Darcy Down Under Goes to the Yarra Valley

Hi there! Sorry it’s been awhile since I’ve updated you on what you’re really interested in—ME—but Mom’s been hogging the blog lately. I finally told her I’d pee on her head if she didn’t let me write something. That seemed to get her attention.

Anyway, I’ve been out of special agent training (Dad calls it “quarantine,” but that’s kind of a long word for me) for several months, and last weekend was my first big adventure. Well, except for the Great Ocean Road and Philip Island, but Grandma and Grandpa were with me, and they’re civilians, so I had to be on good behavior. First rule of special agent training: never let civilians get caught in the cross fire. (Which was kind of hard when I saw a killer koala in the trees that Grandpa kept taking pictures of, but it was asleep, so I determined the threat to be neutralized.)

By the way, I keep talking about Grandpa. Wanna see a picture of him?

Mom tells me I get my hair color from him.

Anyway, back to my adventure. Last weekend Mom, Dad, and I went to the Yarra Valley for something called an anniversary. I’m not really sure what that is, but I’m pretty confident it has something to do with me.

I hated the first day. It was cold and wet and I kept finding myself tied to posts outside of nice, warm-looking buildings. How was I supposed to enjoy an adventure tied to a post? (Sometimes I get the feeling Mom and Dad aren’t too bright.) Don’t worry, they got what was coming to them when I got in the car and made it smell like wet dog. Thankfully Mom and Dad didn’t seem to enjoy the weather that much more than I did, so we went back to our new house kind of early and I ran around and around and around sniffing everything. Finally, after I ascertained that the perimeter was secure, Mom and Dad felt safe enough to go to sleep.

The next day was heaps better. It started off on the right foot when Dad opened the blinds of our room and there were horses in the field. I barked and barked, just to let them know that I was keeping an eye on them. After hearing my warning, Dad shut the blinds so that the horses couldn’t see us. I’m sure glad I let him know they were there, though. Second rule of special agent training: danger is always right outside your door.

The sun was out by the time we left the room. We drove around to different farms, many of which had dogs like me. While Mom and Dad went inside to talk with the grape farmers, I interrogated the farm dogs.

ME: So, what do you guys do for fun around here?

FARM DOG: You’re pretty.

ME: You guys see a lot of trouble in the region?

FARM DOG: Err… there are wombats by the river. We stick our heads in their holes sometimes.

ME: Well, sounds like you have that threat under control. Just keep running regular perimeter checks and you should be fine.

FARM DOG: You’re pretty.

ME: Well you have a funny accent.

The farm dogs kept chasing me around everywhere I went. They tried to play some wrestling game where they jumped on top of me, but I kept dodging them. Mom says it’s because they’re not “fixed,” which I didn’t understand because they sure didn’t seem broken to me.

The day quickly took on quite a routine: drive to farm, play with dogs, dodge dog advances, play with Mom and Dad and advancing dogs, drive to other farm, repeat.

More farms, more dogs

Repeat

Everything in the Yarra Valley seemed to be well under control—until we returned to the room, that is. Mom and Dad, being the untrained, slightly dim people that they are, didn’t notice that in our absence, the horses had closed in upon the room using the simple but effective Seabiscuit maneuver, a commonly used technique in hostile equestrian takeovers. Taking one look at my parents’ oblivious faces, I knew it was up to me to make the world safe again.

Now, my dad doesn’t like taking me outside—he always mutters something about learning to use a toilet—so I knew it was going to take every ounce of cuteness that I possessed to get him to open the sliding glass door. After several minutes of pleading puppy-dog eyes, wagging tail, and a few solid licks for good measure, he finally relented, and I dashed to the nearest bushes, ever-conscious of the horse eyes upon me.

Matters were even worse than I suspected. I had to utilize every Horses 101 technique they taught during special agent training (better believe I was glad they made us read the chapter on Horse Manure and Five Deadly Ways to Use It).

The Undercover Maneuver, made famous by Special Agent Toto

The Stealth Maneuver, made famous by Special Agent Benji

The Rabid Dog Maneuver, made famous by special agent Old Yeller (note to posterity: I discovered this has no effect in Australia, seeing as rabies does not exist)

The Super Sonic Speed Maneuver, made famous by Special Agent Greyhound Bus

After exhausting my repertoire of special agent moves to no avail, I finally had to settle for the tried-and-true maneuver made famous by Special Double Agent Mr. Ed: Talking.

ME: Time to move along, giant and robust villains! Find another pasture to acquire, scallywags!

HORSES: Neigh.

ME: I’m serious! How dare you defy me, you neigh-sayers! Do you want a piece of this?

HORSES: Neigh.

ME: I thought not, for I am fifteen pounds of highly trained special agent muscle.

HORSES: Neigh.

ME: Fine, seven kilos.

Despite our heated debate, I finally made the hostile equestrians see reason and gained back the pasture-land for my family. However, I still had to stand guard all night to make sure no rogue horse returned.

We returned to Melbourne the following day. All in all, it was quite a successful weekend of ridding the world of dangerous threats to freedom and liberty and justice and peace.

Although I can’t say I wasn’t glad to get back to my life as a civilian… at least until the next time. Third rule of special agent training: never get too comfortable, because you don’t know when duty will call on you next.