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General Climbing Discussion

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Wombat Ghouls 2-Nov-2007 At 11:28:44 PM Wollemi

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Just noticed this thread for ther first time. I once cut the head off a joey.
ADDITIONAL NOTE; THIS IS DETAILED AND MAY NOT BE TO EVERYBODY'S LIKING. I DID NOT LIKE IT EITHER. I DO NOT MIND IF YOU WISH TO CRITICISE ME, BUT IT OCCURRED IN 1995.

Cycling Bourke to Longreach in 7 days. Cold morning out on the sunny Landsborough Highway approaching Queensland's most-centrally located town of Tambo. Pedalling was a bit dull with open sheep-pasture and a dead 'roo every 5 metres - I'm not kidding. Suddenly one sat up, so I cycled back. I picked up the small joey and looked with amazement into eyeless red eye sockets; others later said that birds ate the only soft tissue they could get to - just have a look at all the dead next time, and see that the first thing to go will be the eyes...
A vehicle obviously wiped out mum, and the little fella was dazed and confused here in my hands. The chill of the next winter night to follow would account for him, but that was many hours away, so I looked around for a rock. Nothing.
Got out the Gerber multi-tool (similar to a Leatherman), and tried to slit its throat - so quick and easy in the movies, innit?
The rarely-used blade did nothing, so I tried the serrated edge, which had never been used. Made no difference here. I started to become nervous at not being able to start something I was trying to quickly finish. I sawed and sawed - the skin between the windpipe and the rear of the lower jaw just moved back and forth, so I used more force over the windpipe proper. A prime-mover and the obligatory Falcon station-wagon whizzed passed; I felt clumsy with my previously good intentions. The joey lay before me with a jagged cut across its small neck and went into non-stop spasms that differed from its ears to its snout to its chest to its hind legs. A very-long 20 or 30 seconds went past. I heard myself mutter, 'die,you poor bastard'. I looked for another rock, or forgotten fence-post. Nothing. I put one knee to the ground and put the foot of my other leg on the baby roo's tail. I held it by the ears and re-commenced sawing in a desperate manner - the dull bumps of the serrations were audible. And the head finally parted.
The head to tail spasms continued for a further half-minute. Then both the head and the body stopped at the same time. Incredulous at this, I could only stare, standing only 3 metres from a 110km/h lonely roadway. The knife lacked blood! - where was the blood? Either way, I felt desolate.
For the next 40 km I try brushing bristles off the lycra shorts with gloved hands. By midday, my bicycle was in a cheap room upstairs of The Royal Tambaroora Hotel in Tambo. Later I stepped across the road to look over the town's only other attraction, the teddy-bear 'factory'. I bemoaned my story of a mercy-killing to a Catholic priest, proud of the fact he was from Young. Ought I have bothered at all?, I asked. When should I have stopped? 'Hmmm... hmmm...' only came back. He patted me on the shoulder, and I thought him as useless as Gerber blades. Or a naive city-slicker such as myself.