Tales From the Trip - The Tail of Bandit

Our second to last night up in Bundaberg was set to be absolutely freezing cold. Now when I say 'freezing' to the relatives back in New England, they tend to laugh at me. After all, I have been known to complain about the chill in the Brisbane air when it's 20 Celsius/68 Fahrenheit - balmy by Massachusetts standards. So it's a fair enough complaint (in my defense I claim climate adaptation, and expect to hear a fully apology from Momma Mooselet after she has spent several years in New Mexico). But it really was going to get cold, and by 8 pm there was enough of a bite in the still-damp air to rush through Her Majesty & Clive's bathtime in the unheated shower block and hustle back to the heated annex of the camper trailer.

As we began our walk back, a small creature that was following some other campers caught my eye. "Look sweetie," I said to Her Majesty, "it's a puppy." Knowing that pets weren't allowed in this particular caravan park, I wondered how my fellow campers had smuggled it in as it looked rather rambunctious. Well the puppy must have had ESP or something because it turned its attention to us and came bounding over as the previous family it was following continued on its way.

"Excuse me, isn't this your dog?" I asked, reaching down to give it a pat at it happily sniffed my toes.

"No, he just followed us from the toilets," was the reply before they vanished into the darkness. The dog had no intention of following them as Clive squealed happily and Her Majesty pranced nervously next to me - strange dogs, while she likes them, frighten her a bit. I knelt down for a closer look of my new friend.

He had a collar, but no tags, was well cared for and was obviously a pup. Thinking he had gotten away from his owners after a walk on the nearby beach, I took Her Majesty by the hand and continued to walk back to the camper trailer while looking for someone looking for a dog. There was no one, and our new companion kept dashing around our legs and scaring Her Majesty in the semi-darkness. "Go on, go back home," I shooed, hoping he'd done this sort of thing before and would go find his owner. No luck, and he followed us back to the camper trailer.

"Honey," I called to the Hermit as I approached and was met by a delighted Miss Thing, "can you come outside please?"

"What's the matter, you girls having some sort of spider trouble or something?" Oh he's a laugh a minute alright. He opened the zipper door of the annex and my four-legged friend bolted inside to check it all out.

"He followed us home," I explained as the pup continued its mad exploration of our temporary home. We could see that he was, indeed, a he and was a brindle Staffy pup. He also had no intention of leaving as he plonked himself down under the table and made himself at home. Now what?

Bandit as he made himself at home in the annex.

I walked up to the office with the pup in tow and had a chat with the owners; maybe this dog was a serial escapee and they knew who he belonged to. No such luck. In my only bad experience with the park, I was told to just let the puppy find its own way back home, wherever that may be. No offer to take the dog, contact the council or anything - just let it fend for itself. As Pup (as I had taken to calling him, with a capital 'P') and I walked back to the camper trailer, I knew I couldn't do that. I had no idea how far he'd travelled, or if indeed he had just escaped and wasn't dumped, unwanted. And it was going to be a cold night - how could I live with myself and just chase him away?

The Hermit had been busy, getting the numbers for the local council and RSPCA - after all we had experience with missing dogs ourselves. The council number had no after hours contact, so we left a message, and we spoke with someone at the RSPCA who took our information but told us no one had reported a dog matching Pup's description missing. Fortunately we were in agreement that Pup would stay with us for the night and we would turn him over to the council in the morning. The Hermit took off for a drive around the local neighbourhood to see if he could see anyone obviously looking for a lost pet, or maybe some signs, as the kids begged me to keep the dog and take it back to Brisbane. I reminded them of the pain of a missing dog, and that seemed to quiet them down on the thievery front.

After a night curled up on the Hermit's old Red Sox sweatshirt, we received a call from the caravan park office - did we still have the pup? It seemed the Council got our message and when they couldn't reach us, called the caravan park instead. Pup's name was Bandit, and he had pulled a Houdini on his owner the day before. The animal control officer would meet us at the front, as would the would-be owner to see if our overnight guest was, indeed, her missing dog. As it turned out it was, so Bandit gave us a final wiggle before being bundled back into the car and brought home.

What Bandit did for us, aside from weeing all over the aforementioned Red Sox sweatshirt, was make us realize it was time to put our loss of Sydney and Shelby behind us - it was time for a new dog. My friend, fellow blogger and fellow expat Kimmie had been trying to talk me into adopting a greyhound, but I had always put her off with the "we're just not ready" line. But now we were, so I phoned her up to discuss the possibility of a greyhound.

After reading up on the breed, and meeting Kimmie's dog Tiger for the first time, we went on the Greyhound Adoption Program, or GAP, waiting list in July. During my second week of prac the GAP co-ordinator phoned me with the news that they "may" have a dog. He was "a bit lazy" and there were concerns he wouldn't do well as a single dog or on such a large property. However he was good with kids and as there are nearly always people at home perhaps he'd be a good fit. We agreed to drive down and meet him - Kimmie convinced me that a male dog might be a better option as they "tend to ride the short yellow bus", which in our case wouldn't be a bad thing - and see how it went.

He was 7 years old, which for an ex-racer is up there - most are put out for adoption around age 3-5, when they retire. Why so long? We weren't overly put off by his age - I have a soft spot for older animals after having to have my dad's cats put down as no shelter would take them owing to their age (9 and 8) - but wanted to make sure he wasn't a problem, er, child. It turned out his owner/trainer simply liked him and so kept him for a while after retirement... until he kept a cat up in a tree for 3 days. Time for adoption. With that knowledge, the Hermit and I agreed that we would take the dog, and he came to his new home on the 6th of this month:

Westy on his bed with his "collection" of Her Majesty's toys. Books were brought to him by Her Majesty, who reads to him. I'm not making that up.

Westy and Her Majesty.

His racing name was Westys Revenge (or as it's spelt on his racing certificate, Westy's Revenge) and you can see his race history here, or at least part of his race history. Miss WTF swears she would have backed our dog when he was racing as she backs anything with the name 'West" in it. I hope she didn't loose too much money as he only has a couple of wins to his name. I took his name as a sign given Sparky plays footy for Wests. Good karma, I think. In the interests of fitting in with the given identities of the rest of the family on the blog, I'll leave his actual name (also known as their kennel name) a secret (although I will drop a hint and say he shares the same name as one of my nephews) and give him the blogname of Westy.

So now the male:female ration has tipped against my kind. I'm sure you'll be reading updates on Westy and his taste for Her Majesty's toys - fortunately the only thing he has destroyed is the arm of a Barbie doll (she's now a Paralympian) and just collects the rest around his bed. Thanks Bandit, for making us ready for Westy.