The View From Connor's Hill (3 page)

I guessed that, for old Jack, this was the perfect start to the day. As for me, well, I reckoned I should've clapped. But being a young farm labourer who wasn't exactly known for bursting into spontaneous applause, I remained quiet. Rover also just sat, mouth agape, head twisted to one side in a look of admiration, I thought. Thankfully, he didn't touch the repulsive blob of spit.

So in the one day I had met an esteemed gentleman with fascinating eating habits who smoked non-stop all day, and had a foul tongue and a worthless, ugly dog.

Despite all this, old Jack seemed content on his farm doing small jobs, tinkering in the woolshed, and driving around with Rover perched up in the front seat of the blue ute. He would often talk away to Rover and pat the dog's head. I admit the dog didn't answer, but there was eye contact between them.

Over time, I could see that old Jack struggled when it came to doing the stock work on his farm. No wonder, as he and Rover were both useless — old Jack being too crotchety, and Rover having no idea. Whenever I watched old Jack trying to muster, very quickly there would be swearing. His voice would grow louder as he spat out numerous confusing commands like a passionate, browned-off footy supporter. Meanwhile, the dog tried to round up the sheep while turning to look desperately at his owner. There was only one command that Rover appeared to obey and that was, ‘Git in tha ute, ya hopeless ugly bugger of a bloody thing.'

Now, I didn't own a dog — just a slow, old horse. But after only a couple of weeks, I soon found myself helping old Jack in the paddock. This usually happened after I finished work. He would sidle up to me and quietly ask, ‘Can you give us a hand mustering some sheep, mate?'

I obliged if I wasn't busy. Then it was always the same routine — the three of us, Rover, old Jack, and me, in the front of the ute, heading up into a paddock somewhere. After several opening and shutting of gates, we would be within sight of a mob of sheep. To be fair, old Jack would always try Rover first. He'd call the dog out of the ute and then shout, ‘Come here, go way out, go back, come round, speak up, sit, sit, you brindle bastard, sit!' He would bellow as the sheep split up and ran everywhere. Rover seemed to run in decreasing, confused circles, barking occasionally. He had no idea.

‘Go back, come 'ere, come 'ere! Ah, shit. Go back! Sit! Sit! Useless bloody brindle bastard. Git in tha ute.'

Rover would then leap through the open window and sit on the seat. Old Jack would turn to me. ‘Baz, can you head off those bloody ewes, mate?'

Would you believe, I then did my sheepdog-impersonation act. It must have looked hilarious. Running and flapping my arms and making tugboat noises while copping abuse was exhausting, but it was a lot of fun and I became very fit.

As the sheep started to move along, old Jack would sit in his blue ute with hopeless bloody Rover beside him, his tongue hanging out, while I did all the dog's work, except for the sitting. Old Jack tried it once and I think he meant it, but I drew the line at ‘Sit!'

Over the months, old Jack and I became really good mates. He let me drive his blue ute, and talked a lot about his days growing up as a youngster on the farm. He had done it tough. I enjoyed his yarns about horses and carts, the stagecoach, and when ‘gold fever' hit the district. Listening to old Jack was like reading a good book.

It was usually as we were driving in the ute somewhere that he would begin a yarn. The funny thing was, I reckon Rover enjoyed them as well. His tongue would loll about, and there was always a gleam in his eyes.

But there came a time when I realised that old Jack had been away for about three weeks. Mind you, I didn't give this much thought until the boss told me that old Jack was really crook: he had inoperable cancer and didn't have long to live. That was a shock. Old Jack was a loveable character.

The other thing that was a bit of a surprise was that, before he went away, old Jack left a message with the boss. When he died, I was to have Rover. This was a strange request, and I found it a bit embarrassing. What good would a mutt like that be?

Several weeks later, poor old Jack died, and I became Rover's new owner. To be honest, I was at a bit of a loss. The unwritten law about ineffective dogs on a farm was to give them ‘lead poisoning' — that's right, take them up the back paddock and shoot them. But I recalled the weird friendship that old Jack had established with Rover, and I decided I would find another owner for the dog; someone who wanted a house pet, maybe.

The problem of Rover bothered me all the next week. I kept the dog chained up most of the time, only letting him off just before I fed him each night. That way, I knew he'd come when called — and he did, straight away. Then, one night, I asked the boss to tell me a bit about old Jack's dog.

‘He was trained by one of the best trainers around, a bloke from Bairnsdale,' the boss said. ‘In fact, old Jack paid a top quid for him as one of the best. But that's the way it goes sometimes. No matter how well trained, the dog turns out a dud; a one-man dog that won't work for anyone else. No damn good, in other words. That's what old Jack got — a worthless mongrel.'

Come Friday, it was time to head home. During the week, I'd decided I would take the dog home. Maybe something would turn up. We had an old, black dog at home called Darky. He was a house pet and, well, maybe he would welcome a mate.

So, with Rover seated on the potato bag I had wrapped around the bar of my pushbike for his comfort, I warily pushed off for the four-mile ride home. As a precaution, I also had a long rope; just in case he wouldn't stay on the bike, I'd let him run beside me. Then, with his front paws resting on the handlebars, and his back legs on the bar below, I peddled for home.

What I thought would be a frustrating ride, with Rover trying to get off, didn't happen. He sat quietly. Many thoughts about the dog filled my head as I peddled along on the bike. I vaguely recall stopping for a break and showing him the view from the top of Connor's Hill. It was magnificent. To be honest, I hoped that an answer to the dog dilemma would eventuate at home; Mum was fond of animals, and maybe she'd look after him for a time.

It was a pleasant, 30-minute ride to our house on the Tambo River. My brother Peter, aged three, was there to greet me as usual. He immediately fell in love with Rover, and in no time was hugging him and leading him around with a length of hayband (a light rope). Mum liked the dog, too. Good — that might mean he'd have a home. Phew! I was pleased, as I didn't want to take him back to the farm.

Peter played with Rover all weekend, and Mum said that he was a quiet dog with a nice personality. She decided to keep him for the meantime.

On Monday, I rode to work believing that old Jack would be happy that his brindle mutt had a home, even if it was only a temporary one.

Several weeks passed, and I barely gave the dog a thought. Come the Friday, I rode the Malvern Star home and was pleasantly surprised to find Rover in an old pram, wrapped in a blanket, and wearing a bonnet. He was Peter's baby, and Peter was babbling to him. Rover, his tongue hanging out, was lapping up the attention. I thought,
Good. The dog's fitted in
.

Then my brother John, who also lived at home, came outside and commented, ‘Check out what Rover can do, Baz.'

John pursed his lips and then whistled Rover out of the pram, flicked his fingers, and pointed towards the kids' new toy. Curiosity found me watching Rover rocking in a toy rocker. He sat in the seat, paws on the handles, just like on my bike, and rocked. Amazing. Then, another whistle from John, and Rover sat at his feet. John, who was enjoying this, told Peter to go and hide. Giggling, Peter scampered off and hid behind a fruit tree. Rover lay on the ground with his paws over his eyes.

‘Find Peter,' he said.

It was obvious that Rover knew exactly where Peter was hiding, but he pretended otherwise. He wandered off aimlessly, looking and sniffing roughly in my youngest brother's direction. A fit of giggles from Peter forced Rover to show his hand (or should that be paw?).

After much hugging and a belly scratch as the dog lay down on his back, John announced it was Rover's turn to hide. He gave the instruction, and Rover went to another fruit tree and stood behind the trunk with his back to Peter. Peter hid his eyes, counted roughly to ten, and then declared in baby talk, ‘Coming, ready or not!'

Rover stood very still, his head slightly turned so he could watch the proceedings. After 30 seconds, Peter had no idea where the dog was. Rover shook his collar and gave his position away, much to Peter's delight. He thought he had found him. Mum, looking through the kitchen window, laughed.

I was puzzled. Maybe this dog had some potential. John said it had only taken him a couple of weeks to train Rover to do these tricks. Consequently, after a bit of pondering, I cautiously decided to try Rover on the farm.

He seemed pleased to sit up on my pushbike when I headed off on that Monday. Again, he was the perfect passenger. And again, I stopped at the top of Connor's Hill. It was an exhausting ride up that long, steep incline with a dog on board. We both admired the early-morning mist that covered the Tambo Valley. The low clouds must have been 15 miles across, with just mountain peaks protruding here and there.

We were drenching sheep on the farm. The boss had normally done all the required mustering and I did the yard work. He was away this particular day, and there was one last mob to bring into the woolshed. I decided,
Well, here goes — I'll try to muster the mob of young ewes with Rover.
There was no one about, and I had nothing to lose. Cautiously, I walked with him into the lucerne paddock, left the gate open, and stood beside the strainer post. Hesitantly, I said, ‘Go way out.'

Rover ran along the fence, behind the sheep.

‘Speak up.'

A good dog will bark, and force the sheep to run into a mob. Rover barked twice, and the sheep herded together.

‘Come over here.'

He started to come towards me when some of the sheep broke away.

‘Go back!' I shouted, fearing this would be one test he wouldn't pass.

He not only went back; he headed them. Then, knowing where I planned to take the sheep, he started to quietly push them towards the gate. Within an hour, to my amazement, I realised this dog was good — very good. I realsied that Rover was a good paddock dog, which made me very happy. I gave him a cautious pat.

Getting sheep to the woolshed and yards efficiently was an enormous time-saver on a farm. Then, with the mustering finished, you'd go and get the yard dog. A yard dog has to be forceful, aggressive, and tough. It runs across the sheep's backs, and turns them towards the desired direction. It has to have almost perfect balance. Many times, in a small yard packed with sheep, a dog will fall, disappearing underneath. At times, the dog is trampled quite severely. Most farms have two or three dogs — a cattle dog, one for the paddock, and another for the yards. Rover was better in the yard than the paddock. He was an all-round stock dog. In fact, he was a champion. It made sense that old Jack had paid a top quid for him.

I returned home to Mum and Dad at the end of the week with Rover proudly perched up with his paws on the handlebars. No sooner had I walked in the back door than I burst out with tales of the remarkable abilities and skills that this rather ugly-looking, part-Kelpie dog had shown. Admittedly, both of my parents had never owned or worked a sheepdog. They simply had to take my word for it that Rover was an exceptional dog.

It wasn't long before he was able to prove me correct. It was later that same year, I recall, after my parents had purchased a farm at Tongio. Here was my opportunity — when we put our first sheep on our new property. Mum had bought the sheep, a mob of fine-woolled merino wethers, at a sale. A truck had dropped all five hundred of them at our yards during the week, and Mum had gone up and let them out into the ridge paddock. This paddock had a bit of bush and a very steep, large ridge. Dad and I didn't get to see the sheep, as we were busy for the next two weeks.

It was the third weekend before I first saw the wethers. Dad, Mum, and I went up to the farm. I was going to muster them with Rover, check them for flystrike and any dags, and decide if they needed crutching. On the drive to the farm, Rover sat on the floor in the front of the Land Rover at my feet. That is what he'd been trained to do. Apparently, old Jack had taken ages to entice Rover onto the seat of his blue ute.

On arrival, we all got out and walked down by the small creek from where we could see the sheep. Sure enough, they were way up high on a very steep ridge. Both my parents looked in my direction, half expecting me to say, ‘Wait there. Rover and I will go up the ridge and return with the sheep.'

I had a different plan; I was simply busting to show them what this remarkable dog could do. I knew I could send him into any paddock. He, in turn, would carefully check the entire area and return with all the sheep. So, raising my right arm, I pointed and said to Rover, ‘Go. Way away out.'

Now, this paddock was huge. To walk around the boundary would take at least 45 minutes. Rover cast out very wide, and vanished through the small clump of bush. He emerged halfway up the grassy ridge and finally disappeared over the crest of the hill. Meanwhile the sheep, which were near the top, ran together. We could just make them out; they were peering at Rover over the other side somewhere. I waited proudly. I knew Rover would find this task a piece of cake. The sheep on top of the ridge remained fixated on what I guessed must have been Rover way down the other side, bringing up the stragglers.