Dogital mischief by Warrigal
by Warrigal Mirriyuula
At dusk one Friday evening Mongrel and The Runt were checking out some old wombat burrows on the stony hillside across the creek from the baths. Not one of their regular haunts but they had been up here before. This time they fell in with a wombat grazing on the good grass in the swales between the bigger rock outcrops. After the dogs’ arrival the wombat seemed only to want to play. Unfortunately the way the wombat played was a bit too much for The Runt, so he retired to circle work the perimeter, only lunging in now and then to deliver a quick nip to the wombats bum, and then run away yapping like a fool. Mongrel and the wombat tumbled and ran, barked and grunted, nipped and bit and had a riot of a time. Then, the wombat seemed to have had enough and just wandered off to a burrow and disappeared down it. No amount of barking and whining or clawing at the entrance by the pair of dogs would draw the wombat back out.
At a loss for what to do without the wombat, they wandered back to town and hung out on the pavement out side Jimmy’s Chinese Takeaway. It was a good spot on a Friday evening. Blokes who’d won a meat tray at The Freemasons or the Telegraph always dropped in for “a bit’a’chink ta take ‘ome to the missus”. Mongrel and The Runt, being everyone’s best friend when meat was in the offing, could rely on one of the homeward wending drunks to generously toss them the bits of the meat tray they didn’t want. The Runt particularly liked it when “Porky” Miller won the tray. He’d actually come looking for them. Full of beer and not really certain of himself, he’d unsteadily get down on his haunches and hand feed The Runt the offal. The Runt loved lambs brains and kidneys and liver, and Porky was the only person in town that The Runt would actually approach. Porky always took the time to the give The Runt a scratch and a cuddle and quietly called him “Butch” when they were alone. If The Runt were ever tempted to retire from the life of a dog about town, it’d be Porky’s bed he’d be looking to sleep under and he wouldn’t mind being called “Butch” either. They had a lot in common Porky and The Runt. Porky was a Fairbridge boy and hadn’t had too easy a time of it when he was young. When sober he was reliable, hard working and taciturn. When drunk he was garrulous, generous to a fault and prone to singing old scouting songs badly and loudly; except outside Jimmy’s with The Runt, where he became a quiet, gentle man with love to spare for an ugly little stray dog. Mongrel left them alone. Porky’s pickings were always for The Runt.
This particular evening, as Mongrel went through his “sit”, “drop”, “rollover” routine for the amusement of the assembled Friday drunks outside Jimmy’s, Porky and The Runt went into their private collogue and all was right on Bank Street.
Neither dogs nor men particularly noticed the Holden ute with the Victorian plates pull up. Nor was it a matter of concern when a young man got out and wandered into Jimmy’s. He was obviously a bit of a dude with his polished RM Williams boots matching the shine on the backside of his new moleskins, and there wasn’t a scratch or a spot of rust on the tray in the back of the ute. One of the drunks then noticed that the dealer tag stuck in the back window of the Holden said some place in Caulfield.
“City boy”, thought the drunk, sluggishly remembering that Caulfield was in Melbourne, “’e’s a long way from ’ome.” But that was all. In time the young dude came out with his takeaway, got back in the ute and drove away.
Apart from a quick check between “rollovers” to see who had brought the stink, (the young dude was wearing aftershave and Mongrel had never smelled that stink on any of the locals), Mongrel and The Runt continued oblivious to this new human. Probably just passing through, he didn’t amount to anything of concern to two dogs about town. Yet.
Soon enough it was known around Molong that the new chum had come to town after being appointed the new Ordinance Inspector for the Cabonne Council. Some low watt bulb in local government, no doubt thinking that an outsider would have less trouble ticketing the locals for any infraction of the Ordinance Code, had chosen him on the basis of the distance from which he applied. He had encouraged the dude to relocate with offers of rural manhood, sustaining country air and subsidised housing. The dude didn’t know however that he was nothing more than ledger fodder in the eternal internecine warfare that constituted the local government apparatus. He had been reduced without his knowledge to an entry in a budget appropriation. Nobody, not even the man who had appointed him, cared whether he carried out his duties. He became the squarest of pegs in a peculiarly odd shaped hole called Molong. It was simple really. In a small place like this everybody that he ticketed for leaving their rubbish in the street, or not controlling the weeds on undeveloped land, or parking in the wrong place or in the wrong fashion; well they all knew the Mayor, a councillor or the head clerk or someone who could “fix” the ticket. Local government politics being what it is the fact was that only one of his tickets ever got processed and that one only got processed because the person to whom it had been given had moved away before his mate on the council could fix it.
To Mongrel and The Runt the new Ordinance Inspector was precisely nothing; except, from time to time, a lost molecule of that stinking aftershave. Weeks went by with out a sight of him while the dogs continued their rounds, making adventurous forays hither and yon and generally adding daily to their own legend. During this time it was becoming increasingly apparent to the new Ordinance Inspector that the only way he could prove himself lay in the provisions of the Local Government Dog Control Act and how that Act extended into his obligations as Ordinance Inspector. Pretty soon all the young dude’s time was taken up devising a dastardly plane to catch Mongrel and The Runt who were not only the most high profile strays in town, they were the only strays in town. He was, he realised, The Dogcatcher!
Sadly for him though, his growing knowledge of the layout of the town, never included the location of the dog’s nest at the abandoned ice works and he knew that he wouldn’t be adding to his popularity if he took the dogs in front of any of the locals. They seemed to hold Mongrel and The Runt in an unusually high regard that to his mind bordered on criminal abetment; they were after all strays. However, when the dogs’ names were mentioned in conversation around town he had noticed a fond and foolish tone creep into the voices of the speakers. In truth, as the young Ordinance Inspector began to feel increasingly irrelevant and unwanted in the town; so at the same time the friendship and fellow feeling between the townsfolk and the dogs had become all too confrontingly obvious. The dogs and their capture tipped from being an annoying problem to be resolved into the darker reaches of a driving obsession.
Country people are self-reliant people who don’t like interfering in other’s business. So it was that the townsfolk noted that the Inspector wasn’t issuing many infraction notices; they saw the decline in the young Ordinance Inspector but did not enquire as to his circumstances, nor did they interfere. They noticed he wasn’t as smartly turned out, his boots no longer shone and his shirts took on a crumpled look, as if he’d perhaps slept in them. He occasionally forgot to shave and he began to neglect his ute. It was beginning to look like any other farm ute. Its tray filling up with drifts of red dust and dry grass, rust setting in and the grill full of splattered bugs, the paintwork pitted with stone chips and sundry small dings and bends where he’d encountered the ubiquitous granite blocks lurking in the longer grass.
It all came to a head on another Friday night. Sick at heart and tired of the futility of his pointless job, the Ordinance Inspector had dropped into Jimmy’s for some fried rice with braised chicken and almonds. The usual drunks were their waiting on their orders or messing about with the dogs. Porky was loving The Runt up, whispering, “How are ya Butch, ay mate? ‘ad a good day?” and cadging bits from that night’s meat tray winner to feed him. Mongrel was doing his “leaping to grab the thrown morsel” act, barking excitedly between attempts as the drunks clapped and cheered his every effort. Everybody was happy except the dude. He was mumbling something to himself as he waited for his rice and chicken, alone inside, in the steamy, food smell suffused heat. He took his order and paid with bad grace, still mumbling to himself. Jimmy thought him maybe a bit mad and reminded himself that he better get that ticket fixed, the one for having an overflowing sullage trap out the back. He’d fixed the trap but forgotten to fix the ticket. He figured Macca up’t the council’d fix it for ‘im.
The dude came out onto the pavement and the look of contempt on his face left them all with no doubt what he thought of them and the dogs. “Bloody drunks, bloody dogs…” he spat, as he slipped on the gutter, almost losing his food and bringing a smirk to some of the assembled faces. As he got into the ute one of the drunks shouted, “Y’aughta calm down mate. Take it easy. Nothin’s that serious.”
The dude fumbled with his keys, finally getting them in and lighting up the ute. He crashed first and tore away.
“Bloody idiot, that bloke Butch.” Porky said gently to the small dog. “Doesn’t know ‘e’s alive.” The Runt didn’t care. He just rolled over in Porky’s lap so Porky could scratch his guts.
It was some time later as the young Ordinance Inspector looked at the cold gluggy remains of his meal in the spare little kitchen of his digs that he resolved to get those dogs no matter what; and there was no time for wasting. He’d do it tomorrow! No more messing about, they were strays and must be brought to heel.
He was up bright and early the next morning full of conviction. He assembled all the gear he thought he’d need in the back of the ute; net, control choker and his own recipe dog spray in the pump action dispenser. Ready and committed, he set off looking for Mongrel and The Runt.
Molong was quiet that clear clean early Saturday morning. Clarrie, the publican at The Telegraph was hosing down the pavement while he enjoyed a distracting smoke, a scratch and a look around. Old “’drews” from the newsagency was just getting back from his paper deliveries. His ancient battered, doorless VeeDub “dak dakking” up Bank Street, while Mrs. Hatter set out the fruit and veg display at her grocery. If you listened hard enough you could hear old MacCafferty out the back of his butchery, his cleaver “thunking” through the sides of lamb while his new sausage machine turned out a snarl of fat snowlers onto the stainless steel bench top.
The Ordinance Inspector was oblivious. He had his eyes out for the dogs only. He was still driving up and down the streets of the town some hours later when he spied, far off in the distance, the two dogs running up a hillside along the Wellington road.
Without a second thought and completely in the grip of his driving obsession to get Mongrel and The Runt, he dropped the ute a cog and planted his right foot.
To cut to the chase, he’d abandoned the ute after hitting one too many hidden blocks of granite as he drove wildly up the hillside, the ute drifting and skidding on the crushed rye grass pasture sown on the hillside for cattle fodder . He’d grabbed the net and run after the dogs who were by this time running along the rocky ridge line, stopping every now and then to turn and bark at the madman pursuing them through the rye. He wasn’t going to catch them and he wasn’t going to give up so the dogs thought he must want to play. It was a dog logic thing.
Mongrel turned and began to run towards the mad young man. The Runt was less certain and brought up the rear at a distance that provided for a quick getaway should it become necessary. As Mongrel came into range the young man flung the net with all his might. It expanded out as it turned lazily through a high arc of air. Mongrel thinking this was a new game, barked madly as he dodged the descending net and then just as quickly turned and took a mouthful of rope and began to run back towards the young man. The young dude was flabbergasted. What to do now? But the dog just dropped the net near him and barked at him as if to say, “Do it again!” The Runt kept his distance, this didn’t feel right to him and he remembered Porky not feeling right about this man, who even now was picking the net up and preparing another throw. Mongrel barked a few more happy snappy barks as he ran in and out waiting for the throw but the dude was doing some fancy footwork, feinting towards Mongrel, and to the side, as if to find the best launching point. It was all part of the game to Mongrel, his great wet red tongue all the way out as he dragged in huge breaths of air and shadowed the dudes every move.
The net was airborne again! It was a bad throw and it fell out of the air in a clump as Mongrel easily jumped aside. At the same time the young man lost his footing in the mashed rye and fell forward into a clump of longer grass. There was a thud and the young man lay very still.
Mongrel didn’t want the game to be over and barked at the prone figure a few more times. Then realising how tired he was, he collapsed in the grass for a good long pant.
Some time passed and the young man didn’t move. Mongrel wasn’t fussed but The Runt couldn’t contain his curiosity and hesitantly approached the man in the grass. As he got nearer he sensed there was something wrong. Very wrong. The man didn’t smell right, he wasn’t breathing right. The Runt barked his best big bark and jumped over the man. He could smell blood and noticed the grass was discoloured in places. He barked at Mongrel who got the message immediately and bounded over.
The dogs licked at the young Ordinance Inspector’s hair and nudged his face with their snouts. They gently pawed at his back but there was no response. This was very wrong and the dogs became anxious, keening and whining at the man a little. You can’t know what a dog knows, how a dog plans things or how they think, but they do, and sometimes it’s just confounding.
Mongrel took off down the slope as fast as he could go. The Runt barked him on but stayed with the unconscious young man. Mongrel took the fence down by the highway with barely the touch of a back claw and headed straight for the roadhouse. There’b be men there and they could make it right. He’s seen them do it before. When a man fell over, other men picked him up and he was alright. He bounded across the roadhouse forecourt, just missing being skittled by a departing truck, and barking madly went into the little office and jumped up on the desk scattering a pile of invoices and completely startling the attendant who fell backwards off his chair, before also getting the message and approaching the barking dog.
“What is it boy? C’mon Mongrel, what is it boy?” he leaned down towards the still barking dog. Mongrel grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him to the door where he let go and took off again up the highway. The attendant jumped in the roadhouse ute and took off up the highway after the dog. Only a mile up he suddenly pulled in. The brakes locked up and he ended up against the clay berm in a cloud of dust and settling stones. He’d seen Mongrel take the fence like it wasn’t there. It took him a little longer as he gingerly held the barbed wire wide enough to pass under. He saw the Ordinance Inspectors ute with the doors open, and a little way up towards the ridge, “Well I’ll be blowed!” he said to himself as he recognised The Runt sitting by the still unconscious body. He scrambled up the last of the hill and went down on his knees beside the young man. The dogs stood back anxiously awaiting an outcome. Looking at the drying blood the roadhouse attendant could see that the young bloke had fallen and hit his head on a rock. The skin was broken and bleeding, and he was unconscious, but otherwise he looked alright.
The attendant rolled the inspector over. He groaned a little. That was a good sign. Even the dogs thought so and came in to lick his face again. “No boys, leave ‘im alone,” the attendant said as he gently but firmly pushed the dogs away. “Let ‘im get some air.”
In time the young man came round enough to sit up on his own. He looked at the dogs in an unfocussed sort of way and hanging his bloodied head he intoned flatly, “Bloody dogs.”
Mongrel didn’t understand why he wasn’t pleased and looked at the man sideways to be sure he was getting the whole message. The Runt just figuring this was par for the course with ungrateful humans was remembering the feeling of what it was like with Porky.
“Y’aughta be more grateful mate.” said the attendant, not understanding the injured man’s attitude. “If it was’n’fa Mongrel ‘ere you’d still be out to it. As it is we can getcha up to the Hospital and getcha stitched up. You’ll be right as rain in the mornin’.” He gave Mongrel a quick ruffle on the top of his head and then helped the young man unsteadily to his feet.
After a slow and occasionally semiconscious climb down the slope and some difficulty getting through the fence, they all got in the ute, men in the front, dogs in the back, and drove off to the hospital. The dogs just loved the high speed trip to the Hospital. They hung their silly heads out over the side and lapped up the chaotic blustering wind of the slipstream in their faces. As the ute turned into the ambulance bay the dogs jumped out of the back, shook themselves and set off down town. The humans would take care of themselves and the dogs had places to be. They’d come back tomorrow, maybe, and check up on the young dude.
(It was a busy week for our canny canines and we still haven’t got to the bit where the dogs are chased through the hospital by an irate matron. That and more next week as things turn out nice again in Molong.)
