all, she’s only nine, but we need the money, and she’s too young to leave at home. The pungent smell of the buck reminds me of the gidgee terrain after a downpour, barely masking the metallic odor of kangaroo blood that lingers in my nostrils long after the deed. Dad folds Nipple’s back tray down and hoists the roo on board while ensuring its head dangles over the back until it bleeds out.
‘Skin’ll fetch a good price, Jackie!’ Dad yells out the window to Mum, back on spotty patrol as we continue meandering across the rugged terrain. Whistling along to Marty Robbins now on the airwaves ‘The shadows sway and seem to say, tonight we pray for water, cool water’. Dad interrupts his reverie ‘Next thing th’ lil’ missus’ll be runnin’ away; the dog’ll die ‘n the crop’ll git infested, after all, the beer’s all gone, can’t find th’ water and things are lookin’ pretty grim on the ‘ole Country ‘n Western front tonight’. Yeah well, you’re right about the water love, Mum responds as clouds of dust continue to billow in our wake. Dad concurs before easing off the whistling to answer the steady stream of questions from ‘Miss Never Shuts Up’ curled up on the passenger seat.
‘Well it’s like this darling – ‘Roos with a red pelt are the Bucks while the smaller ones with a blue-tinged pelt are Does. Both genders also come in varying shades of greys while wallabies are only ever a darker grey. Yes, it’s easy to distinguish between the two as the kangaroo stands tall while the wallabies crouch. Reds and blues’ are not as common as the greys, which is why their skins have more value. The hide is tanned and used for handbags and toys like the stuffed Koalas you see in souvenir stores, and as you know, the skinned and gutted carcass is used for pet food.
Within three hours, Nipples is weighed down with 14 ‘roos and an accidental fox. Dad reckons its pelt will make a beautiful mat for my bedside, and he’ll cure and tan the hide, and I can watch. ‘Might even hang its’ tail on the aerial love!‘ Dad goads, to which Mum responds ‘I don’t think so darling!’ Laughter. ‘She’s having a ‘cashmere twinset and pearl’ moment, a city girl at heart is your mother’ he retorts. He’s not sure where the road’s gone again so we weave back and forth while Mum looks out for fences to follow or grader ridges which will tell us there’s a road nearby. Thunk! Suddenly the car stalls as Nipple’s front wheels slam into the narrow stream of a bore-drain, pulling the car up sharp.
Mum catches herself from falling over the cabin and onto the bonnet and Dad says another very rude word while the wheels spin and spin in an effort to gain enough traction to lift out of the drain. ‘Geez love’, he says, ‘you’d normally see a bore-drain and steer clear ‘cos the mimosas that live along their banks give ’em away, hey’ He cusses some more, then declares ‘have to unload the carcasses to lighten the old girl enough to get her out’. Mum says ‘wait a mo’, why not pile the roos on the tailgate and then we’ll sit on top, and our combined weight might help lift the old girl’s front wheels enough to gain traction? ‘Knew there was a reason why I married ya’ love!’ Dad says as we catapult out of the drain like a bareback bronco from the stocks and land a foot away. ‘Might just trawl for some Crawchies in the bore drain while we’re here love; and for you, miss need to know it all, a Crawchie is a freshwater crayfish and the little chaps make good fishing bait. ‘Shame we can’t eat ’em love, too muddy and sulphuric from the hot water bore’ Mum responds. I start making up my own little country and western song in my head. ‘Me little missus goes ‘roo shootin’, crawchie huntin’ and looks marhty purty on a bumper full ‘o roos too, don’t you?’ Yeah!
Since we’re still close to the bore-drain, Dad reckons we’ll follow it and soon find a road, but not before we have a break for its now midnight and ‘Tums are a grumblin.’ While I’m tasked with bringing out the Esky, Dad lights a fire and places a wire tripod over it and Mum fills the billy from the canvas water bag hanging from Nipple’s front bumper bar then slips the billy handle onto a hook suspended beneath the tripod. Another of Dad’s great welding inventions, just like the fork which serves as a surface for hold toasting bread over the coals, for marshmallows, for hooking the boiling billy off the tripod and for prodding Mum’s bum when she’s not watching. Dad’s favourite pastime when he’s not skinning the roos.
I’m charged with breaking open and buttering the scones, baked fresh this morning, while Mum cuts sandwiches laden with roast mutton and mint jelly, brings out some pickles and cheese chunks and says’ ‘How’s that for a Ploughman’s lunch?’ ‘Wait! What’s a ‘Ploughman’s’ lunch Mummy? And shouldn’t this be a ‘Roo-shooter’s’ supper?’ I think they’re beginning to regret bringing me.
Dad collects up the dead roos that fell off the back when Nipples launched herself out of the bore-drain then drags them into the distance to gut and carcass. Skin still on, heads, arms, legs, giblets, and tail removed and the remains left for the carrion to disperse. Proudly holding the spotlight just to the right to give Dad sufficient light, I watch his deft surgical skills as he slides his sharpened Bowie knife under the skin, slices cleanly from the chest down then proceeds to quarter the animal into a tidy package.
As he steadily works his way through, he continues my education. ‘The skin needs to remain on to protect the flesh from dirt and dust. No, we won’t be eating them as most wild roos are too worm-ridden at this time. Yes, I’ve tasted them, sort of lean and gamey and tough. Yes, Gravy helped. No, I didn’t get worms. Yes, dogs do like kangaroo meat, and we’ll take a smaller one home for Casey ok? No, he probably won’t get the worms, he has worming medicine. Yes, I’ll teach you how to shoot a gun when you’re old enough. No, not the 303, it will be the 22 because its kickback won’t knock you on your arse like the 303 would. Now shut up and go help your mother!’.
Once done he hangs the carcasses from hooks lining the outside of old Nipple’s flanks, and the mighty Pink Nipple finally hauls her load to the ‘Roo Box’ six miles out of town just as dawn breaks and Dad pockets his first roo shooting cheque.
We needed more income and kangaroos were plentiful. They munched steadfastly through what little pick there was for the sheep and were forever getting themselves splattered across highways, bumper bars, and the odd fence. The critter sharing our coat of arms with a skinny Emu had become so prolific they were deemed a nuisance, and thus a program of controlled culling was put in place. Dad was granted sole rights to keep the Isis Downs population at a reasonable level. And thus began my introduction to the wonderful world of dead kangaroos along with a considerable distaste for fake Koalas.
