by Barry Heard
So, as a dedication to Bill and to a wonderful dog I once owned, I decided to write the account he had requested. I wanted to re-live on paper that special time in my life.
That night, I put pen to paper. Several hours later, I had finished the rough draft and cherished re-living that era, and that unique dog and his part in my life — or should that be the other way around? It was only ten pages long, and the exercise made me realise how special it is to write about a treasured memory. I was keen to show old Bill; I thought I might pop around for a cuppa and give Tattle a pat. As it turned out, old Bill loved the story — he reckons he read it to Tattle. I hope you enjoy it, too.
chapter one
Rover
I MET ROVER ON A SHEEP-AND-CATTLE FARM. MY INITIAL impression was that if I was ever going to have a dog, it would be a lot smarter than this mutt and, hopefully, not as ugly.
It was during my first week at a farm called Kanangra that I spotted the dog. He was sitting up in the front seat of a blue Desoto ute. His master, old Jack Moy, was doing his block and calling the dog names that I wouldn’t put on paper.
I’d just started work on the farm as a labourer, in my first paid job. I would be ‘kept’, which meant that I’d live and work on the farm from Monday to Friday. It was late 1961, and I was sixteen years old.
Now, Jack Moy, Rover’s owner, was a rotund old man of 70-odd years. He owned the farm next door to where I worked, and he had the misfortune of owning this ugly, brindled part-kelpie dog called Rover. In fact, I thought old Jack was pretty tolerant with the dog. Perhaps it was his pet as well. Like me, old Jack Moy lived at Kanangra from Monday to Friday. We shared two bungalows out the back of the main homestead, and we both ate all our meals with the owners of the farm.
I’ll never forget the first meal I had on that Monday night. Although it wasn’t a special night, it was like a banquet — perhaps put on for my benefit, I first imagined. Initially I was quite chuffed. In time, I discovered that most meals consisted of at least three courses, completely different from home where we had large, simple meals with little variety. There was a another big difference: at home, Mum had insisted that we bathe once a week, and we only got dressed up for dances, barbeques, and balls. Now, in this new job, I was showering every night. Everyone also got dressed up for tea, which started with an appetiser and a sherry.
The meal that first night on the new farm was a bit daunting, really. At the table, bamboozled by the array of knives and forks in front of me, I sat not moving a muscle. Then there was a bit of cloth wrapped up in a metal ring. I watched every move that the others made.
We were up to the main course when old Jack, Rover’s owner, arrived. Although he was quite late, he joined us for tea. He had been down to the post office to collect the mail, which he did most nights. Naturally, old Jack couldn’t go past the pub on the way back, so he walked in with a slight lean to one side and a lop-sided grin to the other. He lunged towards the table, sat on the sideways-turned chair, and then plopped the napkin on his lap. Grunting, he turned his chair and pushed it back, which enabled him to slide his sizable belly under the edge of the table and lean forward on his elbows. He then began eating.
I was fascinated, especially by old Jack’s table manners. I had never seen a display like it before; it was amazing. His substantial stomach increased the distance from the plate to his mouth, so he sat well back from the table. Then, leaning forward, he would pivot his food towards this mouth while his elbows rested on the table. Naturally, his arms were a fraction too short, so the last half-inch could be best described as a lunge, a fling, or a flick in the general direction. Actually, to be fair, over time, I noticed he was quite accurate. Most went in. This night, with his skill levels lowered by the intake of a few ales, the food went, let’s just say, towards his mouth.
The first time I saw him swivel his food and gulp, I blushed with embarrassment as I struggled to stop a giggle coming out. It reminded me of my three-year-old young brother feeding himself. Mind you, it didn’t bother old Jack; he hoed into the lamb cutlets and salad with gusto. In fact, I was amazed that the boss, a gentleman, didn’t point out to the old fellow that he had a piece of lettuce hanging off his bushy eyebrow. Then again, before I started at the farm, Mum had told me old Jack was a shire councillor, and an ex-shire president as well.
‘Call him Mister,’ said Mum.
So my guess was that you didn’t mention things like stray food to such an esteemed gentleman. Still, when a piece of beetroot landed on the left shoulder of his clean, newly starched shirt, I thought something should be said. But I believe the boss either didn’t possess the courage or had too much respect for him to do so.
I went to bed that night with a head full of old Jack’s eating prowess, doubts about the order in which one should use the assortment of knives, forks, and spoons and, to top it off, instructions from the boss to rise at about 6.00 a.m., milk the cows, separate the cream, and come in for breakfast at 7.00 a.m. Fortunately, I could do all those things. As for the dining etiquette, that was a different matter. My first day on the farm was a steep learning-curve.
The next morning I got up half an hour early. Old Jack in the next bungalow also stirred. He opened the door, and Rover emerged; he’d also slept in the room. I’d never known a dog allowed in a house before, let alone a bedroom. Old Jack appeared on the top step in his dressing gown. He stooped and then, with a grunt, patted Rover. They seemed good mates. He stretched, reached inside his pocket, and started another ritual that was far more intriguing than his eating habits. He began a weird charade of rolling a fag. I’d known a smoker before, but I’d never seen a smoke rolled while the roller had a convulsion, and I’d certainly never seen anyone finish a whole cigarette in one deep drag. Meanwhile, Rover disappeared briefly, piddling on every post within 25 yards of our bungalows. The dog shook himself vigorously and then returned hurriedly. Did he enjoy the fag-rolling as well?
In the meantime, old Jack unscrewed the round, orange lid on his tin of Log Cabin, plucked out a small wad of tobacco, and rubbed it around in his palms. The smell — a pleasant, rich odour — wafted in my direction.
Temporarily, his lips held a cigarette paper. Gradually, a small, blurting cough — a sort of a choking sound like a two-stroke engine refusing to start — emerged from his mouth. With this rhythm established, the volume increased to a squawk and then a splutter, spraying saliva in a circle of roughly six feet all over the concrete and Rover.
Old Jack then pulled the cigarette paper from his mouth and coughed some more. By this time, it was a deep, loud, rumbling, gut-wrenching growl like a possum in the mating season. His body started to bend forward and wobble, the cough got deeper and louder, and the process of rolling the cigarette continued. By now, my mouth was agape. This was incredible.
Finally, with his belly flopping up and down, his face red, his eyes bulging, and his hands reaching for the matches, old Jack spat out an oyster-like, solid piece of phlegm the size of a large grape. Thwack! It hit the saliva-sprayed concrete, and Rover barked. I was stunned. The dog sniffed at the vile globule warily.
I’d never seen anything like it. I felt like applauding this exhausting feat of human endurance. But the show wasn’t over yet — this was only act one.
To finish his oyster-ejection spit and rasping convulsion, old Jack, with his head lolling over his belly and his belly jammed between his knees, shoved the rolled cigarette into his mouth, struck a match, and lit ’er up. By the time he was vertical, he’d sucked the fag down to his lips and thrown it away. A large ahhh then came out of his mouth, he thumped his chest, and started rolling another.
I guessed that, for old Jack, this was the perfect start to the day. As for me, well, I reckoned I should’ve clapped. But being a young farm labourer who wasn’t exactly known for bursting into spontaneous applause, I remained quiet. Rover also just sat, mouth agape, head twisted to on
e side in a look of admiration, I thought. Thankfully, he didn’t touch the repulsive blob of spit.
So in the one day I had met an esteemed gentleman with fascinating eating habits who smoked non-stop all day, and had a foul tongue and a worthless, ugly dog.
Despite all this, old Jack seemed content on his farm doing small jobs, tinkering in the woolshed, and driving around with Rover perched up in the front seat of the blue ute. He would often talk away to Rover and pat the dog’s head. I admit the dog didn’t answer, but there was eye contact between them.
Over time, I could see that old Jack struggled when it came to doing the stock work on his farm. No wonder, as he and Rover were both useless — old Jack being too crotchety, and Rover having no idea. Whenever I watched old Jack trying to muster, very quickly there would be swearing. His voice would grow louder as he spat out numerous confusing commands like a passionate, browned-off footy supporter. Meanwhile, the dog tried to round up the sheep while turning to look desperately at his owner. There was only one command that Rover appeared to obey and that was, ‘Git in tha ute, ya hopeless ugly bugger of a bloody thing.’
Now, I didn’t own a dog — just a slow, old horse. But after only a couple of weeks, I soon found myself helping old Jack in the paddock. This usually happened after I finished work. He would sidle up to me and quietly ask, ‘Can you give us a hand mustering some sheep, mate?’
I obliged if I wasn’t busy. Then it was always the same routine — the three of us, Rover, old Jack, and me, in the front of the ute, heading up into a paddock somewhere. After several opening and shutting of gates, we would be within sight of a mob of sheep. To be fair, old Jack would always try Rover first. He’d call the dog out of the ute and then shout, ‘Come here, go way out, go back, come round, speak up, sit, sit, you brindle bastard, sit!’ He would bellow as the sheep split up and ran everywhere. Rover seemed to run in decreasing, confused circles, barking occasionally. He had no idea.
‘Go back, come ’ere, come ’ere! Ah, shit. Go back! Sit! Sit! Useless bloody brindle bastard. Git in tha ute.’
Rover would then leap through the open window and sit on the seat. Old Jack would turn to me. ‘Baz, can you head off those bloody ewes, mate?’
Would you believe, I then did my sheepdog-impersonation act. It must have looked hilarious. Running and flapping my arms and making tugboat noises while copping abuse was exhausting, but it was a lot of fun and I became very fit.
As the sheep started to move along, old Jack would sit in his blue ute with hopeless bloody Rover beside him, his tongue hanging out, while I did all the dog’s work, except for the sitting. Old Jack tried it once and I think he meant it, but I drew the line at ‘Sit!’
Over the months, old Jack and I became really good mates. He let me drive his blue ute, and talked a lot about his days growing up as a youngster on the farm. He had done it tough. I enjoyed his yarns about horses and carts, the stagecoach, and when ‘gold fever’ hit the district. Listening to old Jack was like reading a good book.
It was usually as we were driving in the ute somewhere that he would begin a yarn. The funny thing was, I reckon Rover enjoyed them as well. His tongue would loll about, and there was always a gleam in his eyes.
But there came a time when I realised that old Jack had been away for about three weeks. Mind you, I didn’t give this much thought until the boss told me that old Jack was really crook: he had inoperable cancer and didn’t have long to live. That was a shock. Old Jack was a loveable character.
The other thing that was a bit of a surprise was that, before he went away, old Jack left a message with the boss. When he died, I was to have Rover. This was a strange request, and I found it a bit embarrassing. What good would a mutt like that be?
Several weeks later, poor old Jack died, and I became Rover’s new owner. To be honest, I was at a bit of a loss. The unwritten law about ineffective dogs on a farm was to give them ‘lead poisoning’ — that’s right, take them up the back paddock and shoot them. But I recalled the weird friendship that old Jack had established with Rover, and I decided I would find another owner for the dog; someone who wanted a house pet, maybe.
The problem of Rover bothered me all the next week. I kept the dog chained up most of the time, only letting him off just before I fed him each night. That way, I knew he’d come when called — and he did, straight away. Then, one night, I asked the boss to tell me a bit about old Jack’s dog.
‘He was trained by one of the best trainers around, a bloke from Bairnsdale,’ the boss said. ‘In fact, old Jack paid a top quid for him as one of the best. But that’s the way it goes sometimes. No matter how well trained, the dog turns out a dud; a one-man dog that won’t work for anyone else. No damn good, in other words. That’s what old Jack got — a worthless mongrel.’
Come Friday, it was time to head home. During the week, I’d decided I would take the dog home. Maybe something would turn up. We had an old, black dog at home called Darky. He was a house pet and, well, maybe he would welcome a mate.
So, with Rover seated on the potato bag I had wrapped around the bar of my pushbike for his comfort, I warily pushed off for the four-mile ride home. As a precaution, I also had a long rope; just in case he wouldn’t stay on the bike, I’d let him run beside me. Then, with his front paws resting on the handlebars, and his back legs on the bar below, I peddled for home.
What I thought would be a frustrating ride, with Rover trying to get off, didn’t happen. He sat quietly. Many thoughts about the dog filled my head as I peddled along on the bike. I vaguely recall stopping for a break and showing him the view from the top of Connor’s Hill. It was magnificent. To be honest, I hoped that an answer to the dog dilemma would eventuate at home; Mum was fond of animals, and maybe she’d look after him for a time.
It was a pleasant, 30-minute ride to our house on the Tambo River. My brother Peter, aged three, was there to greet me as usual. He immediately fell in love with Rover, and in no time was hugging him and leading him around with a length of hayband (a light rope). Mum liked the dog, too. Good — that might mean he’d have a home. Phew! I was pleased, as I didn’t want to take him back to the farm.
Peter played with Rover all weekend, and Mum said that he was a quiet dog with a nice personality. She decided to keep him for the meantime.
On Monday, I rode to work believing that old Jack would be happy that his brindle mutt had a home, even if it was only a temporary one.
Several weeks passed, and I barely gave the dog a thought. Come the Friday, I rode the Malvern Star home and was pleasantly surprised to find Rover in an old pram, wrapped in a blanket, and wearing a bonnet. He was Peter’s baby, and Peter was babbling to him. Rover, his tongue hanging out, was lapping up the attention. I thought, Good. The dog’s fitted in.
Then my brother John, who also lived at home, came outside and commented, ‘Check out what Rover can do, Baz.’
John pursed his lips and then whistled Rover out of the pram, flicked his fingers, and pointed towards the kids’ new toy. Curiosity found me watching Rover rocking in a toy rocker. He sat in the seat, paws on the handles, just like on my bike, and rocked. Amazing. Then, another whistle from John, and Rover sat at his feet. John, who was enjoying this, told Peter to go and hide. Giggling, Peter scampered off and hid behind a fruit tree. Rover lay on the ground with his paws over his eyes.
‘Find Peter,’ he said.
It was obvious that Rover knew exactly where Peter was hiding, but he pretended otherwise. He wandered off aimlessly, looking and sniffing roughly in my youngest brother’s direction. A fit of giggles from Peter forced Rover to show his hand (or should that be paw?).
After much hugging and a belly scratch as the dog lay down on his back, John announced it was Rover’s turn to hide. He gave the instruction, and Rover went to another fruit tree and stood behind the trunk with his back to Peter. Peter hid his eyes, counted
roughly to ten, and then declared in baby talk, ‘Coming, ready or not!’
Rover stood very still, his head slightly turned so he could watch the proceedings. After 30 seconds, Peter had no idea where the dog was. Rover shook his collar and gave his position away, much to Peter’s delight. He thought he had found him. Mum, looking through the kitchen window, laughed.
I was puzzled. Maybe this dog had some potential. John said it had only taken him a couple of weeks to train Rover to do these tricks. Consequently, after a bit of pondering, I cautiously decided to try Rover on the farm.
He seemed pleased to sit up on my pushbike when I headed off on that Monday. Again, he was the perfect passenger. And again, I stopped at the top of Connor’s Hill. It was an exhausting ride up that long, steep incline with a dog on board. We both admired the early-morning mist that covered the Tambo Valley. The low clouds must have been 15 miles across, with just mountain peaks protruding here and there.
We were drenching sheep on the farm. The boss had normally done all the required mustering and I did the yard work. He was away this particular day, and there was one last mob to bring into the woolshed. I decided, Well, here goes — I’ll try to muster the mob of young ewes with Rover. There was no one about, and I had nothing to lose. Cautiously, I walked with him into the lucerne paddock, left the gate open, and stood beside the strainer post. Hesitantly, I said, ‘Go way out.’
Rover ran along the fence, behind the sheep.
‘Speak up.’
A good dog will bark, and force the sheep to run into a mob. Rover barked twice, and the sheep herded together.
