Farm dogs
All that evening Gertie, an alert fox-terrier, was worried
and agitated. Several times the farmer
stood still in the shadows of the house, listening. All was quiet. Eventually Gertie and the other seven dogs
settled down for the night on the veranda and the farmer and his family went to
bed.
The attack, when it came soon
afterwards, sounded for a second like hail on the roof. Then came the roar of guns, grenades and
rockets, fired from the south where the veranda was situated. In the heated exchange of fire that followed
as the farmer and his family defended themselves there was no time to estimate
injuries or comfort animals. In twenty
minutes it was over and help was at hand.
Miraculously no one was
hurt. The dogs had all hidden away in
various corners of the garden, except for little Bonzo, a six month-old bull
terrier pup. Somehow he had wedged
himself between two brick chimneys, one of which had been hit by a rocket and
was leaning at a frightening angle.
It took ten anxious minutes to
free the crying, terrified pup who was, to everyone’s great relief,
uninjured. The chimney fell into the
sitting room the next day; once again no one was hurt.
It was several weeks before the
dogs could be induced to sleep on the veranda again and the sound of a rifle being
cocked would send them cringing and shaking into hiding. In time, however, even Bonzo, who took it all
much harder than the others, got over his nerves.
Six months later, without warning
a rocket hit the veranda where the dogs were sleeping, crashing through the
roof, sending sheets of corrugated iron flying and blasting three of the
farmhouse doors from their frames.
Alert little Gertie was killed
outright. So also was Rover, an
Alsatian/Doberman, his body sliced in two.
Bully, an enormous thirteen year-old black Labrador, was very badly
wounded in the chest and neck and lost a great deal of blood before the attack
was repelled by this courageous little family and he could be attended to. Young Bonzo was also wounded and the terrier
Scamp, the old man of the pack, had shrapnel lodged in his upper jaw.
The farm was far from town and
the constant veterinary attention the dogs required if they were to be saved,
and so they were nursed back to health at the SPCA kennels. Bully took a long time to regain his strength
and his great guarding qualities, and Scamp will carry that shrapnel in his jaw
for the rest of his life. It was six
months before the old terrier could breathe properly again.
For weeks after their return
home, like frightened children the dogs could not bear to let their owners out
of their sight and shook with fear at any loud noises or the sound of a helicopter
overhead.
Bonzo’s nerves were
shattered. Two such terrifying
experiences in his young life were more than he could manage, and the loss of
Rover, his special pal, affected him deeply.
When months of patient, gentle handling failed to help him, he was
evacuated right away from that area with all its frightening associations, and
in a new home was slowly able to adjust and live a normal life again.
Police dogs
Under the crossed swords of war, boys are called upon to be
men, men to be soldiers, soldiers to be leaders. Policemen extend their duties and their
courage far beyond the outlines of their careers. And with them go their dogs, carefully selected,
highly trained, keenly intelligent, embracing without complaint a military role
with all its differences, difficulties and dangers.
And if they must give their
lives, they give them, some with no more understanding than blind obedience and
loyalty; some knowing death when they see it, and meeting it without flinching.
Such a dog was big Brutus. Dubbed “The Frog-Dog” – from a famous exploit
of his in which he, while tracking a common house-breaker, plunged undirected
into a river and retrieved from its murky depths a linen bag filled with stolen
goods – Brutus sometimes exchanged his city beat for the bush.
There, working free ahead of his
patrol, in their search for a new and uncompromising enemy, through grass too
long and scrub too thick even for a dog of his size, he caught wind of his well-hidden
quarry.
Again undirected, entirely on his
own initiative, Brutus hurled himself towards their position, drawing their fire
but charging on none the less, into the thick of it.
His action saved his patrol, but
cost him his own brave life.
***
 |
| Clipping from THE OUTPOST - 1978 |
One tends to think of the dogs of war and work as
males. Alexis, however, was a
female. being a bloodhound, her job was
to track, never mind where or why, and track she did, with keenness and stamina
that might have been the envy of her brothers.
Her
keenness was called for when the spoor of two armed and wounded men, known to
have gone to earth, was lost after twelve hours of searching. Alexis was brought in and within five minutes
had located one man, already dead, and in another five found the second, who
was captured.
Christmas
Day was no treat for Alexis. Four
District Assistants had been abducted and she was put on their trail. She worked without let-up for twenty-six
kilometres until she caught up with the group.
In the ensuing contact one abductor was killed, the others fled, and the
four captives rescued.
How well
this great girl deserved her retirement, late as it was, and the sweet, easy
life.
The ox and the ass
If it means nothing to lock children in a hut and burn it
down, why should it mean anything to set fire to a pen of pigs, or turn a
machine-gun on a herd of cattle, or chop off the leg of a living cow and leave
her, without a qualm?
*
The loaded cattle truck was stopped at gun-point. The driver was ordered out. Then the truck was set alight. The trapped, packed cattle burned to death.
Why?
*
Not all the cattle stolen were slaughtered straight
away. Some were hidden. Their legs were broken to prevent them moving
away. They were left there, untended,
for days, until someone remembered or needed fresh meat.
*
Donkeys bow their heads in servitude to man. Obediently they carry maximum loads without
complaint. They wait for food, for
water, for rest. They do not ask.
They pull
the scotch carts down the dusty roads.
They do not know the disturbance in the ground hides a landmine. They plod across.
Help must
surely come for the tragic little children in the carts, for the wounded and
the dead.
Does
somebody help the donkeys, dying in the traces?
Does
anybody care?
The wild ones
For some, in some places, there was relief. People and livestock moved away. Grass grew again, and small bushes where a
fawn might hide dotted the lands. As
quietly as the grass growing, the animals, hunted out because they were alive, drifted
back.
Night
hunting with lights and guns all but ceased.
With less traffic on the roads at night, the casualties there were
fewer. For a while even trapping became
less prevalent.
Against
these small gains stood the terrible toll of the minefields.
Paths trace
this way and that across the face of wild Africa – character lines on an
ancient face. Paths that lead to seasonal
grazing, browse and water. Paths that
that have been there ever since time was.
Across the
paths fences were strung, adequate for people who knew about such things, but
not for animals.
Some of
them, seeing others blown apart, the deafening explosion drowning the screams
of agony, understood not to go that way again.
But for most the lesson could only be learned by each one for
itself. One lesson only, taught by
Death.
And to the
wounded and the dead came scavengers, victims in their turn.
***
Thousands of animals lost, innocent every one, caught up in
man’s stupid wars. For what?
