Mainly About A Dog ~ A Bland (a bit gorey)

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On that lovely Spring day of 1909 I wasn't greatly impressed when The Boss dropped her out of the cart and told me he had paid Two Pounds for her. He assured me she was a first-class Kangaroo dog even though she was on the small side and could never deal with a Boomer or even a big doe. She was very fast, he declared, also very keen, and the owner had only sold her because his clearing contracts were completed and he was going back to Perth.

She was fawn colored, with brindled stripes, a white face and broad white patch one side of her neck, and her name was Kit. She snarled at me when I approached her, then slunk behind The Boss whom she already acknowledged as her overlord after two days' acquaintance. That allegiance never wavered all through her life - she was a one-man dog. I was a secondary consideration and nobody else ever counted in ther canine mind. No matter how long a man might work on the place, Kit would refuse to follow him as far as the garden gate even.

Mad as she was on hunting, leaping wildly round when she saw the gun being taken down, she would not follow me even though I carried the gun if her master were anywhere round the place. She was a one-man dog indeed...

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The first time I took her out for a hunt I received my first lesson in the craft of the hunter, at her paws. We entered a gimlet thicket, and at once she smelled or sensed Kangaroo, for her whole attitude altered; she became tense and alert, stepping with extreme care and caution over the carpet of dry leaves and dead sticks on the ground. She stopped a moment with outstretched nose, then crept along in a crouching manner a foot at a time; I came behind treading in clumsy, booted, human fashion and a small stick snapped under my foot. Instantly Kit shot a glare of anger and contempt in my direction - I fairly shrivelled under it - and she stood for an instant poised with one forepaw raised, trembling with tension, but no sound came from the thicket. Then after another warning and baleful glance over her shoulder at me she again crept forward.

I stood perfectly still in my tracks; then there came sounds of a great flurrying rush, and a great grey kangaroo bounded past me, followed by a smaller doe with Kit hard on its tail. For the first time I heard her give those clear, short yaps like the strokes of a bell, that notified she was close on to her quarry. I followed the notes out of the thicket and into the open space I had passed through before, and very soon came upon Kit with her kill.

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She bounded back to me, flourishing her tail, very pleased with herself and forgetful of my faux pas in the thicket. I looked at the roo intently - it wasn't large but I was a long way from the camp and the creature was a terribly awkward shape. However I got to it with my knife, took out the inside, then threw the carcase over my shoulder and set off.

What a dreadful thing to carry! I took it by the hind legs first, and the head dangled and bumped on my legs at the back and blood ran onto my skirt and my stockings - a horrid mess. Then I turned it up the other way, held the forepaws over my shoulder and that was worse if anything. The hind legs and tail walloped me and the head bumped my hat off and the blood ran more than ever; I hated and cursed the wretched carcase before I'd gone a mile and I had nearly another one yet to go. But I stuck it out somehow and finally reached home with the game - the dog had never left my heels for an instant all the way, and every time I hurled the awkward load to the ground for a breather, she would glare at me distrustfully. I knew she despised me; and after I discovered how the true, male hunter carried a roo, I despised myself. It was a revelation to see a man make a neat compact load of a kangaroo and carry it easily and comfortably any distance - just a slit with the knife, and a small wooden peg to hold the joined nose and tail together, and there you had it! So simple when you knew the trick.

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Later on I carried the double-barrelled breach-loader, for Kit was much too small to pull down a boomer, and as the boomer usually refused to run but stood at bay, the gun was necessary I found. We soon got to understand each other and worked together in perfect unison. I had learned to stand still when she showed signs of nearing roos, and wait for the bell-notes before I moved off again.

Tracking was easy enough when the earth and damp and the marks of the long toes were deeply impressed, but it could be very difficult when the ground was hard and covered with dry grass and leaves. However, a boomer didn't go far; he would soon be discovered in the first small clearing with his back against a large sheoak bush or clump of mallee, fighting off the dog which would be making leaps at him and constantly baying. Sometimes he just stood high on his toes and tail, and then Kit kept well out from the reach of his arms and made no attempts to pull him down.

As I came into the cleared space she would either hear or sense my step, give one lightning glance around, then redouble her attacks. She seemed to know just when I had the gun ready, perhaps she heard the click of the hammer, and the instant I pulled the trigger she would leap swiftly and widely to one side, and as the roo fell to the ground she was on his throat - good team work.

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One time, however, we were caught at a disadvantage with no gun. I had set out to pay a visit to neighbours three miles away, Kit, of course, as The Boss was absent, with me. About a mile on the road a pair of kangaroos sprang up from behind a clump of crimson-flowering mallees and the dog chased after the boomer. I was properly dismayed and cursed my bad luck but set off on the tracks. Soon I heard Kit frantically yelling and guessed what was happening. I dashed like mad through the thick low scrub tearing my stocking to shreds and scratching my legs as I ran. I raced into a small clear space and to my horror saw the roo with Kit clutched in his powerful arms. There were only small bushes near, and none that one could use to knock out a big roo, but I remembered a small sandalwood I had passed in my race and dashed back to it. I don't know how I did it but I tore it up from the butt and raced back again to the fray. Kit was still struggling, but the roo was hanging on and trying to get a chance to use his terrible toe. She was fighting desperately still, but I caught a look from her eyes as I circled round trying to get a chance to strike the roo without hitting the dog, and her eye was frantic.

At last I made a mightly swing with the sandalwood and caught him between the ears. He dropped the dog and clawed at me and ripped my sleeve from the elbow to the wrist just as I swung agin. This time I struck him so heavily that he dropped right to the ground. Phew! I was trembling so that I could hardly stand up but Kit hardly waited to shake herself before she was at this throat full of fight. Except for the scrathces on her neck she was unharmed even though out of breath. She was small certainly, but her courage was big - very big.

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One very wild windy day The Boss and I were out measuring up an area of forest to be let for clearing when Kit put out a big boomer. We heard the bell-notes for a few minutes, then no more. The wind blew strongly from the East and the chase was to the West. We tracked and tracked for nearly two hours but failing to find the fresh clues returned disheartened home. I was alarmed for Kits' safety and kept envisaging her being disembowelled by the roo, but The Boss wasn't worried; "She'll turn up bye-and-bye," was his dictum and he was right. She dashed in as we were having our tea. It was almost dusk and quite four hours since she had put him out - no wonder I was worried! She darted past us like a swallow, shot us a baleful glance of contempt and dived under our bed. When The Boss lifted the coverlet to see what was wrong, Kit snarled at him and tucked herself into a smaller ball than before. We could imagine the words she would have liked to speak to us - she hated us at the moment for letting her down and not coming to her aid, and we could not explain to her our poor human limitations.

Not till late next day did she agree to bury the hatchet and forget our short-comings. A few days later we came across the battle-ground by accident, and what a conflict it must have been! The ground was torn up for chains around a big clump of tea-tree bushes some ten feet ghigh; what anxoius looks the poor dog must have cast from time to time awaiting our arrival. And with what a bitter sense of disappointment and disgust had she retreated from the fight, only her own gallant spirit knew. No wonder she hated us for letting her down. After studying the battlefield for a few minutes The Boss called Kit to him and petted and praised her there on the spot and she seemed to understand, leastwise we hoped so.

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Her devotion to The Boss gave occasion to some really remarkable actions on her part. She surely had a sixth sense if any creature ever had, for when The Boss was going away with the waggon on a contract, or to cart our own loads from the station some forty miles away Kit made her preparations also. She was supposed to stay with me as a guard, and that did not suit her at all; and with her wits sharpened by single-minded devotion, she had learned to associate the loading of the waggon with her master's absence. When the time of departure came, Kit would be away - hidden somewhere in the Bush. She wouldn't respond either to his whistlings and calls or to mine, and when he was some miles on the road she would come racing behind to overtake him.

On one occasion I had tied her up before the packing began so she was forced to stay. She seemed content enough next day when I loosed her so that was A.I. by me. But the next day I took her out for a hunt to keep her satisfied, and had no luck - there were no Kangaroos At Home so I got tired of walking and made back to our camp.

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Kit was glad enough, too, as the day was rather hot, and she ran ahead of me anxious for a drink and shade. I loitered to study a bush of beautiful mauve hibiscus, the first I had seen, and it was some time later when I reached home. The first sight that met my eyes was the dog cleaning up a nest of eggs that had been set for over a week, and I was so annoyed that I gave her a sharp cut with a switch I carried. She snarled, leapt at me, then tucked her tail between her legs and made off down the track like mad. This was around five o'clock in the afternoon, and mext morning at dawn The Boss, early forty miles away, was wakened by her cold nose in his face as he lay under the waggon. Some sense that we humans lack led her to him. It wasn't that he always went one road; he carted for many of the new settlers coming in, and that led him any direction.

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She understood just as well what the packing of a suitcase meant. The train left the siding early in the morning and when The Boss would to to Perth the dog hid away till he reached the Siding, then she would raceup, jump in the carriage with him, be thrown out when the train started and gallop alongside the railway the four miles to the next Siding. Then she would race up, jump into the carriage where The Boss was, and the performance would be repeated. However after being thrown out here she was satisfied and always came back home.

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We tried packing the case without her knowledge but it was no use, she seemed to understand what we said; anyhow she went as usual even then. But her best performance was an exhibition of sense really non-comprehensible to us humans.

We went away for a fortnight's holiday after harvest of 1911-12, leaving Kit with a pair of newly-born puppies. The man in charge of the place promised to look after her properly and knowing he would do so we went off with free minds as far as she was concerned. After the fifteen days' holiday we came by train to our nearest Railway, picked up three horses and a waggon there and drove out on the track for home. We were about ten miles from home on the second day when in the arly dusk we were astounded to see It racing along the track through the bush to meet us, yapping joyously as she came. The Boss hopped out and lifted her into the waggon - she was frantic with pleasure at seeing us again, whimpering and breaking into wild little barks, almost hysterical.

When we reached home, the person there told us his story - how Kit had been nervous and uneasy all day, had carried her pups into our room and hid them under the bed. He left her alone, afraid of being bitten if he interfered at all with the puppies; and around six o'clock he closed the door and sat down to his tea. Suddenly she dashed out the bedroom in great excitement, scratched wildly the door, looking at him and whimpering till he got up and opened the door. Then she shot out and was off like a hare along the track. We never ceased wondering just how she knew we were coming.

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She had a terror of snakes, and for days after encountering one would be in a state of nerves, leaping wildly at even waving grass or pieces of string. On more than one occasion she actually pointed a snake exactly as a good pointer-dog does a quail. There may have been a dash of pointer-blood in her for she didn't look the pure-blooded kangaroo dog, and I never saw or heard of any other kangaroo dog that pointed. Her attitude when pointing a snake was perection - I had seen many highly-trained dogs pointing quail in my youth in Victoria so I knew the classical attitude.

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I had often seen dogs bringing home food to their pups, but our dog brought some home in a manner new to us, once. She had followed The Boss to a neighbour's home, and as there was a kangaroo hanging there and likely to go to waste, the neighbour hacked off a chunk of steak for our Kit. The Boss cut it up fairly small and fed her there on the spot. When she had had enough she headed for home, ran to the pups and regurgitated the mass for them. I thought then that probably it was a reversal to the custom of dogs in the wild state when they make a kill very far from their den. It would be much easier to carry that way than carrying a lump or the whole heavy animal, through the bush.

Once while following the waggon she had picked up a poison-bait and was only saved by chewed-up tobacco being forced down her throat. After that she refused to eat any food unless it was handed to her in proper fashion. She refused to take food from a stranger's hand all her lifelong.

She was a faithful guard, sleeping on a bag beside my bed when I was alone, and at the slightest sound she would be on the alert. Either by paw or nose I would be awakened and she would remain silent and still as a marble figure till satisfied all was well; then with a long sigh she would lie down and go to sleep again.

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Our cat had "gone bush" for a few weeks and I was mourning - "Will ye no come back again?" for mice and snakes would soon take over without him. Then he returned without any warning - the first I knew was a leap through the window on to my bed and a second leap from the dog after him. The dog was too excited and devoted to notice that it was our own prodigal's return, so she just dashed into the fray to to protect me. The indignant cat fought back and I just pulled the blankets over my head and let them at it, hoping for the best.

Fortunately the cat slipped down behind the bed at the crucial moment and Kit couldn't follow and by that time I emerged from the blankets, turned up the lamp and restored order. Both contestants were a little the worse for the fray; Kit had one eye bunged up and a long scratch across the face, and the cat had a bitten foot.

I got up, caressed and soothed them both down, gave them both a feed, made myself a cup of tea and we all retired, again the united Family.

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We kept one of her pups as she grew older; and he was a magnificent creature with all his mother's good qualities plus immense strength - Caesar. He got his name rather strangely and without any picking and choosing. I had killed a young rooster and hung it up on a nail in the verandah; the pup, smelling the blood, came along and stood underneath it; and when I moved in, he was standing there plastered with the dripping blood. Without stopping to think I applied the toe of my boot and spoke - "Oh pardon me, thou bleeding piece of clay!" and thereafter he was Caesar. He didn't belittle the great man in any way; maybe he was even greater than his famous namesake if we can believe Shakespeare. I could never think of applying the word "Coward" to our modern bearer of the name - he was a doughty warrior.

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Kit still put out the roo; but the moment the boomer stood by bay Caesar made one flying tackle and all was over bar the skinning. His mother would stand in the shade panting and beaming approval during the struggle. Once when I was near him when he was after a flying doe, I saw him race alongside her, then grab the tail and turn her over on her back, then leap to her troat - quite a reasoned - out and successful method - Kit never attempted that.

We brought home a tiny Joey that had been cast into a bush by the flying, hard-pressed doe, and with a fair amount of trouble I reared her.

Kit adored the little thing and when it was big enough to be out in the garden, she would mount guard and woe be to the dog or person that showed interest in the baby. Caesar, too, following his mother's lead adopted the orphan - if you killed the mother, at least you can make it up a bit by guarding the child, and they did. I had one really good laugh at the expense of a aged friend who brought up a huge kangaroo-dog from Subiaco. He came along to see us one Sunday with "Suby" in tow; and when he saw my Joey lying in the warm sunlight, he concieved the bright idea of showing Suby what his future job was to be. In spite of my warnings and admonitions to "Stop it!" he called up his dog and began - "Hs-s-s! That's him, Suby! S-S-S-S-S- go for him, Suby!" when like an avenging angel Caesar came round the corner of the house. He took the scene in with one tick of his brain, saw his protegee now standing up on his little legs and tail in defiance, and the big hound ready to attack. There was a mad charge and Suby was on his back with Caesar's fangs in this throat. The old friend let out some frantic yells - "Call him off! Call him off! He's murdering Suby! Curse him, call him off!"

I waited quite a minute before I got Caesar by the collar and hauled him off, then I said pleasantly, "Next time you are told to call your dog off, you'll do it, I'll bet." The poor Suby had fled screeching back home, and I'm afraid our old friend didn't exactly enjoy either our company or his dinner that Sabbath.