Yes, that’s right. We (think moi in particular) were abandoned, left to our own devices, two latch key beagles and a Sean Connery impersonator. Aside from watching dad’s beard grow, what else was there for me to do but to follow the week’s big news:

1. For the first time in anyone’s memory, Tony Abbott didn’t say no when asked if he supported the NDIS. Not exactly – he just clarified and qualified enough to make it sound as though ‘no’ is what he meant. What Tony doesn’t understand – and here’s where I could help him in the run-up to election time – is that ‘no’ means ‘no’. Just ask mum. There I was, minding my own business and she tells me to get off the bed. “Hello, mother!!! Been alone and in charge all week. Sister took off; dad took me to Russian lessons, then to art class where a gay Labrador licked my face for TWO hours!!! YUK!!! You think MY week was easy mum! Nyet!!! And you expect me to get off the bed JUST LIKE THAT!!! Just because you say so??? I DON’T THINK SO!!” Well, then she smacked my bum and we kissed and made up. My point being, that even if I know that ‘no’ means ‘no’, shouldn’t a potential PM know exactly the same thing???
2. Overweight billionaire Clive Palmer formed a new political party and decided to run for Prime Minister.  On a scale of national interest, a handsome beagle being able to bark in Russian began to seem headline-worthy.
3. Clive Palmer claimed he’d run candidates in 157 seats in the lower house. If I was advising Clive I’d suggest growing a cool beard like dad. Dad and I have become closer during the last week, what with Russian and art and mum abandoning us. I’m seeing beards everywhere.
4. Clive Palmer says it’s hard being a billionaire. People are mean to you. They make fun of you. And what they don’t understand is that when you’re a billionaire you are in a minority group and therefore should not be discriminated against. (Hey Tony! Does that ring any bells??)

In retrospect having my face licked was okay. And I’ve picked up a few new words in a foreign language. And Honey did come home. Love you mum.

The post On beards and abandonment appeared first on bellaloopa.

I shake my head!! Get back to the present Sunny; don’t think about the worst thing that could ever happen. Anyway, you get the picture. Being a collector is either in your DNA or not. Honey, for example, has never collected anything. In some corner of her brain she thinks she’ll always be moving on. If you’ve been moved on a lot you know it’s best to travel light; don’t get too attached to things.

I’m hoping that one day she’ll start her own collection to remind her of significant events since she’s been my sister – a bra, a shoe, an umbrella of her own. As long as she doesn’t start collecting any of my stuff I’ll be happy for her.

As you can imagine my stuff takes up a lot of room, and it was during the long inventory that I remembered dad mentioning the KEO time capsule being launched into space next year – a time capsule that will return to earth in 50,000 years!!

Inside will be all kinds of earthy stuff from the 21^st century so people in the future can see how we live now. Aside from my stuff, which I’m happy to donate to the project if anyone has the foresight to ask me, there are a couple of other things I reckon the people in the next millennia would find fascinating. Things like my favourite book, Beagles by the fabulously insightful Beverly Pisano, who observes that “underneath the beagle’s seemingly sad expression lies a merry disposition”.  A merry disposition could be a great advantage in 50,000 years.

And how about throwing in a Hallmark greeting card so people 50,000 years from now can see what terrible poetry looks like?? Yikes!! That reminds me – Mother’s Day!!! I forgot to get mum a present. Wait there. I’ll be right back. Off to dig up that emergency bone. Pheww!! Thank goodness for my very own time capsule.

The post I have a time capsule in my garden appeared first on bellaloopa.

My first question on coming across this news was why the European researchers first reported their findings in the New Zealand Medical Journal. Are Europeans less likely than their Antipodean counterparts to worry about flying in a gas-filled capsule?

As you know, I am part-European and I like to think that I’m quite worldly in the gas department. I know, for example, that the dangers associated with holding farts in – severe abdominal pain, for starters – are far greater than the risks of smelling up a whole plane.

In this regard researchers have suggested several solutions. First, in a move eerily similar to Prof. Ohge, they suggest charcoal-infused passenger seats to limit the escape of sulphuric gas. Such cushions, they suggest, may not be effective in all situations – smelly farters like my sister might test the theory – but this where fart-deodorizing underwear comes into play. Ha!! One scientific paw washing the other??? Small world??? I don’t think so!

Second, in a suggestion sure to horrify nutritionists, the study’s researchers recommend that airlines denude their in-flight meals of fibre or lactose. This, dad told me, would leave passengers with even worse food than is currently available – except in first class, where I’m assuming nobody farts.

This brings me to their third recommendation. Breath testing! Imagine it: you show up at the airport; check in; take off your shoes, jewelry and belt; have a wand waved over you; pass through a metal detector; and it’s still not over. There’s still time, our European friends suggest, for one last humiliation before boarding. So while you’re struggling to hold up your pants, re-tie your shoes and strap your watch back on your wrist you are whisked off by another uniformed handler to undergo a methane breath test! Yikes!!

A red light flashes, a bell rings, all eyes turn in your direction. A hush comes over the terminal. You are led through a secret door, segregated along with other high-risk farters, and forced to sit in the back of the plane suffering severe abdominal pains, eating no fibre and trying hard not to breathe in any air.

Thanks a lot European gastroenterologists! Travel will never be the same!

The post Tackling methane mid-air appeared first on bellaloopa.

Stars are born overnight; a role on Home and Away is only a foxtrot away Instant fame could be ours with a perfect 10 from Todd or Helen. Think about it, our photo in Confidential: “Sunny and Honey T, seen sipping puppacinno’s in Balmain cafe.” Not only that, but there’s the possibility of becoming gay icons like Sophia and Ashlee, the mean girls who got booted off My Kitchen Rules for overcooking their kidneys, and undercooking their steamed buns!!! (Personally, I think Manu was way too tough; its food, it’s cooked, what more does he want???)

Normally it takes years to become a gay icon; years of sold out shows (Kylie), years of re-hab, hundreds of husbands and millions of bouquets (Liza Minelli), and often a serious case of chemical dependency (Judy Garland). Dying early (Marilyn) was once a guarantee of gay iconness. Not any more. Now, all it takes is overcooked offal and chewy buns. Oh, the times, as mum would sing off-key, are a-changin’.

So, even though it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be considered a gay icon, because, let’s face it, I’m way too butch, my sister could be in the running because she’s a bit neurotic; think cats, rabbits, prams and four-wheel drive obsessions. Anxiety and/or depression are pretty much SOP for gay icons, so, if I can teach her my dance routines Honey’s in with a chance.

So what if I’ll only be known as the dance partner of Honey T? It’s time I stepped out of the spotlight and let Honey have her moment. I’ll teach her the steps, show her the moves, offer Luda hundreds of bones to be a mentor, and win Dancing With the Stars. After that I’ll sneak out one night and re-paint the Taylor Square pedestrian crossing in a rainbow of colours and escort Honey across Oxford Street to applause that would make Shirley Bassey blush.

The post Honey moves like a rainbow warrior appeared first on bellaloopa.

I can see it now: velocoraptors and giant sloths roaming suburban gardens eager to take what they see as their rightful place among the animal hierarchy, digging up my bones, roaring through valleys, their crazy eyes lit by the full moon, and no-one getting a minute of sleep as we lie awake trembling at the terrible tread of their gigantic pre-historic feet.  Jurassic Park on our doorstep!!

Thanks a lot, Dr. Mike Archer of the University of NSW, the world expert responsible for investigating the resuscitation of hundreds of extinct species. Has Dr. Archer considered for one minute the consequences of turning my world into a science fiction movie?

Has the man not heard of Darwinism? Of survival of the fittest? In fact, what are the odds of me against a woolly mammoth or a first-generation dinosaur? 50 to 1? 100 to1? A million to 1? I know, let’s ask that bookie with the big teeth:

Dear Tom,

In the event that I’m in my backyard one moonlit night, gnawing on a bone of non-Jurassic nature, and I look up to see a giant green megasaurus crushing all in its path on its way towards me, what are the odds of me a) surviving or b) beating the Mego to a pulp?

Yours Sincerely, Sunny T.

Sunny T my man,

As the latest in a long line of Waterhouses who have been taking bones from punters for generations, I’d be happy to place a wager for you on both a) and b).

Regarding a), I place your odds of survival at 25-1. I know this may seem a little out of whack with what the market might normally offer a 16-kg beagle vis-à-vis a massive megasaurus, but here’s the thing, Sunny – you have form. You are a very fast beagle that weaves and swerves like a cheetah and when it comes to agility classes you excel.  So, best I can do for you, mate, is 25 to 1.

As for b), actually winning seems more problematical. Yes, you have form. Yes, you’re fast. But hey buddy, you’re only 16 kilos and, let’s face it, the other one’s a giant!! But because I’m a Waterhouse, I’m willing to back you. “Pay me my money down”, as my mum, Gai, has been singing since she saw Bruce Springsteen last week. So: Ten million to 1, Sunny.

Dear Tom,

Yikes! I’ll think about it. See you on the Footy Show.

Sunny T.

The post Betting on survival of the fittest appeared first on bellaloopa.

When mum occasionally purchases a frozen beef lasagna – that is, when she’s not roasting a canard – she doesn’t expect to find equine meat floating between the pasta and the tomato sauce instead of the aforementioned beef. And when it comes to leftovers, nor do I.

Not so for my unlucky European beagle cousins. They have no idea what to expect. Yikes, I hate to think! I also hate to think about the thousands of equines driven hundreds of miles in crowded trucks to be executed in slaughterhouses all over Italy so that some lasagna baron can bank a few more million lire. Just imagine, people: Black Caviar in your meatballs!

And while I’m on a roll of ‘not getting what you pay for’, let’s take a look at other recent examples of over-promotion and under-delivery, like:

1. The Australian men’s swim team. Do I need to say more? Yes I do. Because my Olympic hopes were raised, my expectations were high. It’s a bit like me at Sandra and Kent’s agility school. Mum expects me to find my way, practically blind, sweating and hungry, through a collapsible smelly tunnel. And why not? I can. I’m that good. But sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I panic. Sometimes I get claustrophobic. The thing is mum wouldn’t advertise me as ‘the agility tunnel missile’. And she wouldn’t let me go out there without a back-up plan. No coach should.
2. My Kitchen Rules. Where are the butcher boys from season one? Two blokes who couldn’t cook, but who cared? Not me, they were butchers. Pretty much everything they prepared involved meat and bones. Excellent. Bring them back. Get rid of the gatecrashers. They don’t know anything about rump chops. And they don’t look like they’re having any fun at all.
3. The Australian Labor party. It’s in the name. How hard is that to live up to? You’re for labor, remember. Forty per cent of the population identify themselves as ALP voters, but only 30% will vote for them. Guess why.
4. The Liberal party. Advertised as the liberal party, they are anything but. Almost no one identifies with them, but most people will vote for them.

Two-legged companion people are hard to figure out. Canines are much clearer about who they’d vote for on MKR or anywhere else. Anyone with bones.  And anyone whose name says what it means

The post Culinary truth in advertising appeared first on bellaloopa.

Honey is a perfect example. Perfectly trustworthy until … you guessed it, rabbits, cats, the whiff of wild-life in the air and she’s off. It’s not that she means to run away, not exactly, it’s just, well let’s just say the girl can’t help herself.

So I understand why parents feel the need to attach themselves to their little ones.

But why leave it there?  Here’s my list of a few people who should be put on a lead, for their own good, and that of the community:

1. Silvio Berlusconi. Anytime this man looks like going anywhere near another Bunga Bunga party, a hairdresser or the Italian parliament, throw a collar on him and take him to the park instead.
2.  Rhianna. Really Rhianna?? Chris Brown?? He’s not even cute. I’ve seen French bull-dogs prettier than him. You need discipline. You need a leash. You need a mum to keep you away from a bloke who’s bound to more than disappoint you. I know danger when I see it. Here’s what I do in moments like that –RUN!!!!!
3. The Waterhouses – all of them, the whole family; put them all on leads and run them around a misty track at 4.30 in the morning and then … well, I don’t know what then, but it’s a good start. Ask Singo, he’ll tell you.
4. Tom Cruise. Oh, there are so many reasons to put Tom on a lead. And you know most of them – the Oprah couch thing; the ‘church’ thing, our Nicole. But here’s one reason that outweighs them all. Have you ever seen Tom with a companion animal? No. And why do you suppose that is?? Well I have no idea either … I’m just saying. The bloke should be on a lead. Forever. Unless there’s a sequel to Top Gun. Then … okay.
5. Russell Crowe. If his agent ever sends him another script that says: ‘And Russell sings …’ put Rusty on a lead, take him to see David Hobson at the Opera House (it’s not far), and then put him on the first plane to Ancient Rome.

Help me my off-leash friends!! Who else do you think should be put on a lead?? Send me your ideas.

PHOTO: Little Gulliver LittleLife Safety Harness, $29.95 http://www.littlegulliver.com.au/contents/en-us/d8_walking-about.html?gclid=COyUxKvO8bYCFWs3pgodzUkAtQ

The post Why people need leashes appeared first on bellaloopa.

This is how I watch Border Security – with anecdotes. Still, it is the only show on TV that regularly features beagles going about their job, serious faces and uniforms on, doing what they do best – sniffing out the illegal importation of foreign foodstuffs. Those detector dogs are at Australia’s frontline.

Perhaps this is what Tony Abbott is thinking when he talks about turning back the boats – hundreds of Australia’s frontline beagles lined up in fluoro jackets on the rocky outposts of Christmas Island, barking like mad, scaring the life out of everyone aboard the rickety junk they’re clinging to. “Go back to where you came from,” a chorus of hounds bark in unison, “who do you think you are, willing to risk everything to come to Australia?”

“Well done, beagles,” Alan Jones tootles the next morning, “great plan Tony – that’ll showthose Bolshie-greenie-communist-Catholic-Muslims a thing or two.”

Yikes!! This is getting scary! I shake my head to erase the awful images I’d conjured up. I check out dad. He’s shaking his head too, more in disbelief than anything else at the Pakistani man who’s been detained because he’s sweating.

“Sweating, Sunny, is a sure sign of guilt,” he tells me.

Turns out his mum packed his bag and he didn’t know what he was carrying. After a thorough grilling he confessed to importing about a dozen defrosted samosas, a bag of rice, and some pasty looking goo he said was perfume. Everything got thrown in the bin, which seemed to me an awful waste of the samosas and the rice. But it got me thinking.

Frenchmen, sweating Pakistanis, refugees and even re-homed beagles like Honey carry their first home with them wherever they go. They crave croissants, a sweet paste that smells like a mother’s paws, or a pram that once carried a baby that  Honey remembers from her previous life.

Me, I don’t remember anything much before mum picked me up at the airport and I put my paws around her neck and we were bound together forever afterwards.

But not everyone’s as lucky as me.

The post Smuggling food takes heart appeared first on bellaloopa.

In the lead-up to the announcement the Cav and I had many heart-to-hearts about her life after racing. You see, she’d been thinking about it for some time – since Ascot really. In my view it was the fright of almost finishing second that brought on the fateful decision and since then … well, my lips are sealed. Let’s just say she never looked at a race track in quite the same way again.

So, in my way, I did what I could. After all, I’ve had experience in this area having offered advice to my own dad in the lead-up to his retirement.

I gave the  Cav this list to consider in her post-racing life:

1. Health and Fitness. Babe, you’re an elite athlete. Forget about chowing down on hundreds of hay-cheeseburgers, drinking gallons of coke then sitting around the stable all day watching Ellen. Think Geoff Huegill’s post-retirement bod. Yikes!!
2. Financial comfort. You’ve probably got this one covered however experts say you need to consider your retirement ‘price-tag’. Owning your own jet, buying a tropical island or asking Lady Gaga to sing at your retirement party would all cost a bomb. Like John Farnham, the aforementioned Geoff Huegill and Nellie Melba, one too many comebacks would cost you.
3. Social Relationships. According to the same experts, “new relationships should be developed to replace the ones you’ve left behind in the work-place”. This is where I could help. Trips to the park with me and Honey and a whole new set of four-legged friends. Okay, so no saddles, jockeys or massive applause just for showing up but you’d have us.
4. Hobbies. Don’t hang around the stable getting in everyone’s way, disrupting their routine just because you’re at a loose end. Pick up that paintbrush; build that mud-house; write the story of your fabulous life. And finally…
5. Evaluate your life. A wonderful opportunity to realize how loved you are. Then do all of the above and, like dad, have a great retirement!

Black Caviar Plush Pony, $25 http://www.blackcaviarshop.com.au/Product/30771?tagstring=Merchandise

The post My advice to Black Caviar appeared first on bellaloopa.

Mum looked appalled. “No! Certainly not!”

“Why not?” her friend asked, taken aback by mum’s horrified expression.

“Because, even though the woman was crazy and ruined millions of people’s lives, death isn’t funny. Sunny doesn’t do death.”

This got me thinking. I rolled on my back, searching my soul for some universal comedic truth. Why isn’t death funny? From what I’ve heard, alive, Mrs Thatcher was pretty hilarious. Well, except if you were a miner or someone who didn’t have millions of bones to pay your poll tax she was funny, if only from the hair and royal wave point of view.

But then death knocks at Mrs Thatcher’s door, puts its foot inside, grabs her by the string of pearls Denis gave her and … hey presto, Mrs Thatcher’s off limits.

Right now, Kim Jong-Un is funny. His father, the immaculately groomed Kim Jong-il was even funnier before he died. In one round of golf the man had something like 12 holes in one!!!  This included not only the par 3’s, where most people get them, but par 4’s and 5’s as well!! An incredible sporting feat that Adam Scott, after a 9-under par and two play-off holes to win the Master’s at Augusta, could only shake his head and envy!

And as a result of Jong-il’s amazing power and accuracy, he posted a final score of something like 36 under par!!!! Why, you might wonder, did a man of such sporting prowess not join the PGA tour and snatch victory from under the noses of the imperialist capitalist pigs he professed to hate?? Who knows?? Guy was nuts. I didn’t need the stars to tell me that.

And now he’s just as dead as Margaret Thatcher. Yet somehow, the guy’s still funny! Why??  Why is it okay for one crazy dead dictator to still tickle our ribs when they’re gone but not okay for us to laugh at the woman who once said: “A world without nuclear weapons would be less stable and a more dangerous place for all of us.”

Oh, my head hurts with these questions.

Honey: “They say you should do something every day that makes your head hurt.”

Me: “Who says that?”

Honey: “Probably someone who’s already dead.”

The post Why are some dead dictators funny? appeared first on bellaloopa.