Kyla...

We are making Mud-pies, getting filthy, and our Father tells us to get into the bath Right Now...

The bottom of the bath is gravelly and scratching my bum. And what's that my middle Sister has in her hand? It's sharp and shiny and in a little packet. She tells me She wants to shave my hairy legs and puts the packet up against my skin and it Pops.

Oops.

She runs out of the bathroom as the blood begins to turn the water a bright red, but returns quickly- with a Band-Aid and a plea to keep quiet and to stop with my crying. I'm only too happy to comply; we're only in the bath because we were naughty and got all dirty in the first place; but our Mother hears the commotion and has to call our Father to come back home from work to take me to the hospital, to get stitches ...

They hold Me down and sew me up with the Spiro-Graph; the name I have given the contraption that I can remember Them using on Me. It is like a small black sewing machine, criss-crossing my skin with black cat-gut that is as fine as spiderweb-silk; five neat sutures in all. Then Daddy took me for an ice-cream at the van that plays the customary Green Sleeves tune.

I got a plain double cone because he says it's too hot for a Choc Dip but it still melts dowm my arm on the way home. I make sure that there is still enough left so that the Other's can see that I got an ice-cream, so that they would know that I wasn't making it all up as Usual. My Sister is hiding under my bed, playing with my Sesame Street toys; my little Big Bird figurine and my Super Grover that's lost his cape- and She has the biscuit tin with her.

At first I am cranky that she has been playing with my stuff when I had to go and get stitched up, but then I remember the ice-cream and that She didn't mean to hurt me, so I climb under the bed as well. She asks me if it hurt to have stitches, and I tell her that it did, but that I know she didn't mean to cut my leg open, she just wanted to practice being a hairdresser for when she grows up. That's also how I managed to end up with those bald spots shaved on my head that other time- right before she scooted up the Rubber Tree- again with the biscuit tin in tow; and why all her dolls and toys over the years sported Spikes and Bobs as their haircuts.

When we were little she would practice her new hairstyles on us- my hair couldn't grow quickly enough for her, and was always as short as a boy's. She taught me how to plait on her Barbie's hair, a skill we used on the horse's manes and tails when we later went to Pony Club. She's not only the closest in age to Me; she's my best friend. She lets me tag along with her and her friends when they all go ice-skating together.

I'm also allowed to join their Club, too- we're called the HSC- or The Horse Supporter's Club; and all of the members have secret names. There's Mel Smell and Manda Panda, and Rek Bek and Roof Roof, and we have a clubhouse in Mel Smell's basement. The walls are covered in pictures of horses, mostly racehorses, that we've cut out of the newspaper. Our mascot, Woody the Saw-horse, proudly wears the home-made saddle that we've sewn together using Mum's old brown bath-towels, and he wears a real bridle that cost us ten dollars, new, from old George's Saddlery Shop.

Sometimes I wear the bridle and my Sister steers me by the reins, as I canter down the road after our Meetings, and the Neighbourhood kids yell out at Us to Get A Horse, but we ignore them as we serpentine the streets; performing pirouettes and Flying Changes. We nail together little jumps, known as Cavelletti, from the leftover wood after the garden benches got broken, and I Piggy-back her around the backyard, beneath the Hills Hoist, over a small show-jumping course, because even though I'm younger I'm still stronger- but I suspect that's what She says because she doesn't want to have a turn at being the 'horse'.

Once we had taken Star to the Farm we didn't have a horse of our own again until She saved up her pocket money for a year and bought Tristan- a nice-looking bay gelding; and once again we began the daily ritual of riding the shitty little bike up the hill every morning, Rain Hail or Shine. Tristan was very young and spoiled- and awkward to ride, with a dis-jointed canter that almost felt like his back legs were still trotting; but for all his faults he could jump a bit; so I used to take him down to the Sick Pervert's Riding School and try and get him to jump the large show-jumping course, the one that only a few of the best riders attempted; like that boy on Laddie I told you about earlier...

And Tristan did jump the large barrel jump at the end of the Triple Jump and was behaving so well That day that my Sister decided to ride him home herself. I tried to sit behind her on the horse's rump, but He's not having any of it, and he starts fidgeting like he's going to Do something evil- so I got off and went with Him in the car instead...

And I've already told you about that, so I won't go into it again.

My Sister got scared of Tristan after he bucked her off one day- her jaw still clicks from when it got dislocated- and so she sold him to a girl who renamed him Tameka- but not before she sent him away for six weeks trying to get him re-trained. I will always remember the day that he got back-it was the final day of the School Holidays and I was starting year Eight in the morning. Our little dog had followed us from home, so we tied her up while we fed the horse and put him back into his dirt square for the night...

All of a sudden Kaz, the girl who lived next door to the English Bitch, runs down and asks us if any of us owns a little Beagle, because it's dead. We rushed up to where we have tied her, our hearts in our throats, hoping against hope that Kaz has got it wrong- but the children from next door have been playing with her and have moved the rope higher onto the balcony, and joined two leashes together, which are now her Hanging ropes as She dangles, still at the end of the leash- a mere foot from the ground that might have saved her.

I lift her up as my Sister release the cruel knot that holds her, her tongue lolls lifelessly and her soft brown eyes are glazed over. Desperately I try and perform Mouth-to-Nose and CPR on her- which may have been a funny sight, but for a distraught thriteen year old who just wants to be a vet and save the life of this little dog this is an epic battle of life and death. One that I didn't win.

So much for fucking aptitude.

We wrap her up in a chaff bag and ring our Parents, so they can come and get her little corpse; they still can't believe that the dog still isn't in the backyard at home like she was supposed to be, like the last time they had noticed. Don't worry. We're beating ourselves up about it enough without any extra berating from them. Why the fuck didn't we just turn around and take her home once we had realised she was following us? What could have been more important than her safety? Her life?

Our Father buried her next to the aviary I made. I know the exact spot where she lies. I'm sure if I wanted to I could...

Actually, I don't think you want to know where I was going with that.