All creatures great and small

A donkey walks into a bar

Is Laura Dern insane?

In Lonely Planet, a just-released romance movie on Netflix, she plays a midlife woman in some kind of personal slump (so far, so relatable).

She arrives at a writers’ retreat, presumably for blissful communion with her neglected creative self. These are peaceful, supportive settings, entirely dedicated to the life of the mind. She won’t have to clean a toilet, fix a meal, soak and scrub a sticky pan, separate arguing children, find a missing sock, charge a Chromebook, bake for a gala, drive anyone to the airport, pop to Woolworths for bin bags minutes before the rubbish truck drives past or walk a fat dog, for the term of the stay.

Most busy women with a novel inside them would give their molars for a week like that. They would live on SOUP for the REST of their LIVES.

But if this trailer is to be believed, what does she do? Chucks it all in, to pash Liam Hemsworth.

I mean, I haven’t watched the actual movie, but I’m furious with her. For one thing, look at him. He’s wearing those stupid leather strips on his wrist. This does not single him out as a free spirit: this singles him out as a moron.

Plus, she’s clearly hot-tonged her hair. Who hot-tongs their hair on a writers’ retreat?

Of course I’m going to watch this flatpack, age-gap, vanilla sex trash. I’m probably going to enjoy it because I was born in the 1970s and by this point, I’m getting tired of objecting in court. But trust me - she’s leaving that retreat with no novel, and bacterial vaginosis.

The daft cow!

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I’ve heard from an impeccable source that last week, someone in this suburb took a llama to church.

Apparently, there was a Blessing of the Animals service at St Mary’s, the Anglican church sitting high above Karori on leafy Fancourt Street. The church building itself is unremarkable except for a startling sign on the belltower, advising against standing beside it during an earthquake. The setting, though, is bucolic.

Beside St Mary’s is a tiny graveyard where its earliest parishioners rest for eternity. The headstones are sheltered by mature kauri trees which, I have to tell you, our dog likes to bless on a regular basis.

Pet blessing happens in various denominations but in a large city, you’d expect the congregation to bring along mainly cats and dogs. Maybe a lop-eared bunny or the odd guinea pig. If you’re a jazz hands kind of person, a cockatoo. I once went to the local service out of curiosity and there was a chicken in the pews, which seemed bold at the time.

The llama, though, must’ve been one out of the box. You’ve got to feel for the vicar, who was probably only expecting an orderly queue of poodle-mixes. Imagine a llama stalking up the aisle towards you! They can be six feet tall! Those cloven hooves wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Plus, have you ever had a llama stare closely into your face? Its gaze can freeze the blood, but the minister would’ve had to carry on like it was no big deal and give it a wafer like everybody else.

Llamas and alpacas are intimidating in a way that regular farm animals aren’t, because they’ve lively inner worlds and are prone to moods. Aren’t they known to spit? Also, they’re said to be regular.

‘It shouldn’t take a llama or alpaca long to defecate.’

‘Evaluating Llama and Alpaca Poop’ - The Open Sanctuary Project

Llama pellets are affectionately known as beans. Ominously, stress can affect llama digestion and waiting in line for a vicar is one of the bigger stressors a llama can experience. This can make the animal shoot jammy or watery beans, which would presumably clear a church in thirty seconds. Luckily this would be mopped up and quickly forgiven, because Christians are reliable like that.

I wish I’d seen that llama blessed. Mind you, a few years ago, soon after we moved here, a couple of donkeys wandered along our street. From memory, they used the footpath.

The oddness wasn’t so much in the donkeys but the lack of surprise from other people, who had seen the donkeys around and knew vaguely where they lived. I remember urging the kids to come to the window because there were DONKEYS ON OUR STREET but by the time we pressed up to the glass, they had placidly turned a corner and vanished.

It was bewildering. I remember thinking, is this normal around here? I never witnessed that again, but I did see a donkey at a pub table in the week before Christmas one year. To me, this made sense. The donkey had probably worked the Nativity service all week, and it had earned itself a beer.

Little city dogs don’t deserve such privileges. Why take them to bars? Have you ever seen a Bichon Frise do an honest day’s work?

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Speaking of city dogs, ours hasn’t had his fortnightly weigh-in yet. I’m not confident he hasn’t gained a few grams, even though I’ve dutifully cut down his kibble and no longer sneak him bits of cheese or globs of peanut butter.

This is because he has become a pro scavenger. Since his diet began, he has eaten or partially eaten:

• A tissue (three-ply)

• A hairband

• Half an energy bill

• Anything he can scoop from the gutter at a walking pace

• A cotton tip

• A strand of double-sided sticky tape

And this morning I caught him sitting in the rain licking a meat tray he’d pawed out of the rubbish bin.

I’m beginning to think we need to X-ray that stomach of his. What’s the bet he’s got a car rego in there, Maddie’s 10mm rowing spanner, George’s long lost library card and for all I know, a shark?

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Our daughter turned thirteen today. She has asked for a storebought birthday cake, even though last year I made like Marlon Brando and gave her a horse’s head on a plate.

It’s difficult to believe I’m now the mother of dragons a teenager. It’s a genuine family milestone: another charm to clip to your emotional bracelet. Clink, clink - the charms keep coming. It’s testimony to all the love, all the work, all the worry. It adds up to something like joy.

My husband can’t believe she’s 13 either. “It’s flown,” he said last night, marvelling. Like me, he was probably remembering the moment we loaded her car-seat into the back of our stupid two-door Toyota and drove from Wellington Hospital with a still nameless, newborn daughter. “I can’t believe how much it’s flown.”

I put my hand over his. “It really has,” I said. “And I’ve felt every minute.”

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Thank you to everyone who has recently subscribed or has been hanging in there since the beginning (April. It’s really flown!). Some special kind souls have pledged paid support in future, and I blow them a kiss. It’s lovely to share the passing weeks with friends. Clink, clink. You’re charms on my wrist.