Last week, I had what can only be described as a uniquely Australian political experience: I nearly missed a council meeting because Daisy — one of my cows — decided to break into the wrong paddock and stage her own unsanctioned land use event.
I was out on the farm for a few days, enjoying a bit of serenity — boots on, coffee in hand, and the meeting agenda safely printed and ready to go on the table.
I’d timed everything perfectly.
The one corner of the Cattle Sleeping Quarters with just enough signal was ready and waiting for me to dial in.
Then I saw her.
Daisy, heavily pregnant and full of attitude, had somehow pushed through a gate that should have been tied up tighter than a budget estimate.
There she stood, in the wrong paddock, tail twitching and looking at me like I was the one trespassing.
With only minutes to go, I grabbed a feed bucket and went full diplomat. I called, I clapped, I shook the grain like I was negotiating with a fellow councillor. Nothing. She planted her hooves like a Greens MP at a coal port and refused to move.
There was no reasoning with her — she had made her position very clear: not today, human.
Out of options and dignity, I jumped the fence (ripping my jeans in the process), got behind her, and did the full arms-out, “move-it-along” shuffle. I got her halfway before she turned, snorted, and — I swear — rolled her eyes at me. Eventually, with more effort than most planning approvals, I got her back through the gate.
Covered in dust, sweat, and existential regret, I sprinted to the Cattle Sleeping Quarters — only to be stopped by a gate that hadn’t been opened since Hawke and Howard were still arguing on live TV.
I wrestled it open, muttered a few unprintable terms, and dialled in to the meeting with about 50 seconds to spare.
If you noticed I was wearing the big jacket on the call — that wasn’t fashion. That was because everything else I owned had been personally disrespected by Daisy.
It doesn’t matter if you’re in council chambers in a suit or on a farm in your work boots — if you’re elected to serve, you show up. Rain, mud, cows, or chaos — you show up. Because the decisions we make around that virtual (or physical) table matter. They affect real people, real streets, real lives.
I reckon if the community can take time out of their busy days to raise their voices, ask tough questions, and expect better, then the least we can do is be there to listen — even if we’ve just wrestled a pregnant cow out of a paddock that’s not zoned for cattle.
It might not always be smooth. It might not always be clean. But it’s always worth it.
