In the mid sixties, I came home from a hard day's work tending bombs at an RAAF Bomb Dump about forty miles west of Sydney. I was looking forward to settling on our little rear porch with a cuppa, this morning's newspaper and our dog, Goldy.
"Vic," my wife said, "there's a large white dog under our house."
"No probs, it'll come out when it's ready," I told her.
"Please get rid of it. It may be savage."
"You want me to tangle with a large, savage dog?" I asked.
"Yes. Our three-year old daughter plays out there."
"She won't hurt it. She likes dogs."
I got the look so off I went. I fetched a torch, got on my hands and knees and looked for this dog that had my wife so worried. That's just the type of husband that I was! Sure enough I spotted two evil eyes reflecting back at me. They belonged to a large, white dog.
"Heel," I said, hoping it was trained. It wasn't and didn't! I tried a firm, "Bugger off!" It didn't. It just peered at me. If there's one thing I know about dogs - they like to eat. I found my wife preparing our dinner in the kitchen. "I need some meat to lure it out," I told my wife.
"Easy peasy," she said. "Take a slice of roast beef off your dinner plate as a lure. But be aware that once you feed this slavering brute, it will never go away."
She was right - of course.
The big white Feller stayed and got quite territorial. Nobody got in our front gate. Visitors had to pick up gravel or small stones and throw them on our tin roof. Heather and I would rush out, calm Feller and apologise to our visitors.
I continued my late afternoon ritual of sitting on our small back porch with my cuppa, newspaper and our original trusty brown dog, Goldy, by my side, I would occasionally read interesting excerpts to her. Feller would insist on inserting his large self between us. He'd wiggle and worm himself in. I'd slide along a bit. Goldy was a fast learner and would do the same. It was only a small porch and it didn't take long before I was pushed off the end. I could, of course, relocate to the other end of the porch but the same procedure would proceed. I'd go inside with my paper and cuppa and sit at the kitchen table. The dogs would press against the screen door, whining.
Heather said. "You've got to do something with those dogs!" I'd take them for a long walk but they always found their way back. Digression: Feller was good with my three year old daughter as of course, was our first dog. Never a worry.
Heather went shopping every Thursday. The dogs knew Thursdays. They'd hide. I tried locking them up in the unused chook pen but they'd dig their way out, hurdle the low front fence and wait for Heather up the street and follow her around town.
Digression - the Penrith shopping centre was only two blocks away. When Heather turned onto the main shopping street, she would look around and see two dogs peering around corners or from behind parked cars, The first time, she walked back home calling the dogs but they disappeared. They would re-appear in the middle of the shopping street and follow her into the shops. A memorable digression: Heather entered the delicatessen which had a screen door thus closing the dogs out but naturally another customer would open the door to enter or leave and the dogs would bound in. "Who owns these dogs?" The outraged shop-keeper asked.
Heather would buy them bones from the butcher. One memorable bone was the size of a dinosaur's leg bone. Feller and I wrestled each other over it, I teased him, he took my fore-arm in his mouth, growling, we rolled around the lawn. Heather called out to me, "act your age." I left Feller with the bone and sat on the porch getting my breath back. Feller worried at the monstrous bone and then crunched it into small bite-sized portions. I shivered at the thought of what he could have done to my arm. I knew you shouldn't get between a dog and its tucker, but---
I loved that dog but Heather decided (family economics) one dog was enough and Feller, as the late arrival had to go.
"No way," I told her firmly.
None of my friends wanted a dog. A quandary!
An answer popped up. I was to escort a truck load of explosives and some vital documents to a Wagga base. I had to sign out a Browning .45 calibre automatic handgun because of the documents. The Armament Officer checked me out on the 25 yard range and we agreed that I could probably throw the heavy thing more accurately than I could fire it.
I would be passing through a lot of country towns. Country people liked dogs, I believed. Problem solved, I'll introduce Feller to the locals as I go.
Large digression: Transporting explosives requires the vehicle to display two red flags and large, 'Explosive' signs. And to not exceed 30 mph.
The actual procedure was, out of sight of the base, to pull down the flags and signs and drive in spirited fashion to a town that had an RSL and a large carpark. We would camp under the tarp on the back of the truck. Feller would sleep under the truck. Often the RSL cleaner/caretaker would allow us to use the showers and make us brekky. A three hundred mile trip to Wagga could take a day and a half at least.
We drove onto the Wagga Base about one o'clock the next day. We knew the mess hall was about to close so we parked in front, tied Feller under the truck, raced into the mess and got a good feed of left-overs. We sat at the window and kept an eye on the re-flagged and signed truck just across the road.
Wagga is an apprentice training base. After lunch they had assembled on their parade ground and were about to march past us, led by an apprentice band, to their work sites.
Feller was on the job, alert, hiding behind the truck's large dual wheels. The band oompahed on to destiny. When they drew close to his truck, he launched himself at them, snarling, barking, lips drawn back- the complete hound from hell, only held back by two yards of sturdy rope. Apprentices scattered screaming, dropping their musical instruments and leaving puddles on the road. It was a scene reminiscent of Picasso's Guernica. Oh, the horror!
The driver and I finished our lunch, "You've blown it this time, Vic," My driver said.
"Nah, Snowy, I'll say its your dawg."We waded through the melee to the truck but were intercepted by the Service Police. They told us that the Adjutant wanted to see us NOW and that they were going to escort us. I opened the truck door under the suspicious eyes of the Service Police and pulled out the big, ugly Browning Automatic in its holster and strapped it around my waist. I felt it gave me some credence.
The gun certainly confused the Service Police. "What are you doing with that?"
"Vital documents!" I said, showing him the locked brief-case "Armed escort for the secure transportation there-of."
The truck driver and I were paraded into the Adjutant's Office.. He immediately carried on. "---that damned dog."
"Guard dog, Sir. Vital documents, Sir. To be guarded," I said. "Until delivered to you, Sir." I handed them to the Adjutant and received a signature in return.
"Next time park in the working area, not where a lot of young apprentices are. They'll be writing to their parents tonight ---" And on he blathered.
All of this just to get a free feed on the Base on top of our travelling allowance.
We drove to the remote Explosive Section, found the corporal in charge and unloaded the bomb pistols. Feller was sitting under the truck watching.
"Nice lookin' dog," the corporal said and patted Feller. "Ours died of old age recently, my missus and I are missing him."
"Mate," I said and told him the story. "He's a great dog and loves kids. He's all yours if you want him."
He did.
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