Night of the Dogs

R.M. Hamilton

Mum and Dad have a new house in Griffith. I’ve been down there helping them get settled in. I love Griffith. It’s the Riverina region of NSW, full of vineyards, orange groves and tractors. I have also heard a rumour that the locals have worked out how to grow rice on the edge of the desert. If that’s true, I want to see it.

It was evening in Griffith. Mum and I had spent the day cleaning out the spa pool that was situated at the end of the lean-to at the back of the house. During tea breaks, (of which we took many), we had enjoyed watching the clowder of wild cats that live in the garden. We were extremely pleased with our efforts for the day. I had even managed to mop the floor of the dining room while Mum started dinner.

I had just changed out of my nasty, damp clothes into a snug pair of jeans and my favourite cosy sweater. I was sitting in front of the gas heater in the living room and a nice smell was wafting out of the kitchen.

It was now dark outside. Dark in that all-encompassing way that only the countryside can be dark.

All seemed right with the world.

That moment didn’t last very long.

To start with, we didn’t even know what the sound was.

It was horrible. It roared up the garden path by the side of the house and arrived under the lean-to. The cacophony of sound bounced off the tin roof of the lean-to and rattled around the walls like some thoughtless, hoodlum giant was pounding on an awful, giant snare drum.

Dad came rushing down from upstairs to investigate.

There was no light in the far corner of the lean-to. Shadowy figures rushed about in a frightening manner.

Dad bravely opened the back door, stuck his head out and retracted it swiftly.

“It’s dogs!” yelled Dad above the horrible din. He locked the door and looked hard at me. “Wild dogs and don’t you go out there. These are not pets!”

The terrible noise at the end of the lean-to continued.

“What are we going to do?” demanded Mum.

“I don’t know,” admitted Dad. “But we’re not going out there.” Again, he shot a stern look in my direction.

“We can’t even see what’s going on!” Said Mum.

“Maybe if I go through to the lounge and turn the light on, I’ll be able to see more,” said Dad. “It’s closer to the action.”

He vanished to the other side of the house. Across the patio, we saw the lounge light snap on. Dad gazed out gloomily on the scene. A big dog and a small dog were running around the spa, barking frantically. Every now and then they would paw desperately at the small gap in the wooden boards that surrounded the spa.

The noise increased.

“That’s it,” yelled Dad from the lounge. “I’m calling the police!”

“Can you call the police for wild dogs?” asked Mum doubtfully.

“I’m calling the non-emergency community line,” said Dad. “I’m sure they’ll know who the local dog catcher is.”

It was while Dad was making this call that the situation changed. One of the dogs, seeing me behind the glass door came towards me. The other dog followed. The second dog was much smaller. The big dog looked at me and cocked its head. As they both came into the light, I saw that they were wearing collars.

The big dog looked at me piteously and let out a small whine. Cautiously, I opened the door. “Are you alright?” I asked.

The big dog let out a little moan. The small dog whimpered.

“Oh MUM!” I cried. “They’re not wild! It’s a mother and her puppy and I bet her other puppy is trapped under our spa!”

Dad, fresh off his call with the police came rushing over. “What? Why is the door open?”

“Oh Dad! It’s alright! It’s a mother and her puppy and the other puppy is trapped under our spa and she’s asking for our help!”

As if to confirm this, the big dog let out a heart melting wail.

“Come here darling!” I called. “Do you need us to save your baby?”

The big dog came closer, and I plunged out and wrapped my arms around its neck.

The big dog began to howl.

Mum came out and grabbed the puppy. “it’s a rather powerful puppy,” muttered Mum, struggling with her charge.

“Oh Mum, these dogs know we’re good people!” I said, with a sob in my voice. “This mother knew to turn to us.”

“God puts these instincts in animals,” said Mum, equally moved. The puppy gave a muscular wriggle, and she stumbled forward to restrain him. “Animals are good judges of character.”

“These poor creatures must know what sort of people we are.” I said, attempting to sooth the desperate mother dog.

Dad, with a manly, yet compassionate tread, moved towards the spa. He bent down tenderly towards the gap in the boards. He began to say something in a coaxing sort of voice and then quite suddenly he snapped upright. He swung around on us and snarled,

“IT’S A CAT!”

“WHAT?”

“It’s a CAT!” yelled Dad. He glared at the ‘mother dog and puppy’. “They’ve chased a cat under our spa and now they want us to help them kill it!”

“I thought it was a strong sort of puppy!” said Mum angrily.

A dreadful thought hit me. I dipped my head delicately to the undercarriage of the ‘grieving mother dog’.

“IT’S NOT A MOTHER!” I said. “It’s a BOY.

The ex-mother dog began to buck pretty hard. I found myself sliding across the patio towards the door that led to the the freshly mopped floor.

“Don’t let that filthy mutt into my house!” bellowed Dad from across the patio.

“Sorry Dad!” I shrieked as I and the hound vanished into the house. “I think I’ve lost control of him!”

It was later. The police had been cancelled and the owner of the dogs had been located.

I had found the dog tag while hauling the big boy dog away from an expensive tin of Dulux house paint.

“Sorry about this,” said the owner when he turned up. “They’re hunting dogs, still young, not fully trained.”

“They seem to have excellent instincts for it,” said Mum.

With the dogs gone, we returned to our previously scheduled evening.

But it was not quite the same.

The floor needed re-mopping and my favourite cosy sweater was now bedecked with thousands of white and brown dog hairs.

I would never remove them all. But that wasn’t what annoyed me the most.

“Can you believe those dogs thought we were the sort of people who would help them KILL A CAT?” I demanded, savagely biting into a piece of roast pumpkin.

“Don’t worry about it!” advised Dad, forking up mashed potatoes. “Those dogs were stupid.”

“That’s right!” said Mum. “No judge of character at all!”

The writing belongs to R.M. Hamilton. The picture of the dog was graciously provided by Pixabay.