Eddie grew to be a wonderful little dog except for one annoying trait.
He was a rover, a sticky-beak, and a compulsive investigator that caused me no end of worry.
A pee-stop on the highway, for example, might have him vanishing into the bush and beyond earshot, although I was never sure about that - selective hearing, perhaps. In the three years we were mates I spent much of that wandering the streets whistling and yelling his name.
One exasperating experience was a pee-stop in a semi-rural area during which he had to know what was beyond the roadside rise - he disappeared, yelling and whistling was to no avail. I climbed the mound and there, spread before me was a large housing complex begging to explored by the incorrigible Eddie.
I stood upon that mound much like Moses might have, several lanes of high speed traffic hurling past, wondering where the entrance to the estate was as it seemed to be well isolated from the highway.
It was one of those projects, too new to be on any map; only the inhabitants knew how to get in and out. As it happened, the entrance was two kilometres down the road presenting the conundrum of which street to begin the search for the little bastard.
It was at least an hour and many streets later before I saw him in a playground playing with little kids. The mothers were throwing a ball for him to fetch and the kids giggled with glee.
So natural was that scene that I wondered if the dog was really Eddie or a coincidental lookalike. However, my vehicle was a Toyota van, the very favourite of child molesters and abductors and it quickly got attention from the vigilant mums. I whistled Eddie who completely ignored me, stirring the mothers’ protective instincts even further.
“Call the police Glenda, call the police,” went the shrill alert, even louder than an air-raid siren. I got out from the van and tried to tell them that the dog was mine. “Don’t you come near us,” a mother yelled, “the police are on their way.” Imagine, getting all the way to middle age not knowing you fit the profile of a kidnapper and worse?
There were two patrol cars with lights flashing and coppers with hands on guns yelling at me not to move and to keep my hands in full view. Eddie continued playing with the kids. You see this sort of scenario on TV where the poor innocent bloke gets taken away and interrogated for hours before being told you can go now - and that’s what happened. Even though it was a genuine case of simply finding one’s dog I copped a fine for him being off the leash. Imagine my joy? The little bastard.
The only thing remaining as I drove away from the police station having not serviced my customers over the 300 kilometre route which would have to be repeated next day was how to murder Eddie and make it look like an accident. That night as I wondered if Chillary Flintbucket would do the job? Only, back then, there was no such thing as Arkancide.
Eddie behaved with much contrition that evening, piddled on command and wandered not. After dinner and a couple of beers he snuggled in my lap and we were mates once more. I didn’t have any hitmen's phone numbers anyway, but thought I should have some on hand for the future.
All that met him - my clients in particular loved that dog dearly. They all thought Eddie was incredible and always wanted a repeat of one of his tricks, which I shall explain later. My van had a seat just for the dog installed between the two front seats. It was high enough to for him to see over the dash. If he could speak I sure he would have been the worst of all backseat drivers.
Did you know that dogs, probably most of them, can read the road? Eddie could lean like a motorcycle rider on a curved road. I supposed it was a natural response to physical pressure of weighting to the left or right. This intrigued me enough to make an experiment to understand if the dog actually could read the road or simply responded to centrifugal forces.
On my route to town was a right-hand bend that passed over an old wooden bridge. There was also an old dirt section that went straight ahead bypassing the bridge.
Oops, we’ve run out of time.
Continued next week.
Chaucer.
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