Growing up on a farm had its benefits when you were a kid.
Ample space meant plenty of room for pets, and while we had our fair share of cats, chickens, pigs, cows and sheep. We all loved dogs the best (except Mum, who leans towards cats. Remind me one day to tell you about Jackson).
In my 18 years growing up on the land we had many dogs.
There was Ruffy, Rastus, Bill, Grover, Ralph, Boston, Rover, Randy, Fred, Barney, Odie, TS, Woofty, Butch, Collie, Spud, Meg and Digger.
Digger was everyone’s favourite. When I was about 16 I looked out the backdoor and there he was.
“Mum! HEY MUM! There’s a black cattle dog out here! I think he wants to come inside.”
“Well don’t pat him! He’ll go back home eventually.”
But he didn’t. He stayed with us for the next eight years.
No one knows where he came from but we have our theories. A drover taking sheep through the district was camped not far from our place and we think he left Digger behind. Once we saw him working with sheep, we realised why. If he was a person, he would have been fired on his first day at work. Useless he was.
We never knew his original name but he seemed happy enough with Digger.
While he couldn’t pen a sheep for quids, he did like other farm activities.
You’d often see Dad driving by in his ute, and sitting up proudly in the front seat, head out the window with tongue flapping about in the breeze was Digger. He would sit in the tractor with my brother for hours and hours on end just going around and around the paddocks.
He also did your typical dog things. He’d roll around in a dead sheep down the paddock (you can imagine what that smells like), and then innocently sneak into the house until Mum started screaming at him to get outside. Then there was the time he got into some oil at the shed, tip-toed inside and rolled all over Mum’s freshly cleaned carpets.
One night, I got into bed and to my horror found a big, juicy, meaty bone that had been buried neatly in my doona. Not quite as bad as The Godfather, but bad enough from a teenage girl’s point of view.
Like all dogs, Digger was easily bribed with food. His two favourite things were Schmakos and chocolate. All you had to do was mention either word, even in a whisper or monotone and he’d go nuts.
One day I was helping Dad take a mob of sheep from one farm a few kilometres up the road to one of our other properties. He was way too close to the sheep, pushing them too fast (he really was a terrible work dog), and no matter how many times Dad called him back, he stubbornly stayed up front. I leaned out the window of the ute and shouted, “Digger! Choccie!” and in two seconds flat he was back inside the ute.
He loved going for a drive. Anyone would just need to say ‘drivies’ and he’d be dead keen to get outside and into the car. If my Dad went to the back verandah to put on his RMs, Digger would tear outside, jump through the open window of the ute and wait in there for Dad. Luckily, Dad would usually leave the window of the ute down (there was one unfortunate time he didn’t).
We used to go yabbying when we were younger. I caught a huge one once, down at the bottom paddock dam with my brother and Digger. I let it go on the edge of the water, and Digger went in for a sniff. The yabby latched onto Digger’s nose with its claw and Digger started yelping while shaking his head (and the attached yabby) from side to side. All of a sudden, the yabby flew through the air and landed with a plop, back into the safety of the dam.
Digger loved games. A few whacks on the head with a pillow and it was on! He’d fight for life for the pillow in a fierce game of tug-o-war until it was all his. But he wouldn’t stop there, he’d shred the pillow and rip all of the stuffing out until it covered the loungeroom floor. Poor Mum, she was constantly cleaning up after him.
My brother would pretend to shear him like a sheep. Digger would growl and growl, but if my brother stopped he’d jump up on him for more.
But by far, the funniest memory I have of Digger is of him sleeping peacefully on the lounge room floor. All of a sudden I heard a loud fart and Digger jerked awake, looked around startled, then started sniffing his own butt. I was in stitches for about 15 minutes after that.
There are so many stories to tell. Whenever I think about that dog, I can’t help but smile. My family spent many, many nights laughing at him and even now, 10 years since he left us, we still chuckle when he’s mentioned at the dinner table.
Mum reckons he was sent to us for a reason. Whatever it was, I’m so glad he wandered up our driveway that day and chose us.
talesbytails 