The View From Connor's Hill

by Barry Heard

  ‘Come over here.’

  He started to come towards me when some of the sheep broke away.

  ‘Go back!’ I shouted, fearing this would be one test he wouldn’t pass.

  He not only went back; he headed them. Then, knowing where I planned to take the sheep, he started to quietly push them towards the gate. Within an hour, to my amazement, I realised this dog was good — very good. I realsied that Rover was a good paddock dog, which made me very happy. I gave him a cautious pat.

  Getting sheep to the woolshed and yards efficiently was an enormous time-saver on a farm. Then, with the mustering finished, you’d go and get the yard dog. A yard dog has to be forceful, aggressive, and tough. It runs across the sheep’s backs, and turns them towards the desired direction. It has to have almost perfect balance. Many times, in a small yard packed with sheep, a dog will fall, disappearing underneath. At times, the dog is trampled quite severely. Most farms have two or three dogs — a cattle dog, one for the paddock, and another for the yards. Rover was better in the yard than the paddock. He was an all-round stock dog. In fact, he was a champion. It made sense that old Jack had paid a top quid for him.

  I returned home to Mum and Dad at the end of the week with Rover proudly perched up with his paws on the handlebars. No sooner had I walked in the back door than I burst out with tales of the remarkable abilities and skills that this rather ugly-looking, part-Kelpie dog had shown. Admittedly, both of my parents had never owned or worked a sheepdog. They simply had to take my word for it that Rover was an exceptional dog.

  It wasn’t long before he was able to prove me correct. It was later that same year, I recall, after my parents had purchased a farm at Tongio. Here was my opportunity — when we put our first sheep on our new property. Mum had bought the sheep, a mob of fine-woolled merino wethers, at a sale. A truck had dropped all five hundred of them at our yards during the week, and Mum had gone up and let them out into the ridge paddock. This paddock had a bit of bush and a very steep, large ridge. Dad and I didn’t get to see the sheep, as we were busy for the next two weeks.

  It was the third weekend before I first saw the wethers. Dad, Mum, and I went up to the farm. I was going to muster them with Rover, check them for flystrike and any dags, and decide if they needed crutching. On the drive to the farm, Rover sat on the floor in the front of the Land Rover at my feet. That is what he’d been trained to do. Apparently, old Jack had taken ages to entice Rover onto the seat of his blue ute.

  On arrival, we all got out and walked down by the small creek from where we could see the sheep. Sure enough, they were way up high on a very steep ridge. Both my parents looked in my direction, half expecting me to say, ‘Wait there. Rover and I will go up the ridge and return with the sheep.’

  I had a different plan; I was simply busting to show them what this remarkable dog could do. I knew I could send him into any paddock. He, in turn, would carefully check the entire area and return with all the sheep. So, raising my right arm, I pointed and said to Rover, ‘Go. Way away out.’

  Now, this paddock was huge. To walk around the boundary would take at least 45 minutes. Rover cast out very wide, and vanished through the small clump of bush. He emerged halfway up the grassy ridge and finally disappeared over the crest of the hill. Meanwhile the sheep, which were near the top, ran together. We could just make them out; they were peering at Rover over the other side somewhere. I waited proudly. I knew Rover would find this task a piece of cake. The sheep on top of the ridge remained fixated on what I guessed must have been Rover way down the other side, bringing up the stragglers.

  Then something strange happened. The sheep we could see — I might add that they were some 500 yards away, on top of a long spur — stopped looking. They returned to their task of walking slowly while nibbling away at the grass. We waited and waited until Dad said, ‘What’s going on?’

  I had no idea, and remarked as much. It was a bit awkward for me, after all the bragging and boasting I had done about my Rover. Finally, after quite a wait, I decided to walk over the ridge and see what was going on. It was a long, hard climb. I couldn’t work out what the dog had done. Had he become frightened in this unfamiliar area and cleared off home? That was hard to believe; home was fourteen miles away. Then again, a farmer I knew at Ensay had a dog that was a good worker, but very timid. If this bloke yelled at his dog, it would put its tail between its legs and trot home gracefully. Maybe Rover had found a rabbit or a wombat, and had decided to give chase. There were many rabbits on the farm.

  Finally, puffing profusely, I reached the top of the high ridge and started over the other side, and there was Rover. He was sitting about 20 yards away from a very badly flyblown sheep. I couldn’t believe it. The sheep had become so weak that it couldn’t walk. I guessed it must have run off on its own when it spotted the dog. Rover had given chase, and the sheep had run until it was exhausted. In Rover’s mind, because of his training, a dog must never leave a sheep behind. I was so proud — I called him to me and tried to indicate that it was the smartest thing I’d ever seen a dog do. I’m not sure if he was impressed, but I was. He hesitated when I called him away from the flyblown sheep.

  We then mustered the remainder, finally got them into the yards, and I went about my job.

  Several hours later, I returned with some shears and a bottle of blowfly oil, and attended the sick sheep. It was quite an effort climbing back up that steep ridge because I was carrying all the gear as well as some water. On my arrival, the sheep looked very weak and hollow. Just on dark, it got to its feet and quietly walked back to the mob. Thanks to Rover, the sheep survived.

  As I mentioned, buying the sheep property at Tongio was exciting. My parents, particularly Mum, told all and sundry that Rover was the best dog on earth.

  Certainly, the mustering, yard work, and sheep management on our new farm was easy. Every other weekend I did stock work with Rover, and he made it all a delight. However, the first major problem we faced at the Tongio farm was rabbits. They were in plague proportions all over the farm. Dad told people, ‘There are so many rabbits that when you clap your hands the farm jumps backwards three feet!’

  At first, we tried ripping burrows with the bulldozer, but this made no difference. Someone suggested ‘myxo’, so I caught a number of rabbits and had them tagged to make sure I could return them to the correct burrow. All up, I had 20 rabbits when I visited the lands department in Swifts Creek. They inoculated the rabbits with myxomatosis.

  Returning to the farm, I let the rabbits go near their burrows and we waited. We hoped for rain, because mosquitoes spread the myxomatosis virus; the moisture aids their breeding. Typical of most trials using that virus, initially there was a good kill. Then, over an eighteen-month period, the number of rabbits went back to where we’d started from. Finally, later that same year, with the introduction of 1080 bait, the rabbit problem vanished. In a matter of months, after we’d used several free feeds of carrots and then the poisoned batch, the rabbits disappeared almost overnight. It made a big difference to the farm. It carried a lot more sheep, and Bob, a good builder, planned to build a woolshed with yards.

  By the time Rover turned four-and-a-half, I’d had him for more than eighteen months. He was a brilliant stock dog with sheep or cattle, and a dear friend. He would work tirelessly and never let me down. Well, that’s not quite true; there was one day …

  It was a very hot summer’s day, and Rover and I had been working in the yards drenching sheep on the farm at Ensay. With a pen just completed, we headed back out to the paddock to collect the next mob. He rounded up a lively mob of two-tooth ewes, and we were about to move them through the laneway paddock. As I un-snibbed the gate, I nodded to Rover; the heat was oppressive, and he just looked at me and kept panting away. But there was a reason I nodded at the dog. Both of us had to have our wits about us. With other sheep in the same paddock, there was always a risk. As we
moved the mob through the gateway, I would send Rover around the other sheep. He, in turn, would force them across the dry creek bed and into a corner of the laneway. That meant we were free to quickly progress down the paddock, making sure we held our mob tight as they moved along the opposite fence. You had to have a good dog; otherwise, if the mob I was mustering mixed, or ‘boxed’, with the others, it would cause many problems. Even determining which sheep came from which mob could take ages.

  Rover was doing his usual job — effortlessly controlling the mob — when something happened. Never before had he done this. Suddenly he left the mob, ducked beneath the wire fence, and tore up another paddock with blistering speed. I whistled frantically, but he simply ignored me. Hell’s bells! There was the dog going in the wrong direction, and the mob heading towards the other sheep in the paddock — what was I to do? Stunned, I did nothing. Then, all of a sudden, it dawned on me. Rover was heading for a cattle trough. He dived in and rushed along the length of the metal trough with his mouth wide-open, gulping water until he reached the other end. Leaping out, he turned and headed back towards the mob of sheep, and rounded them up just before a disaster happened. The blighter — he worked them back into a tight mob and then for the first time gave me eye contact. It was a very sheepish look. That poor, bloody dog — he’d been dying of thirst. He couldn’t turn on a tap like the one I did at the woolshed and have a long drink. Cunning beggar — I reckoned he worked out exactly when to leave the sheep and tear up the paddock for that precious drink. I didn’t pat him. Instead, I got off Swanee, my horse, and called Rover and gave him a hug.

  There was no question that I loved this dog. His loyalty was total. Nevertheless, he had a couple of infuriating habits. One was farting, which I’ll come to later. The other habit was indulged in so often that there were times when I nearly fell off Swanee while craning my head trying to find him. Yes, Rover continually walked with his damn head between the horse’s hind legs, so close that I couldn’t see him. Knowing Swanee, I bet he was a party to this. There I’d be on the horse heading up the paddock, turning, stretching, looking, just making sure Rover was with me. If it was midday with the sun overhead, I had no hope. Earlier or later, I would see his shadow bobbing along. Yet once we were in the proximity of the sheep, I would whistle, point in a direction and, suddenly, like magic, he would appear. The following year, when we went droving and spent day in and day out wandering behind the calves, I wouldn’t see him for hours. A lot of working dogs have this habit.

  Like most animals, including humans, Rover enjoyed praise and pats. But, most of all, he enjoyed travelling. Many dogs do. He sat on the bonnet of the tractor, or with me on the saddle of the horse, particularly if he was weary. He loved the Land Rover, a four-wheel-drive vehicle I drove when fencing or doing practical jobs. Rover would stand with his head out of the sliding window, his ears flapping, and his drool running down the door.

  Most of all, he loved my new motorbike. Yes, I had updated from the pushbike. We had so much fun. I had no helmet or protective gear, and I rode it with typical teenage bravado and stupidity: flat out and then a sliding stop were the only speeds I used on the 175cc Super Bantam. About 40 miles per hour was ‘flat out’. Rover sat on the fuel tank, between my arms. We had quite a few prangs in the paddocks, but we were never hurt — just bruised. He loved the Bantam, and whenever I said, ‘The bike, mate,’ he would grin, rush over, and sit beside it.

  However, when things got a bit hairy on the Bantam, I was on my own. Rover had a knack of abandoning the bike just before I skidded across wet grass backwards, the motorbike beside me bumping along with its engine screaming. But it wasn’t always good fun. One day, as he was about to hop onto the bike, he put both his paws on the red-hot exhaust pipe. I got a very dirty look. Would I ever get him on the bike again? Typically, Rover decided the best way to do it was to sprint at the motorbike and leap into the air from about three yards away. My part was to catch him. It worked, the smart blighter!

  A good farm sheepdog has many skills. However, the thing I admired the most in Rover was the way he worked at lambing time. I loved lambing down on a farm. Every morning, very early, you’d go around to the ewes and their new lambs. If everything was going well, you’d move the ewes that had lambed that night into an adjoining paddock. It was hard; the dog had to separate the new mothers by wandering quietly through the mob. You hoped that the dog could bring the lambs along as well, but this rarely happened. Nevertheless, some dogs invented ways to catch the lambs. Bonny, the boss’s dog, would hold them in her mouth until he came over and picked up the lamb. Typically, Rover was different. He would knock them over and gently put a paw on the lamb until I came over and carried the lamb quietly behind its mother.

  Like any good sheepdog that’s well known in a district, Rover enabled me to get work away from the farm, like rouseabouting — working as a handyman in a woolshed picking up fleeces, sweeping, penning up, and doing many other jobs. The word soon got around that not only could I rouseabout but, more importantly, I came with a very handy dog, and so could help before and after a day’s shearing as well. This meant that we got a lot of woolshed work around the district. Thanks to Rover, I was getting work that paid better. Fortunately, the boss didn’t mind.

  Every year I had more woolshed work, and shearing time couldn’t come quickly enough for me. Most runs lasted two or three weeks. Then the bales of wool were loaded onto a semi-trailer and taken to the sales in Melbourne or Geelong. On the last day, there would be a break-up. The owners would put on beer and food while the workers created the atmosphere, and it was great fun. Then I would move on to another shed.

  Over the years, I met most of the district’s shearers, wool classers, and wool pressers. I enjoyed the atmosphere of the woolshed. I would live on the owner’s farm during shearing, as most had shearers’ quarters. At daybreak, Rover and I would help the farmer muster and pen up. Then, after shearing, I’d brand the shorn sheep and return them to their paddocks that night. By most evenings, Rover was exhausted, and I always asked the shearers’ cook for any scraps. Rover enjoyed many a hearty meal. Then at bedtime, just like old Jack, I let him sleep in my room in the shearers’ quarters. He would disgrace himself with ripe, heavy farts — always with a smirk on his dial, the blighter, but I tolerated the foul air. It only became a problem sometime later …

  The dog’s status spread, and I vividly recall the day when local legend Alan Taylor asked me to work as a drover. He was the head drover responsible for all the cattle and sheep taken long distances from the remote areas of the high country to the railhead at Bairnsdale, and he asked me to do some cattle droving. What a privilege. Here was a chance to drove hundreds of calves from the isolation of Benambra to Bairnsdale, and I’d be paid for it. I couldn’t wait. The first time I did the trip, my job was at the tail end — I was the last person at the back of the mob, with a packhorse as my companion. At times, I would lead cars through the mob and do some droving. I was very young, and the boss drover was checking me out. It was almost like a test.

  I enjoyed unloading the bulky, canvas-covered load on the draught horse each night. I would put out the swags, the camp oven, and the cooking gear and frame that held the oven over the fire. It was my job to collect firewood, light a fire, and help prepare the food. However, first things first — I would put the billy on and make a brew. Our water was in waterbags, and at times I rode down to the river to fill them up. Other times, a local homestead provided the water. With the drovers all enjoying a cuppa, I would feed the dogs, and would finally join the men around an open fire and hoe into a glorious meal. It was a treat.

  The following year I became a drover with my own small mob. The first calf sales were always at Benambra. This year, the three of us — Rover, Swanee, and I — had arrived quite early at the yards. I brushed Swanee, and I gave Rover the large bone I’d hidden in the saddlebag. As the last pen went to auction, I mounted up, my freshly oiled stock
whip hanging over my right arm as we waited. Rover had dashed away for three nervous pees. Once the sale ended, the calves would be let out of the yards in no time, and then it was the drovers’ time. We couldn’t wait. Local talk had it that this year the Benambra area and the high plains had enjoyed a good spring and summer, particularly in the bush. It had been a good sale:the calves had sold for record prices, and they were in prime, sappy condition. It also meant they would be brisk, energetic, and harder to control.

  Picture these young calves — most of them not long separated from their mothers — calling out frantically, panting almost to the point of exhaustion in the eerie, noisy environment of the sale yards. The auctioneer and his minders would walk along the top rail of the yards after each pen was knocked down to the highest bidder. The auctioneer almost sang as if performing the lead role in a comic opera. Bids would be thrown in rapidly while the chorus or the auctioneer’s scouts called ‘yes!’ or ‘hep!’ in a loud voice. With a clap of the hands, the final bid was announced and everyone would move to the next pen. It was quite a performance. The first time I saw a sale, I thought they were all drunk. Imagine how the calves felt, with a strange voice bellowing weird noises overhead as dozens of people peered at them through rails or while perched on top.

  The Benambra sale finished early. With the last pen sold, these frightened young calves were drafted, organised, and counted. Some would only be travelling small distances to local farms; these would stay in the yards overnight. The remainder, the bulk of them, would be herded together in a large yard, and rushed through open gates without warning onto an open road, only to face strange horses and smart, sharp, loud dogs, cracking whips, and men giving orders. There would be several hundred calves, all about to start the long journey to Bairnsdale. You could sense the fear building in these young animals. They needed a strong hand, guidance, and compassion. Always, the drover’s first job was to settle them, circle them, talk to them, calm them, and avoid haste. If possible, this happened quickly, and the boss’s instructions were always to keep them in a tight pack. This not only required cool heads from the drovers; attentive dogs and watchful horses also played a part. It was like an event with an audience.