Some of My Friends Have Tails

by Sara Henderson

  He was also taught to growl when you stopped scratching his chest. He did love having his chest scratched, so this soon developed as a trick. If Cosmo growled, he could have more scratching; it didn’t take him long to get the picture. But often an unsuspecting visitor would have to be rescued.

  When Cos found someone sitting in one of the lounge chairs, he would walk up to them, and very soon have his chest positioned where they could do nothing but scratch it. He’d just place one paw on the cushion on one side of the person’s legs, and the other paw on the other side. Then he would slowly, so as not to scare the living daylights out of the potential scratcher, rise up on his hind legs, until he towered over them at his full height. There was no way the person could get out, short of standing on the cushion and jumping over the arm. But as far as I know, this never happened; people just stayed immobilised, and scratched, until rescued.

  Each victim would set out to convince Cos they were his friend, and would start scratching his chest, which just happened to be blocking out most of their vision. He would assume an extremely satisfied expression which clearly indicated to the scratcher that they were doing the right thing. Sometimes they’d have quite a wait to be rescued from their predicament. If they tried to terminate the scratching, saying, ‘Nice dog, that’s enough, go away’, Cosmo would look into their eyes, with a pleasant expression on his face but a low, deep, rumbling growl coming from the depths. To be on the safe side, they kept scratching. Immense relief would spread over the scratcher’s face when one of the family appeared, and Cosmo would reluctantly relinquish his position of power.

  For the rest of the visitor’s stay, if Cosmo walked into the room and they happened to be sitting in a lounge chair, they would spring to their feet in a flash and remain standing until he left the room. Even though you told them it was a joke, and that if they could see his little tail, it was wagging all the time. One session in the lounge chair with Cosmo towering over you was enough for most people.

  Cosmo’s claim to heroism dated from when he rescued Marlee from a rather unsavoury type. We didn’t employ this man; he arrived with a contractor as a labourer. The contractor was working on water tanks, away from the house, so we didn’t see him or his workers much. But over the week, the few people who had reason to speak to this man remarked that he was not normal. I was about to discuss with Charles having him sent off the property, when his actions left no doubt that immediate action was required.

  Her father had sent Marlee over to the Two Mile Bore, which is two miles straight across the river as the crow flies, but twelve miles by road via the river crossing in shallow water at six miles, where you can see the crocodiles.

  Marlee was busy working on fence repairs, when she turned around and there he was standing behind her. He had swum the river, and his clothes were dripping wet. Marlee could see by the expression on his face that she was in trouble. She was a fair distance from the Toyota, where the shotgun was, and also her knife under the seat. She only had the pliers and fence strainers to defend herself. But she had forgotten Cosmo snoozing under a tree nearby. He had never had to save her from a dangerous situation, but she was in one now.

  Shaking with fear, she tried to bluff her way out. ‘Go back to work, now!’ she growled at the labourer. His sickly smirk made her stomach turn; her fingers tightened around the pliers, and she braced herself for an attack.

  ‘Go now!’ she screamed at him. The fear in her voice brought Cosmo out of his slumber, and he launched at the labourer in a snarling, growling, hair-bristling charge, fangs glistening in the sun, and the growl changed to a gruesome roar. The smirk of power on the labourer’s face turned to abject horror, and he turned and took off into the bush with Cos in hot pursuit.

  Marlee sagged to the ground in relief, but not for long; she quickly called Cosmo, not wanting him out of range of her voice, or following the man into the river. Dogs were top choice on a crocodile’s menu. As she called, she was running to the Toyota, and had the shotgun in her hands, ready for action. Cosmo came out of the trees, his hair still standing on end. Marlee gave him a quick hug, told him he was the best, and they both jumped into the utility and drove at high speed back to the homestead. Marlee told her father the story, the labourer was escorted off the property post-haste, and Charles had to admit Cosmo was the hero of the year.

  After Cosmo came another beautiful Rottweiler puppy called Hunter; he, too, grew to be a smart dog, learned many tricks and enjoyed participating in all events.

  Hunter used to drive all the way to Queensland with Marlee and Charlie each year. Marlee made a roof for shade, and put in a mattress so he could be comfortable. The jeep was packed with expensive tools and equipment, and when they stopped along the road for a meal they would park and leave the jeep seemingly unattended.

  The light-fingered types that sometimes hang around these places would smile to themselves, and think, city slickers, I’ll relieve them of some of that gear.

  But while they were casually leaning up against the jeep with one hand busily ferreting among the gear, suddenly a big black mass would rise out of nowhere, and growl. One guy was so terrified, he froze in position, with his hand on the chain-saw, and didn’t move until Marlee and Charlie appeared and told him he could go. Hunter didn’t have to do anything, just the look of him scared most of the thieves half to death.

  He also saved Marlee’s life, this time in the yards. She was on the top rail, leaning across to open a gate, and a bull charged the panel she was standing on. The force of the impact knocked her off balance, and she fell into the yard almost at the bull’s feet. Hunter was at her side in a flash, and went for the bull’s nose, distracting it long enough for Marlee to scramble to her feet and up the rails to safety.

  Donna and Hunter sang beautiful duets, Donna high soprano, while Hunter was deep, deep baritone. Hunter loved centre stage; he would pucker up his mouth, and let forth a beautifully controlled howl; all the time his eyes would look at you sideways, to gauge the effect this melodious sound was having on you. When you told him it was wonderful, he would take a deep breath, and increase the volume.

  If he was lying on the floor in the dark, when the generator was off, and you started to walk towards him, he seemed to know you couldn’t see him, and would warn you he was there, not with a growl, but with a sound that almost said, ‘Look out, I’m here.’

  When you said, ‘It’s okay, I can see you’, he would go back to sleep with a grunt. If you couldn’t see him and said, ‘Where are you, Hunter?’ he would stand up and you would feel a big head slip under your hand.

  That dog could almost talk! He could do many tricks; Marlee taught him to blow bubbles under water, and to dive and pick up stones on the riverbed. When we took him to the beach in Queensland, he body-surfed on the small waves on the shore. He would walk out into the surf with Marlee and Charlie, and Charlie would hold him waiting for the right wave. When Charlie launched him on a wave, he’d hold his paws out in front of him, his back legs working double time, his ears flattened against his head, and his whiskers standing straight out. He looked for all the world like a seal in the foam, riding the crest of a wave.

  He was so well trained, Marlee could put his plate of meat on the floor, and he would look at her face and wait for her to nod, or say it was ‘okay’ to eat. Although there were a few times this little trick backfired. On one occasion Marlee put his plate of meat on the kitchen floor, then raced off to answer the phone without saying ‘okay’. She talked too long, hung up, and forgot poor old Hunter. I came into the kitchen to find him standing over the plate, guarding his dinner from all the other dogs, who had finished theirs and made it clear if Hunter wasn’t going to eat his they would oblige. The saliva was dripping from his mouth as he stood guard. His eyes looked at me pleadingly: ‘Please get my mistress!’ Marlee came rushing back with me, and apologised profusely. But Hunter was more interested in the magic word ‘okay’, and he wolfed down the meat in record time before accepting praise for bein
g an obedient dog.

  Other times, when he didn’t have to wait an hour for the ‘okay to start’ order, he would play games with the other dogs. He would leave half the meat on his plate. When one of the other dogs wandered by and stopped to eat it, Hunter would sit up and growl; they would quickly drop the piece of meat and scamper away. But by far his favourite game was with the crows. He would put a bone on the lawn, then sit in the shade, just under the arches of the front verandah. The crows would land some distance away from the bone, and ‘case the joint’, then slowly hop over, pausing and searching all the time, anticipation building. When the crow could almost touch the bone, Hunter would rush out of the shadows, barking and growling. The poor old crow, inches from the inviting snack, would squawk, hop and fly to a safe distance from the bone, then just watch. Hunter would retire to the shade, and the whole procedure would be repeated. Sometimes it would go on all morning, until someone got sick of the crow squawking and the bone was removed.

  We lost Hunter last year; he died of cancer. He was part of the family for a long time, a tolerant and patient dog, kind to all the new puppies that came his way. We were very sad at his passing, but Marlee was particularly upset; he was such a faithful friend, and she missed him terribly. Franz decided she needed a puppy straight away. He called me from Darwin, saying he had found a beautiful Rottie puppy. I had reservations; I told him you had to be very careful buying Rotties and all ours had come from the South, from established and registered kennels. I told him to do a lot more research into the seller. Franz is very thorough, and when he called back the next night he bombarded me with facts. The dog had been bred South, great pedigree, sound in health, all injections, certificates for hip problems, the lot. I said, well, it seems like you have covered everything, and I knew he was set on this dog. He said the price was one thousand dollars, which was a lot, even more than we had paid for Hunter, but Franz reminded me that was many years ago.

  So he brought home Bow, a beautiful black and tan ball of fluff with a wonderful face. When Franz handed him to me to take into Marlee, I could understand why he insisted on wanting him; he was a beautiful puppy.

  It was love at first sight when Marlee and Bow met, and the house was full again with puppies. Franz had a German Shepherd puppy, Muzzie, I had my Rottie, Sumie, and now Marlee had Bow. The three pups had a wonderful time together.

  Sadly, it didn’t last. We started to notice Bow would not want to play, or would snap suddenly and savagely at one of the other pups if it came bounding up to him. Marlee finally took him to the vet. X-rays revealed he had hardly any hip joints. The only things that kept the top of the leg bone anywhere near the hip joint were the muscles. The vet assured Marlee that Bow was in pain most of the time. It just broke our hearts but we had to put him to sleep. He was only six-months old, and he would grow into a dog of one hundred pounds plus; his life would have been constant misery.

  I tell this story to make people realise there are unscrupulous breeders out there, breeding dogs with chronic hip problems and other major faults, and they are getting away with selling these dogs for high prices. One litter in a few months makes them thousands of dollars. This is pure misery money; the puppy grows and there is heartbreak for the family who have to put their pet down, not to mention the large sum paid, which should guarantee a healthy puppy.

  Please, if you are buying a puppy, check out the breeder carefully, ask advice from breeder associations, show judges; learn the format and things to look for from other breeders. Check and check again; check every detail. Always remember that an unscrupulous breeder is relying on your heart melting the moment you see that beautiful bundle of fluff with an angelic face peering out at you. So until you know the breeder is reliable, don’t even go there so they can let the puppy’s charm make a sale for them.

  Some of these breeders are selling dogs into the Far East, for astronomical prices; not only do the dogs have breeding defects, and grow up in pain, but they are sold to people who do not know about pet care. In one case recently, a dog was rescued from a tenth-floor balcony where it had been chained night and day, in the sun, cold, all weathers. It had never left the balcony for one year! These breeders have to be stopped from trading in this despicable animal misery. You can start the ball rolling by not buying puppies from them and by urging your local M.P. for laws to be passed to prevent this uncontrolled profiteering.

  19

  * * *

  BOOTS AND ALL

  That just about brings me up to current times with friends, characters and animals. Well, not really, but I am running out of time and I must finish the book as the publishers are waiting. I am happy to say there are still lots of friends and animals around. All the old characters of Bullo River are gone, Uncle Dick, Max, Diesel Don, Fred the Gardener, Stumpy the Cook, to mention a few of our outstanding ‘dedicated drinkers’. Today, on Bullo, the only resident characters are the animals; all the people are hard workers, serious about their work, young people … except for me, and I suppose the young people think I’m a bit of a character.

  But amongst the animals we have characters galore. The present pets, close to the homestead, are Daisy and Pumpkin, the milking cows; Bazza, our new baby Bazadaise stud breeding bull; Aly, our new stallion; Boots, our old stallion; Muzzie, Franz’s German Shepherd; Sumie, my Rottweiler; and Meow, the resident half-Burmese half-wild house cat.

  Daisy and Pumpkin are the senior resident characters; they came over from Malanda in Queensland, in January 1988, so they are the kingpins around the garden. One is usually in the garden over The Wet, to be milked for house milk and to help feed any orphan calves. This year, Daisy was feeding four orphans. She is literally a milk machine; we stuffed the feed in one end and the four little hungry calves sucked milk out the ‘udder’. Daisy stands quietly grazing as the four calves are going hammer and tongs at getting milk. When she is sick of them drinking, she just squats down under a tree for a snooze. The four calves try to burrow under her to find a teat. Daisy sits dozing, surrounded by four little backsides, tails up in the air, swishing back and forth in anticipation, while four little heads disappear under Daisy’s legs, trying vainly to locate the milk supply.

  Pumpkin had her last calf just after Christmas, almost on the front porch. Heavy rains made a large muddy stretch of ground at the front step, so Marlee dumped a few tonnes of sand there with the front-end loader. It promptly became the animals’ sandpit. Boots rolls in the sand; the dogs dig and sleep there; Bazza just sits and surveys his domain; and Pumpkin decided it was the right place to have her calf. Within weeks, Marlee and Franz had found more orphans, so along with her own calf, Pumpkin is feeding three orphans. It is a wonderful picture, with the setting sun throwing a golden glow across the valley, to see the two old cows, adoringly followed by eight baby calves, in a straight line, bending and weaving, following the cows’ every movement, as the two old friends casually stroll together.

  Bazza is the latest addition to the menagerie. He is just coming up to two years old, and is our most expensive stud bull to date. We expect great things from Bazza, even if he doesn’t know it. We hope his bloodline will bring to our herd the double-muscled hindquarters and faster-growing young animals that do well just on native grasses. A tall order for one small young bull, but if his offspring show any of his characteristics we can turn off our steers six months younger at the same weight as our steers now. This will give us more income yearly while still grazing the same number of cattle.

  That’s why Bazza lives in the garden; we keep him right under our noses until he is ready to work. Even then, I think we will bring the cows to him: surrounded as he is by strong personalities, he can’t help developing into one himself. Marlee brushes him every day, so already he waits at the door for her to appear and pamper him. It is not unusual to find him sitting in the sandpit with Muzzie, Sumie and Boots. They all acknowledge each other, and the sandpit seems to be neutral territory. Elsewhere in the garden, the two dogs stay clear of both of them.
>
  Sumie, my Rottie, and Muzzie, Franz’s German Shepherd, share the inside of the house with another longtime resident, Meow, the cat. Well, when I say share, it is a broad term.

  I call Meow our aerial cat; he lives up in the ceiling, and only comes down at night for his meal, and then that is eaten on top of a high cupboard. It was not always so; Meow grew up with my Donna and Marlee’s Hunter, and the cat loved these two, especially Donna. Many a time I would find him curled up between Donna’s paws, fast asleep, with her chin resting on his back. When we lost the old dogs, new puppies appeared. Meow, getting on in years himself, thought he would be safer at elevated heights, so he took to the ceilings. But at night, when the dogs are in the bedrooms sleeping, Meow has the run of the house. The evidence is always there in the morning in the form of a paw mark on some surface, or a dead baby snake deposited somewhere strategic, just to remind us he is still on the job.

  He is nowhere near as sprightly as he used to be, and sometimes during the day, when he has ventured to lower levels, he has been trapped by the puppies. They thought him a wonderful plaything, and I had to come running to Meow’s yowls, as the puppies became too rough. A few times when springing to the safety of heights, the spring has been lacking, and he has had to be rescued from two now big and playful dogs, who are not quite sure what they do with this yowling bundle of fur. I have to scold them for being too rough, and carefully help Meow to the top of the cupboard, from where he disappears up into the ceiling while the dogs watch with a mystified expression.