Red Dog of the West - Paul Springthorpe

[Paul]

RED DOG - LEGEND OF THE WEST


I was sick. Even if I was hungry I should never picked up that bit of rabbit, it just didn't smell right.

Fancy a dog as old and as wise as I am falling for the old strychnine bait routine, I should have had more bloody sense.

I was laying on the floor of Karratha Police Station on a blanket supplied by the local Trap, (policeman) a kindly soul who had pointed his gun thing at me a couple of times but with a tear in his eye, he dropped the gun and looked away. I kept blacking out and when I came to the soft bastard would be holding me and patting me saying, "S'allright Red, you'll be right mate". His gentle handling comforted me so I thought I'd grab some shut-eye and dream of things past.

I was born in Paraburdoo in 1971, the product of a romantic liaison between a cattle dog and a Kelpie. There's no doubt I had the speed and agility of the Kelpie but my looks favoured the sturdy lines of the cattle dog. Apart from anything else I was an Aussie, a 'dinki di' one at that, I was called 'Bastard' as many times as I was called Red or Blue, so I responded to all those names. However, if I was called, "You dirty smelly Bastard", I made myself pretty scarce, it seems that humankind was not enchanted by my silent farts in confined spaces. Don't know why, it never bothered me.

So for the first 18 months of my life I called Paraburdoo home and I soon made it my job to regularly visit all the popular places to find out what humankind was up to and see how much food I could scrounge. The pickings were always fairly good, especially when I sat in front of humans with a sad look and 'I'm hungry' routine. It just seemed as though I'd got the town trained when my human got himself transferred to Dampier and I had to go with him.

I started the 340km trip sitting in the back seat of the car with the family. Looking out of the window watching the dust churned up by the car wheels I let go a 'real ripper', one which I had been cooking for hours. With cries of "phew" and, "You dirty bastard, your guts must be rotten", I was expelled from the car while the doors were fanned energetically to remove the fragrance. Confined to the trailer for the rest of the trip the only thing visible about me at the end of the journey were my eyes, the rest of me was head to tail dust.

It didn't take me long to adjust to Dampier, my humans used to take me for long walks on the beach which just happened to be a good picnic spot. Barbeques were a favourite pastime and I could easily con people out of the odd chop, sausage, or my all-time favourite, steak. It was on one of my self imposed beach inspections that I came across a solitary figure cooking over a small fire in the sand.

Squatting on his heels and moving food around on a flat rock with a stick he looked at me, "G'day mate, you hungry?" he said. I wagged my tail in eager anticipation of a feed. "My, we are the friendly one" he said, "Won't be long and you can help me with the tucker, there's more than enough for two". All the time he was cooking he was talking. He spoke of roads long since walked, freedom to come and go as he pleased, people met, friends made and his beautiful 'Oorstra-lia'. I shared his delicious food and from the moment on shared his lifestyle, I never returned home again, I became a K9 swaggy.

Choosing a life of freedom has its drawbacks, you still have to eat and shelter is a must during inclement weather so I decided to develop a circle of friends that would provide me with both. It was always the men that gave me morsels of meat off the barbeques at Dampier Beach so obviously they were the ones that I should target. I soon found my way to the Single Men's quarters and immediately knew I was on to a good thing.

I was provided with food, a place to sleep if I needed it, the odd game of rough and tumble and just the right amount of love and affection. A couple of guys didn't take too kindly to me hanging around but all of the others were genuinely pleased to see me. What was more important, none of them tried to chain me; I was allowed to come and go as I please.

Using the Single Men's quarters as a base I decided to explore my new home and began ranging further each day discovering new sights and new friends. On one of my expeditions I came across a transport workshop. I was sitting in front of the workshop door having a good old scratch when a human spotted me and I was invited for lunch. Never being one to turn down a free feed I joined the circle of men who were eating from a variety of containers, one of whom proffered half a sandwich. I didn't mind the bread and the cheese was delicious but the pickled onion did peculiar things to my inner tubes.

Lying contentedly on the outside of the circle I loosed off a silent deadly one. The men suddenly stopped talking, then, "Jeez, which dirty bastard did that". Immediately recognising the words I decided discretion was the better part of valour and disappeared beneath a work-bench close to the wall. I listened to the men accusing each other of uncouth habits and lazily let my eyelids droop until I dropped off to sleep in the midday heat.

A big gentle hand with magic fingers tickling my ears brought me awake, "It was you wasn't it". The grinning human was stooped in front of the bench, ruffling my head he said, "Don't worry mate, it'll be our little secret, c'mon I'll shout you a bowl of water".

So began my friendship with the bus driver, first he would take me on the odd run with him with me always sitting in the seat behind the driver, then as the months past the runs became more regular. Often I would get off the bus and walk back to the Single Men's quarters or set off on a trip of discovery. Eventually I became so well known that if the bus drivers spotted me on the road they would stop and offer me a lift, which most times I accepted. In the end I only had to sit by the side of the road to get a lift and not just from busses either. I became so well known that cars, vans and trucks used to pull over as well.
I was always a popular passenger, well, almost always. I remember having had a fine feed one day then later boarded a bus and climbed into my usual seat. The unsurfaced road jiggled my innards with the inevitable result, the bus suddenly slammed to a halt with the driver and passengers scrambling for the door. Eventually, after much test sniffing of the atmosphere by the driver they all boarded the bus again and we went on our way with many comments of, "Dirty Bastard". Those seats adjacent to mine once occupied were now vacant, the previous occupants moving further down the back of the bus.

I was walking down the dusty road one hot summers morning when I heard the distant sounds of an approaching bus, "Bewdy" I thought, I was fed up with walking and the prospect of a comfortable ride was far more attractive than the dust and every increasing number of flies. I sat at the side of the road and waited for the bus to stop.

Jumping through the opened door I was greeted by the driver with a, "Hi Red" and a ruffle on top of my head as I paid my respects. I then moved to jump onto my seat only to find it occupied by a human. I made it very clear to the man in singlet and shorts that he was sitting in my seat but all he said was, "Piss orf ya mongrel bastard". The driver turned and said to 'singlet', "You're sitting in his seat". An argument ensued, then the driver made it very clear that until he moved and allowed me to occupy my seat, the bus wasn't going anywhere. With a lot of whinging 'singlet' finally moved to the rear of the bus shaking his head in disbelief.

Such was my standing on the buses that one day when a new driver refused to allow me on, all my mates at the mine walked off the job in protest. There was even talk of stronger industrial action including a strike, but the new driver was made aware of my status and in the end all was forgiven.

Continued.......

[Paul]

continuation......

At dusk one evening I was trotting down the road minding my own business when a car clipped me, the mongrel who was driving didn't even stop to see if I was alright. I was later found by the occupants of another car who took me to Dampier Salt where I was well known. They always looked after me at the Salt and when poor injured me was unloaded their faces were full of concern. I was promptly given a bath (which I could have done without) and my wounds were then treated in a very expert manner. Excellent care, love, affection and copious amounts of confectionery soon had me back on my feet again.

The men at the Salt were great and I used the place as my base. When sick or injured after the many dog fights I used to get into I always made my way back there, for there I knew I would always receive help. The men made me a member of the Sports & Social club, I was given membership to Metal Trades Union and they registered me with the local council. They even opened a bank account for me, life couldn't have been better.

Of course I only stopped at the Salt for small periods, the wander lust would hit me, so I would climb into one of the visitor’s cars and see where the journey would take me. Often I would stop in the car owners home for two or three days, especially during the very hot weather and relax in the comfort of their air-conditioned homes. Just when they thought I would be settling in with them for good, they'd find me sitting in their car ready to continue my travels.

I had spent three days with one of those car owners who lived at Karratha when I decided that a feed of rabbit was in order so I set off for the hills. Some city cowboy mistook me for a bloody dingo and loosed off a volley of shots in my direction. I felt my back leg give way but managed to gain the shelter of some scrub so that the maniac couldn't find me. I heard him calling to his mate that he was sure he had it me but after a while they gave up the search and went away. Shit, I was in trouble, two bullet holes in my back leg and I was miles away from the Salt, "What the hell do I do now?" I thought.

Salvation came in the shape of a local from Karratha who found me in a hollow licking at my wounds. A message was sent to my friends at the Salt who collected me and made a dash for the vet at Port Headland. When the vet said I was out of danger the guys shot off to celebrate at the hotel while I had a bit of a snooze. They celebrated alright, so much so they were arrested for D.U.I. and spent the night as guests of Port Headland traps. After being released next morning they collected me from the vets and walking through the town they were amazed at the amount of people who knew me and stopped to give me a pat. Of course they knew me, I had been in town many times before. I was known by many people in many areas for I had travelled to Point Samson, Tom Price mine site, Broom, Roebourne and I even made it to Perth on a couple of occasions.

That the people loved me was without question, concerned about my welfare they were always looking out for me, they even organized chook raffles to raise funds for my bank account. I was one lucky dog, plenty of food, great friends, a bank account and the biggest back yard any dog could ever have.

At one time heartworm was prevalent in the district and some of my friends decided I should have preventative treatment. As no chain, or fence could prevent my escape the Roebourne Shire dog catcher was assigned to take me into custody for three weeks of constant medication. Actually the dogs home wasn't a bad place to put my feet up, the food was good and it was nice to be in the company of my own kind for awhile.

Word spread to some of my other friends that I had been impounded and rumours as to my fate were embellished over glasses of beer at the local pub. So it was that a couple of friends who could only be classed as "pissed", broke into the dogs home and set us all free. I sort of enjoyed that little adventure, while all the dogs bolted I made sure that I followed a collie bitch who had been driving me crazy with her scent for the last couple of days. Catching up to her I had my evil way not just once but twice over the next few hours. With a satisfied grin I left her as she headed for town, in nine weeks time she would have several little bundles to remember me by.

I was sat there by the side of the road feeling all warm and tingling from my sexual exertions when the dog catchers van came trundling along. He stopped and without hesitation I jumped in the cab along side him so I could continue my treatment. The other dogs in the back were barking furiously at my favoured treatment, stuff 'em, I knew who was King Pin.

I didn't have much to do with other dogs unless of course they were females who were feeling more than a little amorous. There was one dog at the Salt though, a big mother plucker of a Great Dane, jeez he was a big bastard. Every time we met we would beat the crap out of each other each time the men pulling us apart before serious damage was done, he might have been bigger than me but I always managed to give as much as I got. He was the only dog I never managed to beat and that was only because we were always separated but he was a tough nut and I had a sneaky sort of respect for him. All the other dogs in the area were whimps compared to him.

I was courteous with friends’ dogs in the houses I stopped at, I refrained from beating them up as a mark of respect but if they had a female on heat I always made sure that they would have an increase in family.

Coming awake with a start to hands roaming over my body and a thermometer being inserted in a rather personal place.

"OK Red" said the vet, "Just checking you out mate". As sick as I felt I raised my head and licked his hand, over the years the vet had helped me out time and time again. He looked to the police officer, "How long has he been like this?" he asked.

"About 24 hours, you were out of town and we have done all we can for him, I tried to put him down but I just couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger, the poor bastards really been suffering." the police officer replied.

"Beats me that he's still alive" said the vet, "Let's get him into my car and I'll care for him at the surgery". Getting his hands gently underneath me he picked me up, I broke wind as he did so. "Dirty bastard" he said lovingly.

A week passed and I was feeling a little better so I escaped down to the local pub to see if any of my old friends were around. I barely made it, my eyes were swimming and I felt very unsteady on my feet. Some kind soul picked me up and returned me to the surgery.

I knew my life was coming to an end but I had no regrets. What other dog could boast having had the freedom I'd had, and I doubt any other dog could count his friends in hundreds, possibly thousands. Yes, it had been a good life.

On Tuesday 20th November 1979 the vet reluctantly put Red to sleep. Red had hung on for 10 days, a valiant effort indeed, but the last three days of his life he was semi-conscious and in obvious pain. Red is remembered by a memorial and has passed into Australian folklore; his memory will last as long as there is an Aussie left to tell a yarn.

©Paul Springthorpe. Media Production Services 1990. Extracted from, ‘It’s a dog’s life.’ All rights reserved.