Bluey
My father’s youngest brother, in need of some quick cash, bought a mob of store cattle to fatten up on his block next door to us. I sensed my father disapproved. They turned out to be completely unlike the docile animals he selected and bred over many years. There were a wild bush breed unknown to us and since they were more than one person could handle on their own, their presence encroached on our orderly farm life. Come muster time us kids were found to be occupied with other pressing jobs. It wasn’t that we didn’t like to help, we actually fancied ourselves as barefoot cowboys. But these beasts were too much for us, particularly the brindled heifer with big horns that evoked images from grandad’s days as a dairy farmer.
At milking time, so he told us, his cows adopted a fixed routine and day and night and sorted themselves in a fixed order for milking each with a preferred stall. He knew intimately the temperament of each one and named them accordingly, Daisy, Gertrude, Strawberry and of course, Satan.
To avoid his brother’s disdain my uncle fixed upon the idea of getting a blue heeler. He had high hopes that their working partnership would be the way forward to restoring neighbourly relations and retrieving his independence. After all that was the point of the exercise in the first place.
Truth is, we were scared of the wild bush bunch brought in to the lush pastures to fatten and ready for market. Perhaps that’s where Bluey got the idea that he was in charge. He had the enthusiasm and the instinct characteristic of his breed but not the prerequisite training for handling a wild mob. In the paddock he was a menace, his nipping at their heels just got them riled. The ensuing free for all drove them in all directions. The brindled one in particular got worked into a frenzy, bucking and kicking and lashing out until spent. Then she’d turn on the dog inviting a head to head stoush. How Bluey avoided being tossed on horn tip was a marvel in itself and a tribute to his indomitable spirit, and exquisite agility.
Loading the truck for sale ushered in with a sense of relief. Bluey, full of his usual bravado, drovethem up the ramp onto the truck. But the brindled heifer would have the last word. Kicking at her old rival darting and nipping at her heels she smashed his jaw against the bottom rail. The vet said he would have to be muzzled until his wired-up jaw had time to heal.
Muzzling Bluey brought on a couple change of attitude. His boundless energy gave way to complete inertia. He lay motionless for hours until his next mushy meal, his eyes moving, following, pleading.
Every animal on our farm had a personality, every paddock sewn with wheat, barley, sorghum or sunflowers, its story. It might be a good strike, or a poor crop, recovering from a late frost or looking good after the last shower. Everything was embodied in story from fixing machinery, to accessing the condition of crops, animals and country.
Our stories propelled the cycle of seasons, ordering and sanctity a familiar yet enigmatic life. Our personal stories were related over the breakfast, lunch and tea table then sanctified by larger Testaments both Old Testament and New that opened and closed each day.
Our country church nestles amongst Moreton Bay Ashes, men with Akubras and suits squat with straw in hand, to chew over some thought then drawn it out in the sand. Cicadas shriek to our chorus of fervent voices, organ pedals creaking, straining to stay relevant in this land to Luther’s Reformation.
