Down a Country Lane. Gary Blinco
the boy sat quietly on the half wall of the verandah, perched on the rail like a bird as he stared out at the bush, his small brow creased in thought. It was just on dusk and a beautiful red sunset mottled the western sky above the line of tall gums along the creek. A playful ‘whirly-wind’ twisted across the bare fields, frolicking with scraps of paper and leaves as it progressed until it disappeared in the thick scrub that still skirted the farm.
The boy was worried. Pluto, the large blue cattle dog that supplemented the collection of pet cats on the place had become over zealous in his duties and had taken to attacking and biting visitors to the property. This was not good for business, given that most visitors were also customers in search of vegetables or poultry. The boy recalled his parent’s quiet conversation as they lay in bed the night before. The overcrowding of the house had forced him into a trundle bunk in his parent’s room for the time being. This made him privy to their whispered discussions each night when they thought he was asleep, not to mention the more physical aspects of their nightlife.
‘That bloody dog has gotta go’, Norm said quietly when he had extinguished the kerosene lamp. ‘It bit old Charlie Crane this arvo. I asked him to come by tamorra and knock it off for me.’
‘That’s a bit drastic, but I suppose you’re right’, Grace said uncertainly. ‘It is getting out of hand. It breaks the chain if we tie it up, and I know people are scared to come here at the moment. The boy will be heartbroken but’, she added. ‘He worships the bloody thing.’
Norm sighed in the darkness. ‘I know’, he said. ‘But we have no choice, besides the dog is gettin’ on a bit. I don’t think it’s too well anyway, that’s prob’ly why it’s so cranky with strangers.’
‘Well you better let me take the kids for a drive or somethin’, so they don’t know’, Grace said quietly. There was silence for a minute, and then Norm cleared his throat.
‘We can’t hide the world from them’, he said at last. ‘I think it’s better that they know what’s goin’ on. They will have to make decisions like this themselves in time.’ The boy stared towards the bare iron roof in silence; he could see pinpricks of moonlight through the nail holes. He was thinking of the old dog and trying to grasp the meaning of his parent’s conversation. ‘Charlie will be along tamorra arvo with his pea rifle, we’ll take the mongrel up the paddock a bit and fix it up. It’s a shame, but I have no choice, the boy will soon get over it.’
‘I suppose you know best’, Grace said gently. ‘Let’s get to sleep, I don’t feel like any funny business tonight.’ Norm laughed softly. ‘Wait until you are asked you conceited little bitch’, he said, snuggling close to her back.
As soon as the word ‘rifle’ had been mentioned the boy understood the gist of the discussion. There were no guns on the farm, but a neighbour often came to shoot ducks on the creek. The boy knew only too well the power of a gun. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought of the old dog. He often sat against the wall of the house, away from the wind and in the warm sunlight with the old dog’s mangy head in his lap. The blue cattle dog was old, filthy dirty and smelly, but the boy had somehow bonded with the creature.
It would lie for hours with its large head on his knees, its watery, hooded eyes locked on his face affectionately and its mouth gaping wetly as it breathed foully into his face. The old muzzle was grey and mottled with the scars of many battles, and the once proudly pointed ears now drooped over the brooding eyes. The boy wondered how he might save the old dog, but could come up with no concrete plan. If he crept out and released the animal it would not leave the farm, except to savage any stock it could find, but it would soon return and be in a worse position because of its sins. He knew he was too small to run away with the animal so his dilemma increased, as did his grief. At last he fell asleep, listening to the old house creak as it cooled in the night and settled on its stumps. He slept, exhausted, his small untidy head buried in his tear soaked pillow.
Now he sat on the rail, somehow resolved to the situation, watching the shadows on the back lawn lengthen then disappear as the long summer twilight fell across the farm. Suddenly he heard the old dog begin to bark loudly, throwing itself furiously against the extent of its rattling chain, punctuating the loud angry barks with deep-throated growls. The boy watched as a battered old utility lurched down the lane. He knew then that Charlie Crane had arrived and provided the reason for the dog’s sudden agitation.
Sliding quickly from the top of the half wall the boy ran to the rear of the house where the dog was chained to the corner of the small shed. Norm had constructed a makeshift kennel for the animal, in better days for the dog, from half of an old water tank. Norm had now untethered the animal and struggled to control the brute with the heavy chain gathered to form a shortened lead as the dog lurched towards Charlie, its fangs bared in anger.
‘It’s a wild bastard Normie’; Charlie called in his deep resonant voice. ‘But we’ll soon take the fight out of him.’ Norm looked unhappy, his resolve wavering now that the time for action had arrived. His family stood in a half circle around Charlie’s utility; all quiet and ashen faced. The small boy in the centre and a few paces ahead of the rest, but quiet as he watched the proceedings.
Norm beckoned to his eldest son. ‘You hop up in the back of the Tilly, Trevor’ he called. ‘Keep the chain short and get a good hold on Pluto.’ Trevor obeyed silently, his face grave. Norm made to climb into the front of the utility to join Charlie who had gained the driver’s seat and started the noisy engine. ‘Anyone else want to come?’ Norm asked quietly as he paused before entering the utility. No one moved and most shook their heads sadly.
‘I wanter come Dad’, the small boy said suddenly, moving towards the utility. Norm nodded and waved the child to climb up with his brother. ‘Are you sure darlin’? Do you know what Daddy has to do?’ Grace cried, her voice wavering with the concern she felt.
The boy was already in the back of the vehicle. ‘Yes’, he said firmly, his face tight. ‘I wanna say g’bye to Pluto.’ The vehicle moved noisily up the lane, and then passed via a makeshift wire gate into the bush paddock next door, following a narrow track deeper into the brigalow scrub. After travelling several hundred metres, Charlie left the track and scrub and bashed through the thick undergrowth. He brought the utility to a halt beside a deep melon hole in a small natural clearing. Norm described these natural depressions in the bush as ‘melon holes’, but the boy soon learned, to his disappointment, that they had nothing to do with melons. He never really found out the basis of the name, but accepted the term as he accepted most things.
The old dog had lost its anger and sat quietly on the rough tray of the vehicle. Its great head rested on its paws as it looked at the two boys standing above, their backs against the cabin of the utility. Trevor had not spoken and he remained quiet as he climbed down from the tray body, dragging the old dog with him. He led the animal to the edge of the melon hole and squatted beside it, roughly rubbing the creature’s head in the manner that it so enjoyed. The boy watched from his position as he stood with his back supported against the cabin. Trevor sat quietly beside the old dog as they both stared ahead into the bush that grew dim in the gathering dusk.
Charlie crept quietly to a position behind the animal, as it lay under Trevor’s hands, apparently asleep. The muzzle of the pea rifle edged towards the dog’s head, then the weapon bucked, the noise shattering the still of the deepening twilight as the boy’s hand filled his mouth. The dog’s body stiffened, twitched slightly and was still. At the sound of the shot Trevor gave way to tears. Pitiful sobs racked his body as he detached the chain from the dead animal’s neck and scrambled back onto the tray of the utility. He put his arm around his younger brother and cried loudly. The small boy stood quietly, his eyes were wet with tears and his hand was still in his mouth, but he made no sound. He peered around his brother’s shoulder to watch Charlie roll the dog’s body into the melon hole and kick a few clods of dirt and leaves over the corpse.
Charlie resumed his seat in the vehicle without looking at the boys and sent the old unit lurching through the scrub, retracing their