The first time that Mrs Cribbage met Red Dog, he was just about to scratch on the door of Patsy’s caravan. ‘Hey, you!’ she called, rushing up to him and waving a dishcloth in his face. ‘Be off with you! Shoo! Shoo!’
Red Dog looked at this fat woman and her dishcloth, and decided that she was probably mad. He ignored her politely, and scratched once more on Patsy’s door.
‘Off! Away!’ shouted Mrs Cribbage, and at that moment Patsy opened her door. She looked from the dog to the woman, and asked, ‘What’s up?’
‘NO DOGS!’ announced Mrs Cribbage.
Patsy regarded her pityingly and told her, ‘This isn’t any old dog. This is Red Dog.’
‘A dog’s a dog,’ replied Mrs Cribbage, ‘and I don’t care if it’s one of the Queen’s bloody corgis. This is a dog, and that’s that, NO DOGS.’ It occurred to Patsy that Mrs. Cribbage’s voice sounded rather like a kookaburra.
‘Red Dog has privileges,’ said Patsy. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘If you don’t get rid of that dog,’ said Mrs Cribbage, her voice rising still further, ‘you’ll have me and Mr Cribbage to answer to.’
‘If you try to get rid of Red Dog, you’ll have the whole of the Pilbara to answer to,’ replied Nancy, ‘so if I were you I wouldn’t get my knickers in a knot.’
Mrs Cribbage huffed, ‘And if you don’t get rid of that dog, we’ll shoot it, and evict you too. So don’t say you didn’t get warned.’
Mrs Cribbage turned her back and walked away importantly, confident that she, and only she, was queen in this little kingdom. Over the next few days, however, she kept thinking that she saw Red Dog out of the corner of her eye, and she mentioned it several times to Mr Cribbage, who was a small man with a toothbrush moustache rather like Hitler’s. His moustache and his fingers were a nasty shade of yellowy-brown, rather like a pub ceiling, because he liked to smoke all the time, rolling himself tiny, tight little cigarettes. When he finished smoking one, he would open the butt-end and take out the unsmoked tobacco so that he could use it again in another cigarette. He had become hollow-chested, and you always knew when he was coming, because of his perpetual dry cough.
The couple went into Dampier and bought a stencil from the stationer’s in the mall, and then they spent a happy morning making lots of notices and signboards that said ‘NO DOGS’. These they stuck up on every available tree in the caravan park, after which they felt that they had done a good day’s work indeed. The people in the park shook their heads, and agreed that from now on they would have a coded alarm, so that the caretakers would never catch them out when Red Dog was about. Patsy proposed that their code-word should be ‘pussycats’, and this was soon adopted. Mr and Mrs Cribbage wondered for quite a while why it was that people shouted ‘pussycats’, without provocation, every time that they passed by with their buckets and bins. ‘I reckon they’re all barking mad,’ observed Mr Cribbage.
‘Talking of barking, I still keep seeing that dog,’ said his wife.
Now, it so happened that both Patsy and Nancy were scared of the dark. Back then there were almost no lights to make the sky glow orange, and you could see every star in the sky as brightly as if it were sparkling on the tips of your fingers. The moon lay on its back as if on holiday, setting down its cool watery light. If it was cloudy, however, you would not be able to see anything at all if your torch batteries ran out, and many poor souls found themselves shivering until dawn, absolutely lost even though they were only a few steps from their door.
Red Dog could smell his way around in the dark, as if his nose were an extra pair of eyes, but he did seem to understand that Patsy and Nancy were scared. Accordingly, when they needed to go to the dunny at night, he would turn up at their sides as if by magic, and then escort them back to their caravans again. They were grateful for this help, and rewarded him with plenty of snacks and affection. Before Red Dog’s arrival, Red Cat had been the official protector of the site, but he had never provided as good a free service as this.
As mischance would have it, one night Mrs Cribbage needed to go at the same time as Patsy, and she caught her with Red Dog, strolling out of the dunny in the moonlight. She stopped in her tracks for a moment, puffed out her cheeks and worked up a good head of anger, until she had succeeded in making herself as mad as a cut snake. ‘What’s this?’ she cried, ‘What’s this? You’ve still got that dog. What did I tell you? It’s eviction for you, my girl, that’s what.’
Patsy knew that if she was evicted she would have nowhere else to go, but at this moment she didn’t seem to care. She had had enough of the Cribbages and their anti-dog campaign. She was cold, and she just wanted to get back to bed. Suddenly she heard herself saying, ‘Aw, get lost, why don’t you?’
‘Cow!’ exclaimed Mrs Cribbage. ‘Bitch! Just you wait!’
‘I’ll wait,’ said Nancy. She looked down at Red Dog, whose yellow eyes were glowing in the moonlight. ‘Come on Red, let’s go back to bed.’ Without another word she turned her back on Mrs Cribbage and coolly walked away.
The next morning, whilst she was having breakfast, she heard a rustling noise, and saw that a note was being pushed under her door. It was written in tiny neat handwriting:
Due to you’re being persistantly and unreasonnably in vyolation of the rules with respeck to dogs, you are hearby noterfied that as from tomorrow morning you are deklared evickted from this park and tomorrow morning at 9.30 I shall be ariving with a vehcle to tow you out of it. Sincerely, Mr and Mrs Cribbage.
Patsy read this note twice, and then took it round to Nancy’s, saying, ‘What am I going to do? Where am I going to live? This is just awful! They’re going to make me homeless, just because of a dog!’
Nancy twisted her lip and shook her head. ‘What a pair of dingbats. And just look at that spelling!’ She put her hand on Patsy’s arm. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said, ‘and don’t start packing either, ’cause I’m going to make sure that you don’t have to go anywhere at all.’ She took the note and went from caravan to caravan, in order to show it to everyone she could find.
The following morning at 9.20, Mr Cribbage straightened his greasy old tie, combed his Hitler moustache and arranged the few strands of his hair across his bald patch.
‘There’s an awful lot of people driving around this morning,’ observed Mrs Cribbage, who was standing at the window. ‘I wonder what they can all be up to.’
Mr Cribbage picked up his keys from the table, squared his shoulders, coughed and opened the door. He was feeling satisfied and fulfilled, because he was just about to exercise his power and authority. ‘Now they’ll take me seriously,’ he was thinking.
Once he was outside, however, his pleasure quickly turned to gall.
For a moment he could hardly believe what he saw. Some of the inhabitants of the park had left their cars all around his, so that he was completely boxed in, and others had abandoned their vehicles all over the tracks that wound between the caravans. Worse than this, perhaps, the people themselves were standing around in small groups, smiling at him and gloating over his discomfiture.
‘Reckon on towing Patsy out, do you?’ called one, and nudged the person next to him.
‘Want any help?’ called another.
‘Reckon you might have a problem,’ called yet another.
Mr Cribbage felt fury and frustration rise up in his breast. His lips quivered, his eyes popped, sweat broke out on his forehead and his heart thumped. He spoke at last. ‘Have it your way, then. That dog’s a stray, and I’m calling in the ranger. It’ll be put down, and that’ll be the end of it.’
‘That’s no bloody use,’ called someone. ‘Red’s the ranger’s mate. And he ain’t a stray either. He’s registered.’
The caretaker stood for a moment quite still, and then turned on his heel and marched back into his office.
People were just wondering what was happening, when he re-emerged. In his hands was a twelve-bore shotgun. He broke the barrel, took two cartridges out of his coat pocke
t and slipped them into the chambers. He snapped the barrel shut and looked up at the caravaners, who by now were feeling distinctly uneasy. He put the gun under his left arm and patted it with his right hand. ‘When I see that dog,’ he announced, ‘he’s getting both barrels of this.’ He turned round and went back inside. He took the cartridges out of the gun and propped it up in a corner. He was trembling with anger and with spite as he said to Mrs Cribbage, ‘I’m going to have to shoot that dog.’
‘You should shoot some of those drongos whilst you’re about it,’ said Mrs Cribbage, huffing. ‘They’re scum, nothing but scum. Got no respect, no respect at all, they haven’t.’
Outside, things began to move quickly. ‘I can’t believe it,’ people said to each other, ‘the bastard actually wants to shoot Red Dog.’
‘It can’t be legal,’ said others. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘I’m calling the RSPCA,’ announced Patsy.
‘I’m calling the boys at Hamersley Iron,’ said Nancy.
That afternoon the RSPCA officer arrived, and in no uncertain terms threatened the Cribbages with prosecution. But that was not the worst of it. Later still, a yellow bus arrived from Hamersley Iron. The workers inside had only just finished their shifts, and fatigue had made them feel doubly upset. Some of them were covered in soot, or with red dust, or with machine oil. They were fierce, hard men, and they were very angry indeed. They burst into Mr Cribbage’s office without knocking, and the caretakers’ cups of tea stopped midway to their lips. They were completely surrounded. Jocko put his hands on the desk and leaned forward; ‘Now would you be the wee little scumbag that we’ve been hearing about?’
The next morning, very early, Patsy knocked on Nancy’s door and told her, ‘You won’t believe this, Nance, but the Cribbages have gone.’
It was true. They had left their jobs without notice, and without collecting their pay. Their allotment was now a bare rectangle of brown concrete in the middle of a scruffy lawn and a couple of badly tended flowerbeds. It looked most strange.
‘I feel terrible,’ said Patsy, later. ‘We’ve gone and run them out of town. It’s not exactly what you might call civilised, is it?’
‘It’s too late to regret it now,’ said Nancy, ‘They’ve gone. No-one’s going to miss them either.’
‘All the same,’ replied Patsy, ‘I don’t feel too good about it.’
It was true; their victory had a bitter taste, and even Red Dog did not seem to derive much pleasure from it. He went looking for John one more time, hitched a lift to sweet Adelaide on a semi-trailer and came back two months later on a road-train. By the time he next scratched on Nancy’s door there were new caretakers and new rules.
THE LAST JOURNEY
For all of us there comes a time when the luck runs out. Fate stops smiling, and we have to face our last struggle. Some of us are physically alone when we die, and some not, but whether or no, it is not possible to travel in company through that last dark tunnel at the end of life.
Red Dog was only eight years old, but he had had a tough existence, riding all over Western Australia looking for his lost master, getting in fights, eating too much some of the time, too little at other times, getting shot at, falling off the backs of utes and lorries, freezing at night and roasting by day. His dark-red muzzle became flecked with grey, his limbs stiffened and sometimes he felt just a little too tired to chase the shadows of birds on the oval. When he travelled in search of John he sometimes had to be helped into the vans, cars and trains that he wanted to board. Worst of all, though, was the casual malice of some of the human beings who crossed his path. Nobody knows why it is that some people derive satisfaction from acts of cruelty; all we know is that such people exist, and that quite often their chosen victims are animals.
One day Nancy was grooming him, when she found bullet holes through his ears. That was one more of his narrow escapes, but then one Saturday in November Peeto was driving in his ute from Karratha to Dampier, when out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw something dark red in the stones at the side of the road. Whatever it was, it was lying on the ground, and it was quivering.
He backed up and got out. He looked down in horror for just a moment, and then realised that he would have to do something. The trouble was that Red Dog was writhing and twisting so much that Peeto couldn’t keep a hold on him. It was as if Red had gone mad, or was completely out of control. In his amber eyes was an expression of terrible pain and desperation. ‘Oh jeez; oh jeez,’ Peeto muttered to himself as he struggled to keep the dog still and lift him into his ute. It was hopeless. Red Dog was heavy, solid and still very strong.
Fortunately for Peeto, Bill the policeman drove by shortly afterwards, and he spotted Peeto’s car at the side of the road, with Peeto apparently struggling with something next to it. Bill and Peeto had never really got along since Bill had charged Peeto with drunk-driving whilst coming home with Red Dog from Port Hedland all those years before, after Red Dog had been shot. They were near neighbours, it is true, but it is hard for policemen to enjoy a normal social life when sometimes they have to impose the law on their own friends.
Bill thought that he had better stop, however, in case Peeto was in some kind of trouble. This is the code all over rural Australia, and everyone observes it. In this case it was only a moment before he and Peeto had forgotten their differences altogether.
The two men battled to get Red Dog into the back of the ute. It was frightening to have to try to control an animal, who was also an old and well-loved friend, who was thrashing about in their arms as if possessed by a devil. Peeto and Bill swore and winced as Red Dog’s claws raked across their faces, and swore all over again when Red began to vomit.
Finally they heaved Red Dog into the vehicle, and stood back for a breather. ‘What the hell is it?’ asked Peeto, gesturing towards the suffering animal.
‘It’s poison, mate,’ said Bill. ‘Strychnine. I’ve seen it before. They get these convulsions that last for hours, and then they die.’
‘Who’d give Red poison, for God’s sake? He’s everyone’s pet dog.’
Bill pursed his lips and shook his head knowingly. ‘The things I’ve seen since I was a policeman, you just wouldn’t believe. I’ll tell you, mate, there’s no animal lower than us in the whole damn world.’ He looked at Peeto and said, ‘We’d better get him to the vet, mate.’
They looked at Red in his agony, and Peeto said, ‘Let’s take him to the copshop, and call the vet out. I don’t reckon it’ll do him any good to have to go all the way to Roebourne.’
So it was that Red Dog was driven to the police station and laid down on the table, where Bill tried to hold him still whilst Peeto called the vet. He spoke urgently into the phone, and then came back looking grim.
‘The vet’s away,’ he said. ‘I’ve left a message, but they don’t know when he’ll be back.’
Peeto took over from Bill in the battle to hold Red Dog still. He grasped Red Dog by the upper forearms, and then looked sideways at the policeman. He said, ‘There’s only one thing we can do. We can’t let it go on. I can’t bloody bear it.’
‘You’re right,’ said Bill, ‘but I don’t want to.’
‘You’ve got to, mate,’ said Peeto softly. ‘If he carries on like this he’s going to break his own bones. You can’t look at him like this and think there’s any hope.’
‘I’ve got to account for every bullet,’ said Bill. ‘I don’t know if I’m supposed to be putting down dogs.’
‘Listen, we’ll all back you up. No-one’s going to give you a bashing for helping out a poor old dog.’
‘Yeah, well, I guess you’re right,’ said Bill. ‘I guess you’re right. But even so …’
‘You’ve got to, mate. Red would thank you for it.’
‘We’ll take him outside,’ said Bill. ‘We can’t do it indoors. I know that much.’
Between them they picked up the convulsing dog, and carried him out into the sunshine. They laid him on the red ea
rth. A squad of tiny pigeons called to each other in a nearby palm tree, seeming to mock each other. Bill unbuckled the flap on his holster. He took out his pistol, loaded the chamber with two bullets and stood silently for a moment. Peeto saw that his eyes were filling with tears.
He knelt down and stroked Red Dog’s head with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to do this, and you’ve got to forgive me.’
Red Dog was too raddled with the poison to know what was happening, let alone to understand or forgive. It was as if the poison had removed his personality and his identity. He was nothing but a living heap of contorting pain.
Bill knelt down and put the muzzle to Red’s forehead, between the eyes, but could not hold the gun steady because the dog was convulsing too much. ‘We’ve got to hold him still,’ said Bill. ‘Otherwise I can’t do it.’
‘I can’t hold his head,’ said Peeto, desperately. ‘He’s moving around so much, I might get shot in the hand.’
Just then, Red Dog fell still for a moment, and Bill put the gun to his head once more. He took up first pressure on the trigger, and closed his eyes. Peeto bit his lip, looked away and awaited the report of the pistol. Then Bill sat back suddenly on his heels. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.’
Thus it was that Peeto called up Red Dog’s friends, and they arrived one by one to take it in turns to hold onto him and quell the convulsions during the long hours until the vet’s arrival. No-one held out any hope for Red Dog’s survival, and as they drank tea in the crowded little police station they reminisced about their old friend whom they were about to lose.
‘I remember once,’ said Nancy, ‘I went to the Miaree Pool with my family, and we had the cat in the back, for some reason, and anyway, when we arrived, there was Red fast asleep on a mudbank. The trees were full of white cockatoos, and the water was just right for bathing. It was really lovely. We spent the day lying around in our bathers, swimming, picnicking, all the usual, and then when it was late we got ready to go home. That was when Red decided he wanted a lift, and he tried to jump in the back. We shoved him out again, ‘cause we thought it wasn’t fair on the cat. You know Red liked to chase cats, apart from Red Cat at the caravan park. It was difficult, ’cause we knew Red would need a lift, and we felt bad about shoving him out.
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