Snakes alive

Bendigo Weekly | Bendigo Weekly | 07-Dec-2017


The warmer months have me and my family engaging in more than our fair share of alfresco dining with the trusty four-burner Beefmaster barbecue earning its keep, parked conspicuously on our timber deck overlooking the bush.

Weekends herald the almost mandatory bacon and eggs breakfast every Saturday and Sunday morning, followed by late, lazy lunches of a humble sausage and bread, festooned with lashings of onion and thoroughly drizzled in copious quantities of Mr Heinz’s favourite condiment – low salt of course.

Occasionally even fresh, tasty redfin fillets grace my revered hot-plate after being heavily garnished with rock salt and cracked pepper – salt’n’pepper redfin... yum.

It’s a real family affair, with my partner Shaz and our teenage son swatting flies, while trying not to lose their grip on their tasty sausages buried under a pyramid of semi-cooked onion rings while keeping our cat, Mr Whiskas off the table and sizzling hot-plate. 

Well last week, the cat had other ideas, and brought his own tucker.

Trouble is it wasn’t quite dead.  

Mr Whiskas is quite a large unit – a bit like his ageing owner – and was quite content to saunter past the barbecue with a brown snake in his jaws with its tail trailing out behind between his muscular haunches, as he looked for a place to settle down.

“The cat’s got a bloody snake,” I hollered.

“Is it dead?” Shaz asked rather urgently.

“Dunno,“ I mumbled, as I slid a serving of onions onto another sausage.

“It’s still moving,” my son volunteered as he wiped the remains of his first sausage off his chin with the back of his hand.

Barbecues are serious business and no more so than at our household, so it was going to take more than an uninvited guest to halt proceedings.

Well the luckless reptile was soon definitely dead, as we ghoulishly watched it being feverishly devoured, between mouthfuls of sausage and onions.

“Just lock the cat in the damn laundry,” Shaz said. “I’m sick of cleaning up cat sick off the carpet.”

“He’ll be right,” I volunteered, as Mr Whiskas helped himself onto my lap for one of his many daily nap-time interludes.

Well by now Mr Whiskas seemed quite content, gazing intently into my eyes before his stomach violently convulsed twice in quick succession, as chunks of partially digested snake sprayed forth across the table.

“You can clean that up,” Shaz said, as she disappeared inside shaking her head and locking the fly-wire door behind her.

Any takers to join me for a barbecue next weekend? Because the family insist they’ll now eat inside. – Rusty


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