Coxy's Curse
Coxy's Curse
Authors note: Coxy took us under his wing when we first moved to the country and he bought lots of our trees. I learn't a great deal from him but I was always a bit afraid of him. A big man who always said what was on his mind whether you wanted to hear it or not. In this story I've tried to imitate his colourful language, so if you don't like swearing then I suggest you skip this one or ask someone else to read it and retell the story without the 'F' word. Its an amazing yarn and true, allowing for a bit of story tellers spinning.
The blurb
Coxy takes a break from farming to do some fox hunting with two good friends. The fox hunt takes an unexpected turn which could have taken his life. The story starts with Coxy hallucinating about taking a day off, something that he never does.
Part 1
Coxy was lounging on his veranda with his feet up and feeling very very relaxed. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed. He was half way through a stubby of Coopers Dark Ale and that was sitting beside him in his favourite stubby holder. Life felt pretty simple at the moment, he had no worries, nowhere to go and no pressing jobs to do. “Jees” he thought, “I must be dreamen”.
Then he heard it coming. It all happened so fast but in his mind it seemed to be in slow motion. The sound started from far off, at first he didn’t even notice the threatening hum, but it very quickly deepened and had a sort of airy whistle as well, then it hit him. It hit him hard as if a swarm of bees had all stung him at once and he fell back off his comfy chair. As he was falling in 'slow motion', all he could think was “fucken hell, and I don’t even drink beer”.
Then he was lying in bed and he thought “what the fuck” and he tried to reach under him because the bed was so lumpy. “What the fuck has Marg put under this fucking mattress, it feels like rocks”. The day light was so bright burning like lasers into his eyelids. “It must be past sun-up and I’m still in bed, Jees”, he thought, “I’ve got to fix that broken fence in the Sugar Gum paddock”. But as hard as he tried to get out of bed, his body felt like it was filled with lead shot. Then he felt it, the cold of the steel and the familiar shape of it. “Fucken hell, me guns in me bed, where’s Marg”?
Only seconds had passed but it felt like an hour, and with a supreme effort he lifted his head. The fox was nearly upon him, its sleek soft tan coat nearly close enough to touch. For a moment he thought “that’s a beauty” and he had a fleeting second of admiration for the animal as it seemed to effortlessly glide across the grassy paddock. It suddenly stopped and crouched as if to hide from some unseen preditor, then it sharply turned its head and looked calmly or was it with resignation toward Coxy. From somewhere deep inside his strength returned and he lifted his rifle and shot the fox right between its beautiful eyes. Then he dropped back into his lumpy bed feeling quite satisfied.
Coxy was lounging on his veranda with his feet up and feeling very very relaxed. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed. He was half way through a stubby of Coopers Dark Ale and that was sitting beside him in his favourite stubby holder. Life felt pretty simple at the moment, he had no worries, nowhere to go and no pressing jobs to do. “Jees” he thought, “I must be dreamen”.
Then he heard it coming. It all happened so fast but in his mind it seemed to be in slow motion. The sound started from far off, at first he didn’t even notice the threatening hum, but it very quickly deepened and had a sort of airy whistle as well, then it hit him. It hit him hard as if a swarm of bees had all stung him at once and he fell back off his comfy chair. As he was falling in 'slow motion', all he could think was “fucken hell, and I don’t even drink beer”.
Then he was lying in bed and he thought “what the fuck” and he tried to reach under him because the bed was so lumpy. “What the fuck has Marg put under this fucking mattress, it feels like rocks”. The day light was so bright burning like lasers into his eyelids. “It must be past sun-up and I’m still in bed, Jees”, he thought, “I’ve got to fix that broken fence in the Sugar Gum paddock”. But as hard as he tried to get out of bed, his body felt like it was filled with lead shot. Then he felt it, the cold of the steel and the familiar shape of it. “Fucken hell, me guns in me bed, where’s Marg”?
Only seconds had passed but it felt like an hour, and with a supreme effort he lifted his head. The fox was nearly upon him, its sleek soft tan coat nearly close enough to touch. For a moment he thought “that’s a beauty” and he had a fleeting second of admiration for the animal as it seemed to effortlessly glide across the grassy paddock. It suddenly stopped and crouched as if to hide from some unseen preditor, then it sharply turned its head and looked calmly or was it with resignation toward Coxy. From somewhere deep inside his strength returned and he lifted his rifle and shot the fox right between its beautiful eyes. Then he dropped back into his lumpy bed feeling quite satisfied.
Part 2
The day had started like any other day on the farm. Coxy was up early, gulping down a cup of milky tea with a piece of buttered raisin toast. Marg was already in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs. They both worked hard, her on Council work and he would be on the tractor this morning working up the oat paddock. He probably should have worked into the night today because the paddock had to be scarified for the second time and then sown and he felt like the season was running out. But Lucy and Brett were coming over and they had some fox hunting planned. Foxes were a real problem during the lambing season, so he wanted to put a big dint in their numbers before the lambs started droppen.
Coxy was a good marksman and he knew guns. He had been shooting from when he was a kid and he knew he was good. He and his brothers would set up his dads empty beer cans on the fence and Coxy never missed. “Jees Coxy!” his twin brothers would say in envious unison.
Even when he was twelve everyone called him Coxy, even his Mum. He must have got that from his Dad, who was also called Coxy. His dad was a fencer of note but he drank. He’d come home from the Inverleigh pub and take out his grievances on his three sons and because Coxy was the oldest by two years, he got the back of his fathers hand more often.
Though it wasn’t long before Coxy stopped being afraid of his Dad, perhaps because he could see the way his Mum always stood her ground and never cowered. He hated the way his Dad hit his Mum and one day when he had come home drunk again and she complained about him spending too much on grog, the arguments started again. This time when his Dad hit her it was different. Coxy was watching his Mum and he could see a look in her eyes that said, “I’ve had enough”, and she clenched her fist and hit him hard on his cheek. His Dad stumbled back looking surprised and there was fear in his eyes. “Get out you fool, God may forgive you, but I bloody well won’t” she shouted. He left slamming the door so hard that the house shook and he didn't come back for a week.
Coxy didn’t think he loved his Mum, but he admired her honesty and toughness and she insisted on nothing less from her boys. Coxy had often had the back of her hand as well, but he knew he often deserved it because his Mum was a fair women. Love and softness weren’t part of his family life and maybe he didn’t know how to love another human being. What he did love was his Kelpie and his rifle and he loved it that people respected him because he was honest and tough and a “great shot”.
Coxy left home at sixteen and went shearing. He worked hard, saved his money and he didn’t drink. When he ever thought of having a beer with his shearing mates at the local pub, he got a picture of his Dad looking afraid, and Coxy knew he never wanted to look like that pitiful man. Shortly after he left home his Dad shot himself and they found his body in the Inverleigh Bush some days after he disappeared. Coxy didn’t even feel sad.
He saved enough to buy a farm on the basalt plains and settled into a busy life of a mixed operation of cropping and breeding Merinos. They were a docile enough sheep and didn’t bother his old fences and he had sheared thousands in his time so he felt he knew Merinos.
Life had given him an air of authority which combined with his no nonsense approach to people and life in general, earned him a lot of respect. So if his neighbours wanted 'the powers that be' to fix somethen, they went to Coxy because even people of influence and power feared him and his brash directness.
The day had started like any other day on the farm. Coxy was up early, gulping down a cup of milky tea with a piece of buttered raisin toast. Marg was already in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs. They both worked hard, her on Council work and he would be on the tractor this morning working up the oat paddock. He probably should have worked into the night today because the paddock had to be scarified for the second time and then sown and he felt like the season was running out. But Lucy and Brett were coming over and they had some fox hunting planned. Foxes were a real problem during the lambing season, so he wanted to put a big dint in their numbers before the lambs started droppen.
Coxy was a good marksman and he knew guns. He had been shooting from when he was a kid and he knew he was good. He and his brothers would set up his dads empty beer cans on the fence and Coxy never missed. “Jees Coxy!” his twin brothers would say in envious unison.
Even when he was twelve everyone called him Coxy, even his Mum. He must have got that from his Dad, who was also called Coxy. His dad was a fencer of note but he drank. He’d come home from the Inverleigh pub and take out his grievances on his three sons and because Coxy was the oldest by two years, he got the back of his fathers hand more often.
Though it wasn’t long before Coxy stopped being afraid of his Dad, perhaps because he could see the way his Mum always stood her ground and never cowered. He hated the way his Dad hit his Mum and one day when he had come home drunk again and she complained about him spending too much on grog, the arguments started again. This time when his Dad hit her it was different. Coxy was watching his Mum and he could see a look in her eyes that said, “I’ve had enough”, and she clenched her fist and hit him hard on his cheek. His Dad stumbled back looking surprised and there was fear in his eyes. “Get out you fool, God may forgive you, but I bloody well won’t” she shouted. He left slamming the door so hard that the house shook and he didn't come back for a week.
Coxy didn’t think he loved his Mum, but he admired her honesty and toughness and she insisted on nothing less from her boys. Coxy had often had the back of her hand as well, but he knew he often deserved it because his Mum was a fair women. Love and softness weren’t part of his family life and maybe he didn’t know how to love another human being. What he did love was his Kelpie and his rifle and he loved it that people respected him because he was honest and tough and a “great shot”.
Coxy left home at sixteen and went shearing. He worked hard, saved his money and he didn’t drink. When he ever thought of having a beer with his shearing mates at the local pub, he got a picture of his Dad looking afraid, and Coxy knew he never wanted to look like that pitiful man. Shortly after he left home his Dad shot himself and they found his body in the Inverleigh Bush some days after he disappeared. Coxy didn’t even feel sad.
He saved enough to buy a farm on the basalt plains and settled into a busy life of a mixed operation of cropping and breeding Merinos. They were a docile enough sheep and didn’t bother his old fences and he had sheared thousands in his time so he felt he knew Merinos.
Life had given him an air of authority which combined with his no nonsense approach to people and life in general, earned him a lot of respect. So if his neighbours wanted 'the powers that be' to fix somethen, they went to Coxy because even people of influence and power feared him and his brash directness.
Part 3
The three of them, Coxy, Lucy and Brett, were lined up about 50 meters apart as they slowly walked across the stony paddock rifles at the ready. Lucky his black and tan Kelpie was darting back and forth following a fox’s scent and then losing it. Then with a grace and ease Lucky was up and over the fence and disappeared into a plantation of trees planted beside the Warrambine Creek. ‘He’s got somethen” thought Coxy as his blood started pumping with the excitement of the hunt. The dog had disappeared into a clump of suckering casuarinas and it was barking and wining, sounding confused. “Fucken Coxy’s curse” he said angrily under his breath. The casuarina suckers were so thick that the dog was stuck and so was the fox. Lucky was frustratingly close but he couldn’t move forward or back. Coxy yelled “move back Lucky, move back boy” but the dog didn’t seem to hear.
Lucy was closing in fast to his left and raised her rifle. “I can take the fox from here, I’ve got a clear shot”. “Take it Lucy, just don’t shoot me bloody dog” he said with a soft ironic laugh. The sound of Lucy’s shot rang out, followed by a yelp and the low hum. Then the swarm of bees rushed in and stung Coxy hard on the neck.
“Coxy’s down” shouted Brett. “He must have tripped on a rock. He dropped like a sack of spuds”. “Did you hear that sound”, said Lucy. I think my bullet must have ricocheted of a rock in that clump of she-oaks. As they took in the significance of what was happening, Lucky had managed to escape from the copse of suckering stems and was on to another fox. This fox seemed confused by all the commotion, leapt the fence and was headed straight toward where Coxy had fallen.
They both watched transfixed as the scene unfolded. Like a man possessed, his eyes fixed on the fox, Coxy lifted his blood soaked torso and steadily with practiced control, raised his gun and took his shot. Coxy and the fox slumped to the rocky ground as one.
“Coxy’s been hit” said Lucy.
The three of them, Coxy, Lucy and Brett, were lined up about 50 meters apart as they slowly walked across the stony paddock rifles at the ready. Lucky his black and tan Kelpie was darting back and forth following a fox’s scent and then losing it. Then with a grace and ease Lucky was up and over the fence and disappeared into a plantation of trees planted beside the Warrambine Creek. ‘He’s got somethen” thought Coxy as his blood started pumping with the excitement of the hunt. The dog had disappeared into a clump of suckering casuarinas and it was barking and wining, sounding confused. “Fucken Coxy’s curse” he said angrily under his breath. The casuarina suckers were so thick that the dog was stuck and so was the fox. Lucky was frustratingly close but he couldn’t move forward or back. Coxy yelled “move back Lucky, move back boy” but the dog didn’t seem to hear.
Lucy was closing in fast to his left and raised her rifle. “I can take the fox from here, I’ve got a clear shot”. “Take it Lucy, just don’t shoot me bloody dog” he said with a soft ironic laugh. The sound of Lucy’s shot rang out, followed by a yelp and the low hum. Then the swarm of bees rushed in and stung Coxy hard on the neck.
“Coxy’s down” shouted Brett. “He must have tripped on a rock. He dropped like a sack of spuds”. “Did you hear that sound”, said Lucy. I think my bullet must have ricocheted of a rock in that clump of she-oaks. As they took in the significance of what was happening, Lucky had managed to escape from the copse of suckering stems and was on to another fox. This fox seemed confused by all the commotion, leapt the fence and was headed straight toward where Coxy had fallen.
They both watched transfixed as the scene unfolded. Like a man possessed, his eyes fixed on the fox, Coxy lifted his blood soaked torso and steadily with practiced control, raised his gun and took his shot. Coxy and the fox slumped to the rocky ground as one.
“Coxy’s been hit” said Lucy.
Part 4
"Get some pressure onto his neck, he’s losing a lot of blood", shouted Lucy. Brett knelt beside Coxy’s limp body and pulled off his woolen beanie. He folded the beanie and pressed it into Coxy’s neck to stop the blood that had been oozing out in regular pulses. As if by magic Coxy opened his eyes and he said calmly, “Bloody hell mate, I think your wife just shot me”.
Coxy took hold of the beanie and lifted himself to his knees. “Is Lucky OK. I think I better get to the Doc”. He went to pick up his rifle and Brett said, “You take care of your neck, I’ll get the rifle”. Coxy said, “mate, call me dog, I’m feelen a bit weak”. Coxy supported on each side by his companions shambled across the paddock toward his dual cab ute. “Mate, I don’t think I’m up to driven” he said as he slumped into the passenger seat.
It was a quiet 40 minute drive to emergency at Geelong Hospital and Lucy made Coxy sip water all the way. He walked into the hospital unassisted, but looking as pale as death. The nurse at the counter looked up at him and her jaw dropped. Coxy said, with his typical mischievous edge, “gooday love, me mate’s wife just shot me” and at that moment he slumped into the empty wheel chair that Brett had pushed in and that he had refused before. Seemingly from nowhere, three nurses and two doctors appeared and Coxy was whisked away down the corridor, through an open door and into surgery. The head surgeon took one look at Coxy's neck and said, "Mr Cox we'll need to operate and we'll be going into Tiger Snake territory. You mite not come out alive". Coxy said, "well you'd better get started then".
Two hours later, Marg, Brett and Lucy were sitting in the busy waiting room, when one of the surgeons walked toward them. “Mrs Cox” he half questioned and half stated, “Your husband has lost a lot of blood and there is a risk of a blood clot finding its way to his brain, but for the moment he’s as good as can be expected”. He’s comfortable but he’s not to have any visitors till tomorrow. Visiting hours start at 9 am.
When Marg arrived next morning there was Coxy up to his old trick’s flirting with all the nurses. He looked up at her and with a wicked smile that looked absurd because of the bandaging on his neck, he shouted, “there’s me old girl, caan Marg, give us a kiss”!
Coxy made a full recovery and was back on his tractor within three weeks, contrary to the doctors’ orders which mentioned something about rest, a word that wasn't in Coxy’s vocabulary. He love’s telling the story about how his mate’s wife shot him in the neck and how the doc said he should have died. “Mr Cox your lucky you’re fit and healthy, because you shouldn’t have survived that shooting accident”.
When people meet him on the street they always ask him to tell the story about the day his best friend’s wife shot him in the neck and he always adds.
“Mate, it wasn’t Lucy’s fault, it was a rock hidden in them bloody suckering casuarinas, they’re Coxy’s curse”!
A year later I bumped into him at the Bannockburn farmers market and I asked how he was going. He said he was fine. Marg was beside him and she said, “you know the Casuarina glauca that he calls Coxy’s curse, because they suckered into the creek”? I nodded, being impressed that she knew the botanical name. She said "now he calls them Coxy’s blessing”. “Why’s that”? I asked. Well he’s been cutting them and feeding them to the sheep to get them through the long drought. The Merino’s love it and we’re saving a packet on buying-in extra feed.
"Get some pressure onto his neck, he’s losing a lot of blood", shouted Lucy. Brett knelt beside Coxy’s limp body and pulled off his woolen beanie. He folded the beanie and pressed it into Coxy’s neck to stop the blood that had been oozing out in regular pulses. As if by magic Coxy opened his eyes and he said calmly, “Bloody hell mate, I think your wife just shot me”.
Coxy took hold of the beanie and lifted himself to his knees. “Is Lucky OK. I think I better get to the Doc”. He went to pick up his rifle and Brett said, “You take care of your neck, I’ll get the rifle”. Coxy said, “mate, call me dog, I’m feelen a bit weak”. Coxy supported on each side by his companions shambled across the paddock toward his dual cab ute. “Mate, I don’t think I’m up to driven” he said as he slumped into the passenger seat.
It was a quiet 40 minute drive to emergency at Geelong Hospital and Lucy made Coxy sip water all the way. He walked into the hospital unassisted, but looking as pale as death. The nurse at the counter looked up at him and her jaw dropped. Coxy said, with his typical mischievous edge, “gooday love, me mate’s wife just shot me” and at that moment he slumped into the empty wheel chair that Brett had pushed in and that he had refused before. Seemingly from nowhere, three nurses and two doctors appeared and Coxy was whisked away down the corridor, through an open door and into surgery. The head surgeon took one look at Coxy's neck and said, "Mr Cox we'll need to operate and we'll be going into Tiger Snake territory. You mite not come out alive". Coxy said, "well you'd better get started then".
Two hours later, Marg, Brett and Lucy were sitting in the busy waiting room, when one of the surgeons walked toward them. “Mrs Cox” he half questioned and half stated, “Your husband has lost a lot of blood and there is a risk of a blood clot finding its way to his brain, but for the moment he’s as good as can be expected”. He’s comfortable but he’s not to have any visitors till tomorrow. Visiting hours start at 9 am.
When Marg arrived next morning there was Coxy up to his old trick’s flirting with all the nurses. He looked up at her and with a wicked smile that looked absurd because of the bandaging on his neck, he shouted, “there’s me old girl, caan Marg, give us a kiss”!
Coxy made a full recovery and was back on his tractor within three weeks, contrary to the doctors’ orders which mentioned something about rest, a word that wasn't in Coxy’s vocabulary. He love’s telling the story about how his mate’s wife shot him in the neck and how the doc said he should have died. “Mr Cox your lucky you’re fit and healthy, because you shouldn’t have survived that shooting accident”.
When people meet him on the street they always ask him to tell the story about the day his best friend’s wife shot him in the neck and he always adds.
“Mate, it wasn’t Lucy’s fault, it was a rock hidden in them bloody suckering casuarinas, they’re Coxy’s curse”!
A year later I bumped into him at the Bannockburn farmers market and I asked how he was going. He said he was fine. Marg was beside him and she said, “you know the Casuarina glauca that he calls Coxy’s curse, because they suckered into the creek”? I nodded, being impressed that she knew the botanical name. She said "now he calls them Coxy’s blessing”. “Why’s that”? I asked. Well he’s been cutting them and feeding them to the sheep to get them through the long drought. The Merino’s love it and we’re saving a packet on buying-in extra feed.
