I was a home birth at the top of the hill, the hill shouldering our mountain Kunanyi. At the bottom of the hill was The Dog House. I was born round the bicentenary, when The Dog House came alive under the height of the adults’ hips. At the Dog House, The Dog, The Doggie we played that morbid ring-around-the-rosy, flipped and slipped between tight black jeans and parachute pants, loose trousers that belonged only to Aunties, bright coloured patterns that called you in — soft flags of safety, open hints on where to hide. At the bottom of the hill, it could get a bit cold, but all those legs were warm and did that smell of beer and carpet make some difference to the temperature? And was that carpet sticky? And if it was, then I know that its grip was a lesson; said don’t go too far, said don’t leave our corner at The Dog. Under the pool table we shared our stories and under the decks we cruised, us blakmob at the helm. High fived when you found a coin cos Uncle’s hand was waitin — a little chips and a glass of raspberry as reward. Yeah, I know the floor was sticky because we took off our shoes, would pad silent onto the band stage and sing our hearts out til someone dobbed us in. Late nights and the hill was too tall and us kids too little so we zoomed up the hill to the place where I was born, asleep by the time my face hit the car seat. Don’t remember the drive, only being tucked up in bed, a kiss on the head, a warm bath in the morning. At the top of the hill, and home, but The Doggie not far, all of us in the shadow of Kunanyi — connected by her breath. And sometimes The Dog made it home — maybe an Uncle or 3 had stayed over, I’d stir to voices who’d made it up the hill. And I’d wake to Dad’s leather jacket, that leather jacket like leather seats in the car, like moving between places that were moving homes, like forgetting your shoes at the last one. If there was a brawl, we were told it was about the footy and often it was. And often that could be the end of the story. Wasn’t til later I heard all four corners of that crossing were once pubs, pubs at the bottom of the hill. Just next door was where old William Lanne took his last breaths and there the embers of his body were made to sparkle. One hundred years of people drinking and dying and the Goulburn became The Dog House and then The Doggie was the last pub standing. And knowing breaths we took for that old Uncle Lanne, as we heaved in our singin in chorus, singin and yelling, breathing it really, breathing it in, the smoke, always the smokes, watch out for the ciggies falling on down and watch out for the wild ones, eggin us kids into trouble, singing too long and loud on stage once again singing TREE-TEE YEA. Don’t make the barman angry was just another way of saying: keep youse self-orienting you young ones. We determine our own at The Dog. And late one-night Kunanyi determined things too, when she let out a sigh for Lanne, as mountains were doing across the globe and the head hunters were being taken down. Which is to say there were embers everywhere. I was 34 when I heard William Crowther tumbled because his ankles sparked and snapped. Its viral vision sent embers onto the screen that reached me across the Strait and I heard a collective whoop WILLIAM LANNE LIVES I heard WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND and saw it painted on Crowther’s plaque, like karma’s a bitch and it’s true. 3 years before cuz Julie boxed Crowther up in the name of art and now the council had to copy. We still hadn’t got our TREE-TEA. She wrote over that plaque: WE DON’T HAVE TO LOOK INTO THE FACE OF EVIL TO KNOW IT IS THERE. She wrote that and it became a poster. She wrote that and I put it on my wall. I put it on the wall and remembered The Dog House, The Dog, The Doggie. She wrote that and I remembered the name my parents gave me, remembered that my name means hill.