Story and Pic by Warrigal Mirriyuula

The Emergency Department of any small country hospital is used to trauma, even major trauma. You may get gunshot wounds and stabbings in the big cities, and of course there’s always the motor vehicle accidents. You get those in the country too; but you don’t get the crushing and penetrating trauma you get off the farms.

So it was no surprise to the young attendant when Sister MacGillicuddie, spying the bloodied young man being helped through her doors, had stepped out from behind the reception area and taken efficient, no nonsense charge of the still bleeding Inspector. She took his weight on her big shoulders and helped him to a gurney in the curtained triage area. The young attendant, now with nothing to do, ambled about the reception, poking and sticky beaking for a bit, trying to hear what was being said behind the curtain without making it too obvious. He heard something about “no fracture”, “there’s a lot of blood here”, and he heard the young Inspector draw his breath in and moan slightly as Sister cleaned the wound.  “You’re going to need some serious stitching. I’ll better call Dr. Wardell.” She left the injured young man holding a wad of cotton wool and gauze to his head and went off to make the phone call.

The young attendant watched as Sister walked briskly up the centre of the hospital’s one general ward, her starched white sister’s veil looking like some Chesley Bonestell space illustration he’d seen in Life magazine. The phone was at the other end. She’d be gone a minute or two. He slipped behind the curtain and took a look at the young Ordinance Inspector. Half his face was developing a beaut bruise centred on the injury hidden under the wad he gingerly held to his hairline. He’d be alright the attendant thought.

“Listen mate, I gotta get back to the roadhouse. You’ll be alright. Old Wardell’ll stitch you like a Sunday school sampler. A handsome scar. The girls love a scar.” He put his hands in the pockets of his greasy overalls and swung on the spot for a moment.

The Ordinance Inspector, still holding his head looked up and wanly said “Thanks. Really thanks, I dunno what might have happened. Those bloody dogs might’ve tried to eat me.”

“Mongrel and The Runt!??! The young attendant just laughed. “Don’t be bloody silly man! It was Mongrel came and got me. He must think a lot of you that dog. He’s not one to put himself out unless there’s food in it for ‘im.” Something occurred to him. “What were ya doin’ up there anyway?

The young inspector took an inward look at himself. Molong wasn’t working out for him. Christ, he couldn’t even catch a couple of stray dogs without making a complete cock up of the entire issue. “I don’t know. I really just don’t know.” he sighed. Nothing seemed to make much sense. “I suppose I’ll have to buy those dogs a steak.” He tried to stand up and shake the attendants hand but was still too groggy and slumped back against the edge of the already rolling gurney. The attendant grabbed him and ensuring he was upright got the gurney back and helped him to lie down.

“Thanks again.” The inspector lay back with his eyes closed. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Billy, Billy Martin. Me an me brothers run the roadhouse.” He held out his oily right hand but of course the inspector’s eyes were still shut. Billy looked at the filthy paw and self-consciously withdrew it.

“Well thanks Billy. I’m Algernon, Algernon Hampton.” He opened his eyes and looked at Billy.

“Jesus, is that ya real name? S’bit Biggles init? Algernon? He said the name as if it actually had a bad smell on it. “What’a ya friends call ya?” He was genuinely convinced that no one would call him by that name.

“I’m not sure I’ve got any friends. Well not this side of the Victorian border.” He sighed again.

“Now ya just bungin’ on the agony.” Billy laughed. “It’s just a bump on the bonce mate. You’ll be right as rain in a few days. Anyway look, I gotta go or my idiot brothers’ll burn the place down or somethin’ worse. Come out and see me when ya get outa here. I’m always there.”

He turned and pulled the curtain aside just as Sister was about to do the same from the other direction. Old Wardell was bringing up the rear. The three of them outlined a complex rondel of apology and side stepping which ended with Sister barking, “Oh for goodness sake, Billy! Just get out of the way! You shouldn’t be in here anyway with your filthy clothes and hands!”

“See ya Sister, Doc. See ya “Head Case.” Billy called back, feeling better not using that other name. He ran outside, jumped in the ute and took off.

Sister sniffed a peremptory sniff. “Head Case indeed.” She muttered. “Still, he’s the only decent one amongst those brothers. Idle loafers except Billy.” She turned back to the Doctor and the patient. Doctor Wardell was looking at the dark blood oozing in vermilion beads along the laceration. The patient’s eye was beginning to close and the bruising was swollen and darkening to an ugly crimson purple. He looked like he’d done fifteen with Dave Sands.

While Sister prepared the curved needles with fine gut, Doctor Wardell did some very fine and fancy stitching. Particularly at the point in the laceration where a side cut produced two small flaps of skin that didn’t want to sit flat. He’d looked at the wound for several minutes in silence. The young Inspector looking up through his one open eye thought the old boy had dropped off, but then the doctor had said, “Right that’s how we do it.” and with much muttering at the tiny fine stitches and some help from Sister the wound was finally closed, cleaned and disinfected once more, and a clean dressing applied to soak up the little blobs of bloody ooze.

The doctor washed his hands in the basin and said over his shoulder. “Algernon isn’t it?” He turned and flicked the water from his hands onto the floor before drying them on a towel from the dispenser. Finishing up by drying between his fingers, he threw the damp wad of linen at the small laundry bin. It missed and fell onto the floor. Sister tisked audibly at the liberty the doctor took.

“Algernon you’ve had a very severe knock, you’re concussed and still suffering from a little shock, but your pulse is strong and regular. I’ve managed to close the wound nicely and the scar shouldn’t be too grotesque.” He puffed a little with an old man’s pride in a simple task done very well. The quality of his suturing was known throughout the district. “I’m a bit concerned about that eye though; and of course, as with all head cases, it’s best to wait a day or two to see what happens with your vision and memory, cognitive skills. That sort of thing.” He began to pack his bag. “I’ll get Sister to give you something to help you sleep and I’m recommending that you stay overnight or maybe until Monday morning. We might need to get Gruber out here from Bloomfield.” Bloomfield was a large psychiatric hospital located in Orange about 22 miles east. “He’s a specialist in these sorts of head cases.”

Algernon had heard about Bloomfield. “I’m not mad Doctor.” Algernon hurriedly interjected, “I’ve just had a crack on the scone.”

This amused Doctor Wardell and he had a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’ll call him in his capacity as a specialist neurologist. You seem clear to me now but you never know.” He lightly gripped and squeezed the younger man’s arm. “Now you must get some sleep. I’ll drop in tomorrow morning.” He turned to Sister, “Give him a shot of phenobarb and make sure the nurse monitors his breathing through the night.” He pushed his stethoscope into his bag, snapped it shut and threw the brass latches. “Thank you Sister.”  Doctor Wardell did a stagey bow. “As usual your assistance has been both invaluable and reliable.” He smiled a broad gracious happy smile at her. “Oh go on with you Doctor. I’m not moved by such soft soap.” But you could see she really was.

The sun was going down and with the doctor gone, Sister had helped her patient into a bed in the general ward and given him his sleeping pill. There was only one other patient in the small ward. He was a snowy haired old bloke and he had his ear glued to a little portable radio while making notations in a newspaper with a stubby pencil. Algernon thought he recognised him and smiled a painful one eyed smile. The old boy turned and smiled back, then suddenly wincing in what was significant pain, “Kidney stones.” he said, as if each of those two simple words cost him an effort, sucking the air in between nearly clenched teeth. Algernon didn’t hear the rest, if there was any. He was already falling into a head throbbing barbiturate sleep.

Meanwhile Mongrel and The Runt had made their way down town. It was a beautiful Summer evening; warm air, clear skies and a light breeze. The dogs were hungry. They hadn’t eaten since MacCafferty’s that morning and after their eventful day they were on the hunt for some grub. They wandered all the way down Bank Street until they were outside the Freemasons. The front bar was noisy and still half full with the afternoon drinkers. They’d dissolve away over the next hour or two while the evening crowd crushed in for the darts tournament. There was twenty quid in it for the winner and a money prize always drew a big crowd of punters who’d wager loudly through out the bar. They’d bet on a single spear, they’d bet on doubles and triples, they bet on individual players and the teams comp; in fact they’d bet on anything. There was a roster for the cockatoo so no one bloke missed all the action. Hundreds of hard earned pounds would change hands on the grand final match at the end of the evening. Blokes’d be cadging smokes and botting beers ‘til next payday if it didn’t go their way; and it had gone that way very badly indeed a few years ago. A ring in team from Bathurst had turned up pretending they were the regulars from St Pat’s. One of them however was a past state and national champion. After blundering through the early rounds, the ring in had just turned it on and torn the locals apart. The ring’d taken the local punters for a little more than was thought fair in a country town. The issue had been settled a few weekends later at a dance in Blayney when one of the more robust locals made short work of the bloke who’d organised the ring and fixed the tournament. There had been talk of hand injuries to the ersatz champ but the kybosh was put on that as going too far. He was a former genuine champion after all. He ended up with a black eye and a fat lip instead. The St Pat’s team had played fair ever since.

There was nothing to eat at the Freemasons but both dogs could smell BBQ on the breeze so they set off to find it. It wasn’t far. Just up Bank Street at the Telegraph. Clarrie had decided it was such a nice night they’d have some music and spit roast a couple of pigs in the courtyard out the back of the pub. They’d been on the spit for about half an hour and the delicious smell of sizzling pig fat and crackling had drawn Mongrel and The Runt as though on leads being wound in by the turning of the spit. The courtyard out the back of the Telegraph had originally been an ostlers yard for the Cobb and Co coaches that carried the western mail before the railways. The courtyard was connected to Bank Street by a carriageway large enough to take big coaches and four. Mongrel didn’t hesitate and ran through into the courtyard where Clarrie was basting the dripping pigs with a paintbrush. “G’day Mongrel” Clarrie called as the dog ran up to him and sat down at his feet, looking from Clarrie to the pigs and back to Clarrie.

“Ya hungry mate? Where’s The Runt?” Clarrie looked around and then spied The Runt sitting in the shadows of the carriageway. He turned the carriageway light on and the smaller dog flinched a little. “Well come on then,” Clarrie said to The Runt, as he got down on his haunches, “Come on in. I won’t bite you.” but the little dog didn’t move. He just sat there against the wall in the carriageway. “Suit yourself Runt.” Clarrie said equably, knowing the little dog’s ways. He got up and went into the pub.

Emboldened by the departure of the man, The Runt joined Mongrel by the spit in the courtyard. In a moment Clarrie was back with a bowl loaded up with a couple of bones and some old lamb chops that had seen fresher days.  Clarrie took the food over by the old stables. The dogs followed. Clarrie dumped the meat on the cobbles and filled the dish with water from a tap on the wall. “There ya go boys. That’ll sort ya out.” He gave Mongrel a ruffle on the top of his head but The Runt was keeping Mongrel between him and Clarrie. “You’re a funny little bloke Runt. You really are.” Clarrie smiled and shook his head and went back to basting the pigs.

The dogs wolfed down the chops and lapped and slopped their way through a good drink. Then, selecting a meaty bone each, settled down to give them a good chewing. The Runt looked up from his bone and across at Clarrie occasionally. Clarrie wasn’t a bad human, and he had just fed Mongrel and The Runt, and he always felt friendly and had that sweet beer smell, but for The Runt people were a problem. A dog just couldn’t be sure if or when they’d turn on you. It was always better to be cautious. He kept an eye out for Clarrie but, like Mongrel, having had a good feed, the next pressing issue was a snooze. The dogs lay down together on an old sugar bag in a corner. They were both asleep in minutes.

The pigs turned, Clarrie basted, an odd assortment of locals turned up with guitars and fiddles and harmonicas. Beryl, Clarrie’s wife, loaded an old trestle table with salads and fresh bread, plates and eating iron. When the dogs woke up the courtyard was full of people. Mongrel noticed the young bloke from the roadhouse talking with Clarrie as Clarrie carved into the first pig. The young bloke was a freshly bathed pink and wearing an ironed shirt. Mongrel could smell the odd mix of mechanical swarf and soap all the way over in his corner. He seemed excited and Clarrie was hanging on his every word, looking over at Mongrel and The Runt from time to time as the young bloke told his tale. When the young bloke finished he stood back slightly and winked over at Mongrel as Clarrie just looked at the dogs, his mouth slightly open. Then as if gathering his senses he shook his head and laughed. “I’ll be buggered!” he exclaimed.

It was one of those nights when everything was right in Molong. As Algernon the young Ordinance Inspector slept his deep barbiturate sleep, the evolutionary miracle of regeneration repairing his battered bonce, aided no doubt by the painkillers and a shot of anti inflammatory Sister had thought prudent to add to his chart, the town enjoyed a memorable night.

It wasn’t that anything particularly exciting or important happened. They seldom do in country towns. It was that everyone who came into town that night found company enough, a good feed, a yarn and a joke. Many danced, some sang, every body that could, played an instrument or two. Raconteurs found ready audiences and drank well and deeply in every corner of The Telegraph and The Freemasons. Lies were told, myths were remembered. Even the Rev. Gamsby came down from St Johns to the Telegraph and danced with Beryl while Clarrie played congenial host. The company and communion of people just like themselves, with whom they shared a kind of spirit of place. Just like the old blackfellas; like Yuranigh whose grave was just out of town. It was a magic night. Even The Runt had a great time after Porky turned up at the Telegraph. They’d stayed together all night while Mongrel played the show off. Singing along with the fiddler, doing his entire repertoire of leaping tricks, nudging all and sundry for bits of pork crackling. Mongrel really liked pork crackling.

Down at The Freemasons the local team won the darts. Even those blokes that’d lost more than they could easily explain to the missus went home feeling good, and some of them that had won went home not a little amorous. What’s more, while a lot of beer was drunk and there certainly were many sore heads the next morning; on that magic night there were no fights, no crashes and no one embarrassed themselves on the way home. In fact every one went to their bed happy and safe.

It was special in its very ordinariness, but the most interesting thing that happened that night was that the people of Molong, having heard of the injured young man and the story of Mongrel’s run for help, began to think differently about the young Ordinance Inspector. He became one of them. No longer an outsider. The very rocks the town was named after had reached out and knocked away the past. In a curious way Mongrel, having run for help, had conferred on the young Inspector the same welcome he and The Runt knew from the people of Molong. It would be said around town that if this young bloke was good enough for Mongrel and The Runt, he was good enough for Molong.

Clarrie, having cleaned up the courtyard and shared a last port with Beryl in the cool night air, turned off the light in the carriageway and went in the back door of the pub. He turned around in the doorway with his finger on the courtyard light switch. He could hear Beryl climbing the creaking stairs to their apartments at the back of the hotel. He looked across the courtyard and saw Mongrel and The Runt curled up together on the old sugar bag. The Runts little back leg was kicking slightly. Clarrie smiled and snapped the switch off.

As he climbed the stairs after Beryl his smile broadened a little. He’d loved it when Beryl and the reverend were dancing. He’d remembered the bush dance at Cumnock all those years ago when Beryl was a slight and shy young girl and he was a diffident young man just back from the war. As he stepped onto the top landing he realised in an almost overwhelming moment how much he loved his wife and family, how much he cared for the people of this little town, how good his life was, how rich.

The lights went out in Clarrie and Beryl’s apartments. Most everybody else in town was already asleep. A few wispy clouds slid over the moon and the stars twinkled in the deep blue black of the western sky. Every now and then a dog barked or a curlew called as Molong dreamed a new day into beginning.

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.)