Story and Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

It was Christmas Week in Molong and the town was buzzing with seasonal activity. There was shopping to do and Christmas preparations for the mothers; gardening, clean up and repair work for the fathers. For the kids it was Christmas holidays and from this end they might as well go on forever. All over town kids were out. They were kicking balls and riding bikes and running wild all over Molong. They were swimming at the baths and hunting for adventure along the creek. There were several impromptu junior test matches on any area of open grass. They were making bows and arrows and going through caps in their little silver guns as if “the West” had never been won; and all the family dogs were out too, joining in all the running, tumbling, boisterous fun.

Any dog owner worth their salt will tell you they enjoy a special kind of relationship with their canine companion. Some invest their friend with wisdom beyond their species and spend their time in conversation with the dog as if it were the font of all wisdom. Still others form a conspiracy with their dog and over time they come to do things with each other that would be impossible for either alone; others just enjoy the fun, the unconditional affection and friendship that is the dog’s stock in trade. Indeed there are as many kinds of relationships as there are dogs and humans to form them. That’s the wonder of dogs.

However not all dogs are lucky enough to form this bond. They have no human companion to care about them and look to their wellbeing. Some are abandoned as pups, or mature dogs, and are forced to survive how they can. Others are cruelly treated and simply run away.

Some find new homes but many of these dogs die. Some of starvation, others of disease; and many die in dog fights, either with more powerful domestic pets, though more likely in the rough and tumble of living the feral life where the rules are completely different to those soft enforcements that characterise the human companion’s life.

However, there are commonalities to all dogs no matter their circumstances. They are pack animals best suited to a hierarchically structured life within that pack. They are highly territorial and will often fight to protect their turf. They are intelligent, cooperative problem solvers not unlike humans and they display courage, compassion and a confounding insight on occasion.

So it was that in the week before Christmas Mongrel was to be found looking out for the big Rottweiler that protected the back yard of Perk’s Motor Garage. He’d been let out of his protection duties because it was Christmas and the Molong kids all loved him; often taking him down to Hunter Caldwell Park for hours of fetch and chasies. The big black and tan hound would belt along until he just couldn’t go any more and then he’d trot off to collapse and cool off in the willow shaded gravel shallows of the creek.

That was where Mongrel found the Rottweiler. Mucking about in the creek with a bunch of kids. They were hunting frogs and the big black dog was very excited, barking and jumping at every sighting.

Mongrel had heard the Rottie as he approached the drop off to the creek terraces behind the baths. Pushing aside some willow fronds, he barked just once and the Rottie turned and responded likewise, before leaving the children to the frog hunt and joining Mongrel up on the bank. They gave one another a quick sniff, more for form really, and then set off back towards town.

The Rottweiler was called “Ronnie”, sometimes “Rotten” and even “Ronnie Rotten” and while his growl and bark could strike fear into any burglar or petty thief, he was essentially a good natured dog with a sense of fun at odds with his threatening bulk. Ronnie also loved children and the kids all loved him.

Ronnie had a good mate called Chester, a red cattle dog who lived with a parcel delivery driver in the caravan park. Chester like most cattle dogs was powerful through the shoulders and body. He had the classic block like cattle dog’s head and a bite on him that could crush bones. His “Duty” was to sit on the open back of the lorry to protect the load when his owner was making a delivery. Chester was also quiet by nature and enjoyed nothing more than snoozing in the sun; unless someone came too near to the open tray. Then Chester was transformed into a slathering foam mouthed zombie dog from hell. He’d bark, bare his fangs and growl; he’d feint towards the trespasser as if to attack, only to pull up just short of the edge of the tray where he’d bark even louder and more ferociously. No one had ever gotten onto the back of the lorry since the day Chester took up his post.

Chester’s human was taking his Christmas break and was down at the Freemasons having a few clean and cleansing ales with his mates, so when Mongrel and Ronnie turned up outside Chester’s caravan there was nothing more to it. Chester joined the posse and the three dogs went in search of number four.

Lorcán Ua Tuathail Cúchulain it said on his pedigree papers but that was too much of a mouthful so even the Gaelic-speaking fathers at St Laurence’s just called the wolfhound Loccy. Like most domestic pedigree pets his conformity to his breed was more a novelty than a necessary utility. It would never have occurred to the good fathers that this tallest of dogs, this noble paragon of graceful speed, breeding and bearing, was a war dog. His kind had once struck mortal fear in the hearts of toughened Roman Legionaries and he was precisely this shape because this was best for chasing down and killing wolves in the eighteenth century wooded fastnesses of western Ireland. It was from there that Loccy’s pedigree could be traced.

But this wasn’t the eighteenth century and this wasn’t Ireland. Loccy was in the garden of the rectory with one of the fathers. The man was gardening in his cassock and a broad straw hat. He was down on his knees getting his hands dirty and Loccy kept close to enjoy all the new smells the turned earth threw up. He could also smell Mrs. Delahunty’s kitchen, which was alive with action and a host of seasonal smells.

There was a lot going on for Loccy at the rectory. Which made it all the more odd when a few minutes later the gardening father looked up to see Loccy sloping off down the drive, apparently to meet up with three other dogs that were just standing in the shadow of the gateway awaiting his approach. The father watched as the wolfhound joined the other dogs. It upset his delicate sensibilities that dogs always had to do that when they greeted one another, and it seemed to go on for altogether too long this time. Strangely though, the priest was pleased to see that Loccy was the biggest dog in the small pack.

As he watched them go he thought, “What can go wrong? He can enjoy himself with his dog mates” He sang out, “See ya Loccy.”

 

The big dog barked from somewhere down the road.

The butcher shop was officially closed for Christmas and New Year and Porky and Harry were at home wrapping presents. Algernon had gone in to Orange to see Gruber for his final check and all clear. It wasn’t really necessary, the injury had healed completely leaving only the lightning strike scar that seemed always to be threatening Algy’s left eye. The headaches had passed, his vision was again 20/20; but Gruber and the young history scholar had got to know one another and discovered they shared an interest in medieval European history and the poetry of Schiller. The medical appointment gave them a chance for a natter. Algernon would catch the Broken Hill train at East Fork in Orange and be home in time for tea.

The Runt had been hanging around with Porky all morning but then suddenly The Runt stopped dead in his tracks and pricked his ears. Porky couldn’t hear anything and went back to wrapping his present for little Bill, a handsomely featured starter kit of Meccano. Porky was tempted to open the wrapping and get out the colourful metal parts, the chromed machine screws and tools, and make something. He’d never had such things as he grew up at Fairbridge.

When Porky put the wrapped box down and looked around the room The Runt had disappeared. Porky thought nothing of it. Probably just gone looking for Mongrel who’d vanished soon after Algy left for Orange. He’d be back later. Porky went to make himself and Harry a cuppa.

Down town there were now five dogs. King, the big German Shepherd from the Council Depot, had escaped his chain link enclosure and joined the pack. It wasn’t hard. He’d just slipped his collar over his head and climbed up onto the cabin of a conveniently parked truck. From there he leapt over the barbed wire that topped the chain link fence. He came down hard from that height but recovered well and went over to greet the other four dogs. Familiarity restored throughout the growing pack they all headed up Gidley Street, eventually making there way out of town along the Manildra Road.

Along the way the five big dogs were joined by The Runt and a Corgi called Owain. His sweet looks were deceiving. Owain was a made dog and had won prizes back in Wales. When he’d arrived in Molong with his now retired master the locals just laughed at the idea of a Corgi winning “Herd Dog Champion of Champions”. They’d stopped laughing when he’d romped second in the local Sheep Dog Trials. Owain was no foolish lap dog. He wore Glyndwr’s name with pride; this little tricolour Pembroke Corgi was a fighter too.

Now there were seven.

Some time around mid afternoon Paddy Noonan saw an improbable collection of dogs moving through the scrub at the side of the Manildra Road. They appeared to be making their way up to the top of the big limestone ridge to the west of Molong.

Paddy thought no more of it. He was rushing into Molong. He had to see the bloke at the Pastures Protection Board about some sheep he’d lost. He thought they might have been attacked by Dingoes or maybe feral dogs. The carcasses in the back of his ute showed that whatever had attacked these sheep had been intent of doing them damage but the carcasses showed that very little of the animals had been consumed. Paddy thought it was more likely feral dogs. He hadn’t seen a Dingo round here for years and Dingoes were generally better organised with their kills. His sheep looked like they’d been the victims of a frenzied and disorganised attack, then left for dead. It occurred to him that maybe it was the pack he’d seen climbing the ridge but he dismissed that thought almost immediately. It was the sight of Owain and The Runt that put the innocence to their purpose. Small dogs simply couldn’t have inflicted this damage on his sheep. But then Paddy had only seen Owain, The Runt and Chester clearly. The others, the big four, had been spread out following a spore, moving ahead through the scrub.

When Mongrel and The Runt failed to show for tucker at dusk, Harry, Porky and Algy assumed they must be off on one of their adventures. Though both dogs had begun to spend a great deal of time with the men at the house in Shields Lane, it was not unusual for them to come home late and sleep on the verandah where Porky had left a couple of old blankets for them to lie on. Some nights they didn’t come back to Shields Lane at all.

Down at the caravan park Chester’s owner, having come home and found Chester gone, had spent a great deal of time wandering around down town, whistling along the creek and around the railway station, looking for his mate. He’d gone into Jimmy Hang Sing’s place just to ask the customers waiting on their takeaways whether they’d seen Chester. No one had.

Still, Chester was a one-man dog. Nobody would try to take him, not without a whole lot of serious trouble, so his owner wasn’t really concerned. Chester would turn up when he was good and ready. It was just that the man missed his mate. Having a cold beer as the sun went down over the ridge just wasn’t the same without Chester by his side.

King wasn’t missed at all. Most of the blokes from the Council Depot were on “Christmas Time”, skiving off, getting a few drinks in with mates, Christmas shopping, the rest had taken annual leave for the festive season. None of them even noticed King had slipped his collar.

Loccy and Owain however were missed and Constable Molloy took a call from the rectory, and from Owain’s master, who’d told Molloy in his thick Welsh accent, “I tell you boyo, Owain is one of a kind.”

Molloy could hear the querulous uncertainty in the old man’s voice, even through the thick accent. He needed his dog back. It didn’t cross Molloy’s mind that the biggest dog in town and one of the smallest could be missing, together.

Molloy told the father’s and Owain’s master the same thing. Dogs are dogs and often suit themselves. He was sure they’d turn up and in the meantime there was little more that Molloy could do but keep a look out as he did his rounds.

After closing the garage Terry Perks dropped into the Telegraph for a beer. He asked Clarrie if he’d seen Ronnie. The publican said he hadn’t seen the dog, which only increased Terry’s discomfort.

With a look of deep concern Terry told Clarrie that Ronnie had been gone most of the day. He’d taken off with a bunch of kids this morning and Terry hadn’t seen him since.

“He’ll turn up mate.” Clarrie assured Terry. “He’s a big bloke, he can take care of ‘imself. Most likely he’s gone home with one of the kids. He’ll prob’ly come scratchin’ on ya door later.”

Terry’s unformed fears for his dog were somewhat assuaged by Clarrie’s sanguine attitude; but he still asked every bloke in the bar if they’d seen Ronnie. No one had.

Terry went back to the garage to make a few phone calls. Clarrie was probably right. He’d contact the families of the kids he’d seen Ronnie go off with this morning.

When Clarrie later went upstairs for a short break he found Porky and little Bill helping Beryl dress the Christmas tree. Jenny was visiting an aunt in Bathurst.

Just for something to say, Clarrie offered, “Apparently Ronnie Rotten’s gone walkabout. Terry’s a bit upset.” Clarrie made a sucking sound with the corner of his mouth for a little emphasis.

“Oh, he’s such a beautiful dog. He’s so big but so gentle with the kids.” Said Beryl as she dropped her head to one side and got a sort of dreamy look on. Beryl loved Christmas and at this time of the year everything was special.

“Yeah, The Runt shot through th’smornin’ too.” Said Porky. “Haven’t seen “im since.” He laid some fine silver tinsel across the needles of the fresh smelling pine.

Little Bill was remembering a day some time in his brief past when he’d been introduced to Ronnie. The big hound had given Bill a great big sloppy lick all over the face. Little Bill had been only an inch or two taller than the dog at the time. It was one of the memories he would keep his whole life.

“He’s a very licky dog, Ronnie is.” Said little Bill with all the sage seriousness a five year old could muster.

Clarrie joined the others at the tree and pitched in. Still no one thought that the two missing canines might be missing together.

In a small clearing in the cypress scrub that scrabbled a poor living from the impoverished limestone soils of the ridge the dogs had drawn up for the day and as the dusk deepened the dogs engaged in an all important display of obeisance and submission to finally decide the ranking and structure of this new pack.

The first to make the move had been Loccy. Wolfhounds are perhaps one of the most empathically gifted of dogs and Loccy had been uneasy about the apparent lack of structure in the pack. Though Locyy was the biggest dog in the pack he felt uncertain in himself. The only dog that didn’t seem uncertain was Mongrel. Pedigree was worthless here. In fact pedigree is meaningless when dogs get together. The only things that matter are ability and resolve. Loccy had ability but Mongrel had the resolve. Loccy stooped and licked Mongrel’s snout.  He whined a little. Mongrel gave him a quick nip on the neck and the wolfhound rolled over and showed Mongrel his belly, all the while panting, his red tongue lolling out of his mouth. Mongrel barked and the wolfhound jumped up, now panting happily.

For a big dog Loccy was surprisingly agile and while he had yet to show the others, he was also one of the fastest things on four legs in the district.

Ronnie was next, though he was more direct. He walked up to Mongrel and barked at him. Mongrel simply barked back and Ronnie went and sat down next to Chester, his mate. Chester then barked at Mongrel who growled viciously back, exposing his teeth and feinting toward Chester. Ronnie nipped Chester on the elbow and growled a low threatening growl. Mongrel lunged at Chester and bit him on the snout leaving a small line of red blood. Chester got the message, his ears went down and his tail tucked under him, he began to pant happily too. This was better. He was happy to be his old mate’s lieutenant and if Ronnie would work to Mongrel’s leadership, so would Chester.

King was the last of the big dogs to sign up. Normally aloof by nature, King was the only other natural leader among the dogs. He gave Mongrel some noisy growling and barking argy bargy but the numbers were against him. When Ronnie and Chester came in to enforce Mongrel’s legitimacy the shepherd gave in and licked Mongrel’s snout before dropping at the front and panting, his tail wagging like a flag on a windy day.

That was settled. It hadn’t taken long and it had to be done. The dogs moved away from Mongrel who began to wander around the small clearing in the gathering gloom, stopping here and there to turn a few circles and then move on. At last he came to a place where a log was lying across a shallow wash away below a small cropping of rock. The location offered security and a good view to west where the sun had dropped below the horizon leaving the few clouds in the western sky on fire with oranges and reds. Mongrel peed on the rock, turned a few circles scratching here and there and then settled down below the outcrop. As the boss dog it was his choice of the best nest site.

The other dogs then followed the same ritual. All circling occasionally, scratching, until all had found places.

Owain and The Runt had watched all this from a safe distance. The Runt knew who the boss dog was round here and Owain, though he was all pluck, wasn’t going to mix it with any of the big dogs. He knew what he could do and come the time he’d do it.

The two small dogs joined the main pack; the Runt as always snuggling up with Mongrel while Owain joined Loccy. The wolfhound was glad of the company. It was his first time in the bush. The Bubuk owls hooting in the dark unsettled him. He whimpered from time to time.

That first night they went to sleep footsore and hungry but now, having resolved the leadership issue, they were also more confident, more focussed on their pack. There was no telling when this new pack might be tested and the dogs, both individually and collectively, would not allow themselves to be found wanting.

To an outsider, having observed the packs formation and come upon the dog’s bivouac in the cypress scrub, the dogs would have appeared out of place, at odds with their surroundings. Here were five valuable pedigree dogs and two mongrels. They all showed the condition and coat characteristic of the domestic pet. They were for the most part healthy, clean and free of the infestations of fleas and ticks, gut parasites and most signally the scarring that feral dogs display after a life competing for food and position in the wild.

Yet here was the pride of the dogs of Molong, having apparently abandoned their secure lives, their hearths and homes and come instead to form a pack in a rough clearing in the bush a few miles from anywhere. No one could have known their purpose but it would have been clear that they definitely had one.