Short stories, tall stories, & yarns.
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Our Dog Chasing Swifts |
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My Rover Who nightly in his den does lie That slumbers only with one eye And barks if any thing stirs nigh My Rover |
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Who finds me out both far and near, |
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Who will himself from day to day |
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And who when I at dinner sit In silence seems to beg a bit Then wags his tail in thanks for it My Rover |
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And who to please me with a trick Will carry in his mouth a stick Or any thing that's not too thick My Rover |
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Nay I need not no further go |
This is one of my favourite books. It's called *Tat: the story of a New Zealand sheep-dog,* by author, *Neil McNaughton.* It's the kind of book that will make you laugh, and make you cry.
The story goes, Tat is born from a prized sheep-dog who is very old, and she dies after giving birth, and he is raised by hand by two teenagers, who think he is the most wonderful puppy of all time. They train him well and can see his potential. The father inadvertently sells him, and he goes from a succession of good and bad homes. He spends quite alot of time wandering on his own, as some of his owners have treated him badly.
Here is an extract, chapter twelve:
*........Once again, Tat was on the trail. He didn't fathom exactly what he was looking for, because after all, he looked on man as his enemy. He was a bewildered creature, wandering over the hills, through scrub and fern. He could be compared with the terrain over which he was travelling. It was rich, loamy soil going to waste, when it should have been brought into cultivation, growing valuable crops, and being of great service to man. Likewise, here was an intelligent and capable dog, with all the brains and initiative of his ancestors packed in his noble head, wandering through this wilderness. However, whatever it was that urged him forward seemed to lure him in one direction, over creeks and gullies, patches of bush and scrub, miles of stunted flax, bracken, and more manuka scrub.
He finally stood on the brink of a steep cliff looking into a huge valley, down which wended a small stream call the Upukerora, which emptied into Lake Te Anau. He emerged from the scrub several times to stand on the edge of the cliff, wondering which way to proceed. He was very nervous. Instinct warned him that he was in the proximity of man, but hunger spurred him on. Two deer-stalkers saw him as they came out of the bush one hundred yards away.
*There goes a pig, Harry,* said one. *See if you can bowl him.*
Tat heard them and began to run, but Harry's shot caught him and he rolled over the cliff.
*That was a good shot,* said Harry's friend. As it was getting dark they went on their way without investigating further.
Bluey McPhail was prospecting in this area. His base camp was an old shepherd's hut, fifteen miles up the river. Once a week he went for his groceries to the Te Anau township, in an old Land Rover. For his meat he relied on his rifle, obtaining plentiful supplies of deer and pigs.
One afternoon he was coming back from one of his excursions, when he noticed a fresh slip on the cliff. As a gold prospector he was always on the lookout for black sand or quartz. He stopped to take a closer look, and it was then that he noticed a black object bogged in the mud. At first glance he took it to be a pig, but closer inspection showed that it was a dog. He went up to it, pulled the dog out of the bog, and examined it closely.
*Poor devil,* he said, *you're done for I'm afraid; but while there's life there's hope.*
Tat had been there since the night before. Bluey realised afterwards that the dog would have bled to death if the sticky blue clay had not packed into the bullet hole in his side and stemmed the flow of blood. Bluey was a lover of all animals, so he carried Tat back to the Land Rover and wrapped him gently in a sack.
When he got him back to the hut, he cleaned him up a little and, liking what he saw, determined to bring him back to life if he could. It was touch and go: the dog wasn't far off death. He soon had a fire going, and he laid Tat on a sack in front of it. He mixed a bowl of warm water and dried milk and poured a spoonful or two down the dog's throat from time to time.
Later in the evening, there was a scratching noise at the door of the hut. Bluey said, *come in.* The door was slowly pushed open, and there stood a wild pig.
*Good evening, Grumpus,* said Bluey.
The pig walked over to him to have his back scratched, a gesture he always expected as his special rite, to assure him that all was well. Bluey had found this pig when he was a tiny fellow, mismothered, and had reared him on dried milk and scraps of bread. Pigs have a named for being dirty animals, but his is a libel. They also show a remarkable defree of intelligence. Grumpus was properly house-trained and his manners and habits left little to be desired; but when he saw the dog lying on the hearth, his bristles rose along the top of his back and he retreated through the door in a huff.
Tat was showing more signs of life, with the warmth of the fire and the warm milk. The bullet had apparently gone straight through his body without damaging any of the vital organs. Next morning, Bluey went up the valley a mile or so and shot a stag. He returned to the hut with as much of it as he could carry. With the help of this venison, he nursed Tat back to health. After three days, Tat could stand up and take notice of his surroundings. Bluey made a kennel for him of bungy ferns and manuka scrub, with a comfortable bed of dried fern.
Tat and Grumpus remained suspicious of each other for some time, but after a while each grew accustomed to the presence of the other, and eventually they became firm friends. Bluey got much fun from watching them.
Grumpus would approach Tat side-on, with his bristles up as if in deadly earnest. Tat would spring around and glare at him. There they would stand, nose to nose. Suddently Grumpus would give a couple of quick grunts and start jumping about, as if to say, *It's all in fun*
Both were devoted to their master, who talked to them, in lieu of other listeners, about his days adventures. Bluey was a man who loved the outback. He could name every tree and shrub, and get the wild birds to eat out of his hand. He could call wild ducks up to him and catch them in his hands.
As Tat grew fatter and stronger, Bluey discovered his remarkable intelligence. He could pick that Tat was a sheep-dog of good breeding. When Bluey made his next trip, heading for Mossburn with a load of deerskins, he took Tat with him. The river would its way down the valley with many twists and turns, and had to be forded six or seven times.
When he reached Mossburn he sold his skins and called to see a friend who was a small runholder. Bluey was concerned about Tat's future. He explained to Jim, his friend, that he had found the dog near the banks of the Upukerora, and asked whether any runholder in this district was know to have lost a dog. Jim promised to make enquiries, but was pretty sure he would have heard if it had been so.
*He looks a well-bred hound, Bluey,* said Jim. *If you care to take a job with us for the winter, you could try him out. We can do with help for a couple of months or so.*
It suited Bluey to get out of the bush for the winter months, and he was glad to close with Jim's offer. His prospecting venture had not been successful - at least as far as finding gold was concerned. He had followed the rivers to their sources and climbed all over Mount Richmond, Mount Snowdon, and Dunton Peak, fossicking with pick and shovel and pan in every mountain stream, but had been scarcely more than a few colours. So he decided he could do with a change. He was a single man with no ties, a widowed sister-in-law and her family being his only close relatives.
S a fortnight later Bluey closed up the hut, leaving everything as tidy and clean as he could, with a good supply of firewood for the next comer. He was very loth to leave Grumpus behind, but the pig was now old enough to fend for himself and was developing a nice pair of tusks.
Bluey had assumed that such a well-bred sheep-dog would have had some training. He was disappointed at first to find not only that Tat's instincts had not been developed, but that he could only with great difficulty be persuaded to go near sheep at all. However, he had enough faith in Tat's intelligence to persevere. He overcame the first difficutly by getting some sheep into a big yard and leading Tat about among them. He next lesson was to command him to sit down in the gateway and drive the sheep towards him with another dog. If he stood his ground, he would be rewarded with a piece of meat. It was Bluey's policy always ot keep him hungry when giving him lessons.
Tat (whom Bluey now called by a new name, Shot) began to gain confidence among the sheep. He started off again as he had done with the hens.
He wasn't a difficult dog to train, once he got started. Tat had a great natural style. When Bluey finally got him started on what is know as the *long pull*, on flat ground where Tat knew that he was easily visible to the sheep, he would naturally take a wide run out - or *cast* - to head his sheep. On the other hand, if the sheep could not see him he would go more directly to them - a narrower cast.
Bluey had not trouble in teaching him to muster a paddock without leaving one sheep behind, or to cut in and bring one or two sheep on their own out of the mob, or half the sheep in the paddock. He taught him to walk slowly, to sit, stand, crawl, and hunt away. Tat could soon pull a mob of a thousand sheep on his own, better and further in a day than any other dog. He wouldn't bite: he would mouth at their legs but would never draw blood.
Jim, the runholder, persuaded Bluey to stay on and give a hand to lamb the paddock ewes. This is where Tat proved his true worth. After about ten days, he could pick many of the ewes which needed attention. Bluey gave all his commands by whistle.
He would see a ewe which neeed attention and, facing in her direction, would give Tat the command to run. Nine times out of ten, Tat would circle the ewe that was wanted. If a lamb needed a drink after the ewe was caught, he would hustle it along with his nose, bring it right up, so that Bluey could get his hand on it. He soon learnt to catch a ewe by the neck and pull it over. He even knew how to lift up a cast sheep. When he was give the command to run, and the word *lift* with it, he kept going until he found the cast sheep, and pulled it onto its feet without harming it.
During the lambing, Bluey worked with a hack and saddle-bags. Coming in at night, he commanded Tat to jump up behind him and have a ride home on the hack's rump. In no time at all he was by far the best dog on the station, and was admired by all the shepherds. Bluey could already have sold him for big money. He was none the worse for the bullet that had gone through him (and provided him with his new name). and with feeding and good care, seemed to have grown much bigger.
Bluey had no intention of staying on the station very long. He had always been a rover, and intended to go to Australia. And he had already planned in his mind a future for Tat............*
Bluey was one of Tats many owners, and one of the best. He set Tat on the path, (after a few more chapters of ups and downs, mostly ups this time), where Tat is finally reunited with the two teenagers (who are a few years older now) that raised him as a puppy.
A wonderful story.
For my friend