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A SMALL TOWN

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Dave Rhodes was the kind of husband who gave his wife a vacuum cleaner for her birthday. The kids didn’t do surprises and knew what they wanted. Gifts could be found scattered all over the house, including game devices, Barbie dolls, and enough anti-alien laser guns to repel Darth Vadar and a million Stormtroopers. After a pre-Christmas think-tank meeting, the three children decided they deserved a dog. Realising their father might want to resist the opportunity to expand the family in this way, the boys charged Chloe, five, with the job of bringing him around to their way of thinking. Another mouth to feed might stretch the budget, but the youngsters would be prepared to give up their portions of spinach and other green edibles if it would help.

It has to be said that Chloe was the Mata Hari of five-year-olds. Using all her feminine charms, she possessed the ability to turn her father into a compliant servant within minutes of locking her arms around his neck. With the commitment confirmed, the eldest son, Rory, stepped in to declare that he had prize-picked a potential candidate for the yet-to-be-purchased kennel. The father of his best mate at school, a grazier, owned a spread the envy of most folks in the area. The litter of pups would be there for the taking, and it would cost Dave nothing. Nevertheless, he did question the need for this breed.

“A sheepdog! I know we live on a farm, but we only have one sheep. Are you sure?”

Shawn may have been a single entity but he was no ordinary sheep. He possessed half a brain and a dynamic personality, and interacted well with the children. Mrs Rhodes, less keen, considered buying her husband a lawn mower for Christmas. In this way, they might get to enjoy roast lamb instead of the usual boring ham.

The family lived on a rural property, but don’t paint Dave as a farmer. The fellow sold farm machinery. His wife, Annie, supplemented their income with her various cottage industries, which included door sales of eggs (chicken and duck), fruit, and feather-down quilts.

Did she think the backyard would become more chaotic with ducks, chooks, a sheep, and now a dog? Yes, she did, but young Chloe could be persuasive.

The puppy arrived in a basket with a bow tied around his neck, with the sound of departing sleigh bells in the distance. Rory took charge and introduced the little fella to every member of the family. The young girl provided similar introductions to each of her dolls. Dusty licked them all and then retreated to the fireplace, where he discovered a large bone wrapped in Christmas tinsel. The children believed it would be best to initiate the tyke into the joys of the yuletide season, so he might enjoy it as much as they did.

Over the ensuing months, the pup kept close to his three protectors as he felt vulnerable outside, at the mercy of loud and inconsiderate farm animals. Protecting one’s patch is quite the thing with creatures, often wary of any new arrival. Of course, adventures could be encountered beyond the perimeter of the property, but all in good time.

The puppy didn’t have a lot to do with Mr and Mrs Rhodes, although he must have wondered why the woman continually followed him with a green plastic bag. This would all change when he became older and wiser. Two years down the track and Annie wouldn’t go to town without her faithful companion by her side. On these occasions, the dog would get to meet the townspeople, and they all loved him.

On her shopping excursions, the country housewife couldn’t take the pet into the supermarket, so she tied him up on the footpath. The shopkeeper next door didn’t like this much because he thought the dishlicker deterred customers, so he always untied the barking beast. The liberated animal then proceeded to freewheel down High Street on a voyage of discovery, which included the butcher shop, the bakery, and Fat Al’s burger joint.

In this way, new friends would be made, some of them possessing a welcoming nature and a generosity of spirit. Often, a slice of salami would come sailing out of the window of Mother Petrocelli’s Deli just as Dusty passed by. It is a credit to the woofer that he always arrived back at the supermarket in time to greet his mistress with her shopping. She never noticed (or cared) that her escort was no longer tied up.

As time went by, Annie didn’t bother with the pretence of tying him up, and he roamed free every Tuesday for one hour. During that time, the inquisitive dog performed many civic services, some above and beyond community expectations. For example, he always patrolled the school toilets, looking for those misfits keen to wag class. Who can forget the day the canine caught Sammy Stuyvesant and Delia Davidoff smoking? When the principal appeared on the scene, he discovered them doing more than that. Very embarrassing!

The day he saved Bernadette Brody’s baby proved to be another bookmark of bravado. Mum only let go of the pram for an instant, but it started to roll down Harlequin Hill, picking up speed with every wheel rotation. The two Rhodes scholars, Rory and Jake, saw what was happening from the schoolyard but expected Superman to intervene. Yes, they also believed in the Easter bunny.

On the back of “kiss and go,” man’s best friend prepared to join Annie in the family vehicle when he observed the pram careering down the road and went after it.

You may have heard the stories, some of them embellished. Dusty couldn’t run faster than a speeding bullet, but he did stretch out and caught up with the baby carriage before it smashed into the water faucet at the end of the road. The dog couldn’t stop the impetus of the four-wheeler, but he jumped aboard and sunk his teeth into the swaddling clothes around the baby’s neck. The fearless one broke free with the child with seconds to spare and then delivered the crying infant back to her mother. What a hero!

Annie couldn’t have been prouder of the sheepdog, but the explanation to her husband didn’t come out right.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart? Dusty delivered a baby?”

*****

The Four Paw Society existed because of the number of dog owners in town and out. They represented every political persuasion, so agreement on anything proved difficult. In matters of respect, no disagreement existed as to who was their star. However, the suggestion from Kimberly Carruthers came from left field.

“Ladies, gentlemen, fellow members, I would like to recommend that we endorse Dusty Rhodes as our candidate in the forthcoming council election.”

Nice one, Kimberly.

Mmmm, quite interesting. The incumbent in their ward, Bruce Pickles, was the mayor but on the nose for all kinds of reasons. Few people thought he would be able to retain his position, but could he be beaten by a dog?

Some years ago in Australia, the politician Bill Hayden declared that “a drover’s dog could lead the Labor Party to victory.” The Four Paw representative might admit to being more Liberal than Labor, but there’s a precedent, if you need one. At the Rhodes property, the working dog only droved one sheep, so he had time on his hands.

The vulnerability of Bruce Pickles needs to be explained. Three years earlier, the out-of-favour mayor presented as a shining light, elected in a landslide. At the time, nobody knew him to be a paedophile with a criminal record for fraud and aggravated assault. To avoid such issues, one often chooses to relocate, and this is what Bruce and his wife did. Yes, all hail the forgiving wife, every bit as gullible as he might have hoped.

The accountant’s job at Sullivan and Sons appealed, as did the sons, Dan and Tim, earmarked for managerial roles in about fifteen years. Sullivan’s, the best (and only) furniture store in town, was expensive, but nobody questioned the quality of their merchandise. The pencil pusher should have been concealed in the back office, but he harboured this desire to strut about the premises and bond with the customers. Rather than describe the fellow, let me quote from My Fair Lady.

“Oozing charm from every pore, he oiled his way around the floor.”

Some of these people he recognised from the Valley Church of Praise, where he held the position of honorary treasurer and lead vocalist. To them, Bruce wasn’t the sleaze that many people thought, and he did have a fine tenor voice. The parishioners were more than happy to support his push at politics and would only find out about his crimes after election day.

The death of Mrs Pickles came as a shock and must be described as a sad affair, with most people believing the husband to be responsible. Of course he was responsible. You should never point a gun at anybody, even if you only intended to clean it. What was this guy doing with a gun, you ask?

It would have been nice if the police asked the same question, but they didn’t. The station chief played golf with the suspect and declared him to be a rum fellow, so they exonerated him. The pastor at the Church of Praise also confirmed this characterisation when funds went missing from the weekly collection. The guy was having a dream run, but would the fickle finger of fate soon dial M for mayor? The odds were not in his favour.

You rarely meet people with delusions of grandeur in a small regional town because country folks have a way of cutting you down to size. Somehow, Bruce slipped through the cracks. I cite the general disharmony in chambers when he exchanged his chair for a throne. You can do that if you’re in the furniture business.

What about the junket to Japan to investigate the possibility of starting up a Wasabi plantation where the sewerage treatment plant used to be? Lucinda Quinlan, the token Greenie on the council, should have been the one to undertake this investigative journey.

You guessed it. Mayor Pickles intervened, upgraded the only ticket to first class, and frolicked among the apple blossoms, before eating his way around the various sushi trains in Kyoto and Tokyo. With little time allocated for due diligence, the sad truth emerged. Wasabi requires a warm, humid climate to thrive. Some people would describe the sewage location as all of that, but it was not appropriate for this part of Victoria. The disappointed traveller retreated to his favourite Onsen and sat in a bath until the flying kangaroo (Qantas) arrived to return him home.

He would also be in hot water when he arrived back in chambers to discover a revolt amongst his constituents after someone leaked details of his previous history. With elections on the horizon, the mayor became a liability to himself and his prospects. The question on everybody’s lips— “Who would oppose him?”

The most popular person in town was Basil Green, proprietor of the fashionable franchise “Murder by Chocolate.” Situated on top of Harlequin Hill, the shop of enchantment delighted many. If you survived the climb, a reward seemed appropriate, and Basil and his wife were never short of customers. Notwithstanding his popularity, Rosemary refused to allow her husband to be involved in politicking of any kind, as politics polarised the community and could mean a loss of trade.

When the election flyers for the nominee were distributed, no one questioned the picture of a dog, front and centre, because the candidate had been endorsed by the Four Paws Society. Most people remembered Mr Rhodes but forgot his name was Dave, not Dusty. Dave’s appearance at the polling booths didn’t lessen the confusion in any way.

So, it came to pass that Dusty was elected, but you don’t become top dog just because you defeated the former office-bearer. The reluctant politician became mayor because the other councillors couldn’t agree on a suitable person for the position; the popular pooch became the compromise candidate. On entering chambers, the animal made a beeline for the throne and refused to be moved. Could anyone want a more defining endorsement?

Looking back at his first hundred days, one could be impressed by some of the initiatives passed by these servants of the shire, not the least being their campaign to clean up the streets. “Prevent Peeing in Public,” a program directed at various loose bladder delinquents in the town, proved popular, and the councillors named and shamed the most blatant offenders, such as Mrs Coates’ goats and Georgia Klingner’s cats, who roamed around the streets as if they owned the place. Getting Dusty to pee by example would be another thing, putting Kimberly Carruthers and the Four Paw Society under pressure.

For council meetings scheduled outside of school hours, the mayor’s carers would be one of the siblings. Otherwise, Annie would be the lady with the lead. Being a wise head, she could contribute when difficult decisions were required to be made. One of these challenging resolutions involved a judgement as to whether the town would celebrate 14 February in the usual manner. The owner of the flower shop thought they should, and over at Sullivan and Sons, one man looked forward to the special day: the anniversary of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

Bruce, the wife-killer, only possessed one gun, which he cleaned regularly. Would he like to line up all the councillors against the wall and shoot them? Not that he should hold them responsible for his recent defeat. Insanity is a disease that precludes rational thought, so anyone would be fair game in his quest for retribution. There would be one primary target about to experience the full force of his vengeance, but Dusty was fast asleep on his throne, unaware of his predecessor’s desire for satisfaction. It would be no consolation for the madman to learn that most people thought the current councillors were doing well.

“Give a dog a bone,” another council initiative, found favour with the community, and they responded. So much so that one of the staff declared:

“There aren’t this many bones in the graveyard.”

This is when the health people stepped forward and decided that all bone donations that came to the Town Hall should be checked for salmonella. The one sent over from Sullivan and Sons should have been checked for nitro-glycerine. The bloody thing exploded when tossed into the corner pile behind the statue of Sir Henry Parkes, the Father of Federation in Australia.

The Town Hall lost the statue, plus two windows, one wall, and three mock Grecian columns, all covered by insurance. With no one killed, you might say they dodged a bullet, but nerves were on edge. At a hastily-called meeting, a resolution was passed to hire two sniffer dogs from H.M. Customs. The mayor somehow indicated that he would prefer the recruits to be female.

The investigation at the furniture store came to nothing, although information came to light that their accountant started his working career as a chemical engineer, but he never worked in an abattoir or a cemetery. How would he know about bones?

Cringing in his back office, the creepy accountant stewed in his reflections of regret. How could he have stuffed up such a foolproof plan? What a waste of St. Valentine’s Day. Bring on the Ides of March.

You have to wonder about someone who can compare Julius Caesar standing tall in the Senate and Dusty the dog standing small in the Town Hall. The difference was that everyone was out to get Caesar; one man sought to murder the mayor. That man might prove to be just as brutal as Brutus.

In Roman times, the Ides of March didn’t have a daylight-saving component attached to it, so Mr Pickles waited for the moon to go down. He realised that any self-respecting, knife-wielding assassin, should sneak up on the target in the dead of night and be wearing Hush-Puppies. Approaching the Rhodes farm on foot, he sensed the chickens were restless. Shawn the sheep pranced about nervously, and the ducks headed for the pond. Then there was the recent addition to the menagerie, Patricia, the python, a young, inexperienced, but fun-loving reptile who liked to hang out on the porch posts. The intruder would be rapt to meet her. Or not!

In his kennel on the front verandah, the designated security operative opened one eye and twitched his nose. The sensitivity of a dog’s nose is thousands of times more powerful than a human’s, and Bruce’s body odour gave him away. Not that there seemed to be any urgency about the pooch’s call to action. Slowly, he found his four feet and rose to his most formidable height. The commotion came from around the corner of the return verandah, so he padded his way to the spot where he discovered the former lord mayor grappling with Patricia, the python.

To be quite frank, Dusty and Patricia didn’t get on. Before her arrival, he had been the go-to guy for food disposal and the play-time preference for Chloe and the kids. Admittedly, committee meetings kept him away from home more often, but one knows when a luminary loses his lustre. Is this the reason the dog went for the snake instead of the prowler?

Patricia had never felt pain before, and those dog bites hurt. The reptile forgot about her game with the stranger and focused her attention on the canine. She considered him the grumpiest member of the family, but he rarely resorted to violence. Perhaps if she gave him a hug, all would be well. In the end, the humans ended the fight, and the trespasser scarpered.

With all the house lights on, the family members turned up in their pyjamas and surveyed the scene. Rory discovered the shiv in the bushes, and Patricia received all the accolades (and some soothing balm for her wounds). The yard guard just retreated to his kennel, feeling unloved and unappreciated.

I know what you’re thinking. Bruce, back in the safety of his abode, would be planning something further for 9/11 or 7 December (Pearl Harbour). This is how his mind worked.

This is not how my mind works. The intervention of the surly sheepdog could be a precursor to reconciliation involving the two lord mayors. After all, Dusty saved the guy from the playful python, a serpent who didn’t know the difference between a cuddle and crushed vertebrae. The two political animals would meet again at the Harlequin Hill Hoedown, sponsored by the Valley Church of Praise.

The church was situated in the valley, at the bottom of the steep incline, just beyond the faucet with the pram wrapped around it. Halfway up the rise, the organisers erected a stage for the performers, with interest at an all-time high. The out-of-towners always book early because accommodation is limited. This year, several celebrated gospel singers entered the music competition, and Dolly Parton sent a message of support. In the “Thank God it’s Sunday” category, the terrific tenor would lead the church choir with their rendition of “Nativity in Nashville.” Dusty would be one of the judges, along with Keith Suburban and Emmylou Paris.

You can probably see the case for replacing retribution with bribery or intimidation, Pickles being capable of both. On top of that, the pastor of this church had Italian friends. Naturally, any financial corruption would have to be financed from the poor box, but the treasurer had access to the key.

The good news for Bruce was that the late Leonard Cohen would not be back with “Hallelujah,” and no Elvis representative would sing “Amazing Graceland.” While the choir practised for their tilt at the title, the kids in town readied themselves for their character-defining event—the billy cart charge down Harlequin Hill, sponsored by Basil Green’s chocolate shop. The first prize was a mouth-watering assortment of sweets that any red-blooded adolescent would die for, and might. If comparisons could be made, I would nominate the chariot race in Spartacus.

At the Rhodes farm, Rory and Jake tried to insert spikes into the wheels of their vehicle, but Dusty would have none of it. His persistent whining brought Dave into the shed, who insisted that the boys fight fair. Their father would never tell them this, but he was impressed by their competitive spirit.

Poor Dave! Every year, the Hoedown has-beens set themselves for another beating, and every year, he ran the gauntlet between Annie and her creations and the lads and their billy carts. Now, Chloe added to the confusion, having entered Patricia in the “Cuddly Creatures” competition. Her mother was doing decorative duck eggs and didn’t have time to attend to her normal responsibilities (e.g., meals, bed-making, washing, and ironing). Such is life.

These festivals inject much-needed dollars into the economy of a country town, and Dusty started it all by breaking the tape at the showgrounds to get the sheepdog trials underway. His relatives competed, which is why he couldn’t be a judge for those events. Needless to say, he hung around as a keen observer of the “Best in Show” parade. Mimi, the sniffer dog from H.M. Customs, looked well-groomed and a beauty among beasts. The horny hound was a bit of a beast himself.

It wasn’t necessary for security to patrol the main street, but the controlling canine liked to be sure all was going well. He would have been happy to see most shops doing brisk business, and the visitors lined up to meet him, having heard about the mongrel mayor. The dapper dandy didn’t disappoint. With limited time available, Annie had run up a green waistcoat for him to wear, with a fancy M embossed on the side of the jacket.

You couldn’t expect the little fella to run up and down the street all morning, so he picked a spot on the pavement outside Fat Al’s and curled up for a kip, which didn’t please the seagulls from Lake Disappointment, there for the French fries.

Lake Disappointment lapped languidly at the bottom of Harlequin Hill, near the Church of Praise, where baptisms used to take place at regular intervals. Sadly, the over-enthusiastic pastor drowned three babies during these ceremonies, and business was lost to the Roman Catholics, who maintained a depth limit on their baptismal font.

Over the school year, most of the youngsters in town attended the swimming academy on the lake, and this was fortuitous. Half the contestants in the billy cart race failed to handle Water Faucet Corner and plunged into the icy depths. All starters in the event were obliged to wear life vests.

The qualifying races continued throughout the afternoon, with a background noise of splashing and splintering as the choirmaster took his people through their last rehearsal in preparation for their evening performance. They sounded primed, pitch-perfect, and pleasing to the ear. The choirmaster exuded confidence, as did the vicar’s wife, having placed a lobster ($20) on the boys and girls to bring home the bacon. At eight to one, this might have been an excellent bet but foolish and inadvisable. The previous Sunday, her husband rebuked those in his congregation who would even consider gambling.

The Church of Praise choir, scheduled to be the penultimate act, assembled by the side of the stage, dressed colourfully in their yellow and red smocks. Megan Proudfoot was in the throes of completing her performance, playing the Harp of Erin with her feet. In the judge’s box, Dusty, with his head on Emmylou’s lap, moaned quietly. The lady’s magnified whisper defied the laws of unobtrusive discretion.

“Danny Boy must be turning over in his grave.”

Everyone’s a critic, aren’t they? Diverse opinions give everybody a chance, exemplified by the raucous applause for Megan from Declan Murphy, who emerged from the pub, the worse for wear. Most of the church folks arrived to root for Bruce, with the expectation that he would lead the choir to a magnificent victory. The paedophile would have every opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of the community. Many people thought “Nativity in Nashville” might win over these particular judges.

Those from other faiths were aware that the Church of Praise promoted a different interpretation of biblical history than conventional theology. The idea of the baby Jesus being born in Nashville received little support elsewhere; but, with a decent riff and a melodic chorus, hope springs eternal. The eight to one offered by the bookmakers was snapped up by those optimists with a sense of humour.

The optimists proved to be off the mark, although the COP choristers put on a brave show. New compositions are always up against it in competitions like this, whereas bastardisation seems to reign. “How Great Our Art,” performed by first nation rock artists, won the contest, with the band members commended for being inclusive and non-confrontational. “A Ride with Me” was also commended, and school bus driver Melanie McGregor didn’t seem offended by the false praise of Emmylou Paris.

“Very nice, Melanie, but don’t give up your day job.”

There would be no hard feelings between Bruce and Dusty. The animal’s outstretched paw was accepted, and the former mayor acknowledged condolences from Keith and Emmylou. In retrospect, Mr Suburban may not have been as country as hoped.

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Gerry Burke received a Jesuit-inspired education at Xavier College in Melbourne, Australia, where he still lives. Before commencing his long career in advertising, the author was employed by an international mining company, which included a three-year stint in New Guinea. He also dabbled in the horse-racing industry, as an owner and breeder, with some success. Being a former accountant and advertising creative, no one expected Gerry to become a published author, but he embraced this initiative to stave off dementia.

He has since penned six novels, seven volumes of short stories, and two offerings of commentary and opinion relating to politics, entertainment, sport and travel. The PEST pseudonym was subjected to a sea change with the introduction of popular discount detective Paddy Pest to booklovers everywhere.

Most people see the garrulous gumshoe from Down Under as a cross between James Bond and Maxwell Smart, and he has been the protagonist in a number of the author’s humour-laden publications. In recent times, there have been diversions into Science Fiction and absolute fiction, all of which have won enthusiastic acclaim.

Mr. Burke’s credentials have been well established, with twelve of his books featuring as a winner or finalist in a variety of international literary competitions. Three volumes have received multiple citations.

Gerry is single and lives with photographs of his best racehorses.

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