8. A Dog Story

The kids call him Boof because of the noise his head makes when he rams it into the screen door to let himself out. Doug calls him Boofdog because he just loves the word ‘dog’ and visualising its relationship to himself. The name has contracted to ‘Boofda’. Meg has doubts about the name. When she hears Doug booming down the street, ‘BOOFDA. GET YOUR ARSE BACK HERE!’ she says it doesn’t sound very nice. But it goes over Doug’s head and his reply is always the same, authoritative. ‘Meg, a dog has to know who is boss or he isn’t happy.’

In fact a lot of issues surrounding Boofda seem to float over the top of Doug’s head. The fact that he isn’t registered, will not remain in the confines of the back yard but chooses instead to take himself for long walks around the neighbourhood, the fact that he howls at sirens, and that he defecates daily under Liz’s magnolias, two houses down. Dogs like Boofda have a way of polarizing opinion; there are those in the street who save bones for him and those who leave their sheds open and a packet of rat sac on the bench. He’s just as likely to come home smelling of perfume or aching from a kick in the ribs.

Doug’ affection grows, daily.

The back room is under way at last. Progress is slow. Doug and Boofda have developed a routine. They wait till everyone has left the house then Doug straps on his nail pouch, slings his hammer into his belt and turns his cap around backwards. They might take a trip to the timber yard or the hardware store. If the weather is good, Boof likes to ride in the tray of the ute. Doug gives him a leg-up, and he braces himself in the rear driver-side corner because he couldn’t balance otherwise. Jowls flapping, FM radio blaring, they’re a happy couple rockin’ and rollin’ their way through the day.

However Doug’s refusal to see anything but rays of sunshine emanating for Boofda’s rear was to lead to trouble.

Work stops at midday. Doug makes himself lunch while Boofda trots down the street to drop his load under Liz’s magnolias. Regular as clockwork. On the way he passes George’s place. George is the street’s oldest resident. He’s a widower, a wiry fellow with a lot to say but difficult to understand. He’s cultivated his block – part market garden, part vineyard, part orchard, part poultry farm. On day one of his arrival, Boofda caught the scent of chicken on the breeze and made a mental note of it. George rarely goes anywhere but on this particular morning Boofda watches as the old fellow climbs into a taxi and is driven away. It’s now or never.

He sticks with the ritual; drops his load at Charles and Liz’s but instead of returning home, limps down their driveway. Couldn’t be better. George has built the coop against the fence. With minimal digging, Boofda makes a gap under the panel and wriggles through into the harem. Feathers fly but it’s only seconds before he has a Rhode Island Red, a pullet, firmly in his jaws. Back under the fence, down the drive and out onto the street, cool as a cucumber, he returns home. His head is turned towards the fence to mask the catch. Once on home turf, he relaxes and galumphs joyfully into the back yard to share his prize with Doug.

His joy is short lived. When Doug looks over his mug of tea and sees the chicken he turns thunderous. “SHIT MATE! What have you DONE?’ Instead of praising Boof, he picks up the dead bird by its feet and hits the dog over the head with it. As he whacks the heavy canine skull, Doug says firmly, ‘NO BOOFDA! NO! NO! NO!’ Boofda sits straight and takes his punishment without flinching. He is recalcitrant. Doug sees he will have to try another tac - aversion therapy. He wraps the carcass around Boof’s neck and secures the feet through his collar. The scaly toes dangle by his ears like a pair of pendant earrings. Doug marches him to the clothes-line and ties him on a very short rope, ‘STAY,” he growls, unnecessarily. Then he turns his back on his dog and returns to work.

Boofda remains tied to the clothesline for most of the afternoon. Whenever Doug walks past him to fetch a level or plug in the drill, he drops to his belly and sighs a guttural sigh.

After several hours of this, when Doug feels Boofda has been punished enough, he moves to untie him and begin the process of reconciliation. But the rope lies frayed and slack on the grass, the chicken stiff beside. Boofda is gone.

Doug is panic-stricken. Did he go too far? Has Boofda left home? It’s a cruel world out there. He could get stolen, run over, killed and skinned for his pelt, used for illegal dog fighting, injected with bacteria at the serum laboratory, forced to stand at stud …why did I have to make such a big deal of it? Maybe he killed in self-defense. The chicken is Boof’s. He would find him, give it back; make amends.

Picking up the stiff bird he runs out of the yard and onto the road. Swinging it in the air, to spread the scent, he calls, ‘BOOFDAAA!’

And that’s how Meg finds him when she turns the corner into their street - striding down the middle of the road, swinging the pullet in great circles. He’s taken his T-shirt off and tucked it into the back of his jeans and it sways behind him like a tail. When he sees Meg, he stops and rattles the passenger door. ‘Open it. Open it,’ he pleads.

‘What’s going on?’ she reaches over and lifts the lock.

‘Just drive,’ he says. Plonking in the seat, he hugs the chook, ‘Boofda’s left home. Just drive.’

Around and around they go and while they drive Doug pours out the story.

It’s hopeless; he’s nowhere to be seen. But at last, they turn one more corner and there, up ahead, is a divvy van and a three-legged dog being hoisted into the back. The policeman slams the door, climbs in behind the wheel and indicates he’s pulling into the traffic. ‘Pull over. Pull over.’ Doug grabs the steering wheel off Meg. He leaps out of the car, runs to the van and thumps on the roof.

‘What’s your problem mate?’ A pair of mirror sunglasses looks up at him.

‘Me dog. You’ve got me dog.’

‘What isn’t a dead chook enough for you? You want a dog as well?’

Doug hides the chicken behind his back.

The sunglasses stare for a moment. The officer’s face is impossible to read. Then he speaks, ‘Well I’m sorry to be the one to break the news to you, this close to Christmas, but Tripod here is unregistered. He fits the description of a felon, about whom we have a list of complaints and you are about to be served a Two Hundred Dollar fine and if unable to pay, will be required to give of your time to the community.’

After signing some papers, Meg and Doug are allowed to take Boofda home. It’s so good to have him back. Doug is wrung out after all the drama and Meg and the kids fuss over him. But after dinner it’s time for a family conference.

What is it to be, a Two Hundred Dollar fine or community service? Money is tight, no buts about it. ‘But is that the point?’ Meg raises the question.

Darryn-the-eldest says, ‘Mr. Trimboli breeds Rhode Island Reds. The chook belongs to him.’

Lily-the-youngest says, ‘We all knew Boof wasn’t registered.’

Meg says, ‘We’re all in this together Doug. You don’t have to deal with it on your own.’

And so decisions are made. Darren and Lily will take the chook back to George and apologise. Lily lines a box with pelargonium flowers and arranges the corpse respectfully. It’s agreed that Boofda must accompany Darren and Lily and face the victim’s family. Meg and Doug are to find out what’s involved in community service. It will be inconvenient to say the least. With a month to go before Christmas, the back is off the house and they step out of the kitchen and onto a large concrete slab. But there is a debt and it must be paid.

It’s a week before Doug receives his community service order. He is to contact Acacia Lodge, a hostel for the elderly. He is to speak to a Mrs. Margaret Slight, the manager, and arrange to do three weeks voluntary work in the kitchen.

He turns up bright and early on Monday morning and he and Margaret hit it off immediately. They’re going to get on like a house on fire. He is to start with the preparation of lunch vegetables. But such is his efficiency, he’s soon monitoring the corn beef, whizzing up a smooth white sauce and then it’s off to the dinning room to straighten the chairs and set the tables. With half an hour to kill, he takes himself for a walk along the corridors and into the communal lounge. Without ceremony he is immersed in conversation with Arthur and Iris who spent many years in South Australia collecting twisted wood for use in fresh water aquariums. Arthur has a piece in the Sydney Aquarium at Circular Key. Fancy that!

Doug waits on tables and when lunch has been cleared away, he joins Margaret out the back by the bins for a coffee and a smoko. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he says taking Margaret up on her offer of a Benson and Hedges. ‘Just don’t tell the wife, she thinks I’ve given up. But the odd one doesn’t hurt, eh?’

Later, he’s loading tea towels into the washing machine and Clarrie wanders into the laundry for a yarn. He grew up in Gippsland cattle country, back of Bairnsdale. Remembers the 1939 bushfires. ‘Only time I ever knew horses to lose their way.’

At the end of day one, Doug is hooked and committed to aged care. By the middle of the week, word is out that he’s handy. On Friday he brings in his tools to do a bit of work around the place: a derailed sliding door, dripping tap, broken toilet seat, that sort of thing. During a break and enjoying a B&H with Margaret, he says, ‘Margaret, have you ever thought of having a dog visit the residents? I’ve heard said that a dog is a good thing for people in aged care. If you like I could bring mine in.’

‘Good idea Doug. One of our aides used to bring in her Maltese. Miffie was very popular.’

Margaret is a little taken aback when she sees Boofda limping in behind Doug, a piece of tinsel threaded through his flea collar but she refrains from comment.

Boofda has an instinct for who needs attention and who needs an avoidance relationship. He spots Clarrie on the far side of the lounge, alone and staring into nothingness. Clarrie senses someone watching him and turns; their eyes lock. Boofda limps across the room, and without hesitation, pushes his nose into the old man’s crotch and breathes deep. Clarrie rests a gnarled hand on that broad head. He looks up at Doug, his eyes moist, and whispers, ‘You got yourself a cattle dog mate,’

‘Too right, I got meself a dog,’ says Doug.

Margaret smiles, picks up the B&H and lighter, raises an eyebrow at Doug and heads out to the bins.

And every Monday morning, until Old George Trimboli dies in his sleep, Meg finds half a dozen eggs in a plastic bag hanging over the back fence.