Our dog "Bwana"

He was a stray before we met.

It was at an animal haven.

We had not had a pet for some years

and for whatever reason

had decided perhaps it was time again.

On a visit to the city

we followed the whim

and found ourselves

strolling between cages

of deserted dogs -

large and small,

barking and silent,

confronting and withdrawn …

And then

there was "Bwana",

establishing eye contact,

standing up at the gate

on his hind legs,

barking invitingly …

"Take me! Take me please!

I'm the one you want."

We went for a walk together,

bonding immediately.

Yes, he was the one,

but there were formalities to be fixed,

dog requisites to be bought,

a home prepared.

Unwillingly he returned to his cage,

with words of reassurance from us

that we had decided

and would return.

Next day

we took him back with us

to the country town where we lived.

We had been briefed that

our new dog was believed

to be partly Basenji

and might be a bit demanding -

a fencer and a wanderer.

In recognition of his genetics

and personality

we named him "Bwana" -

Swahili for "Master" -

and so it was

and has been

for a doggy lifetime

since.

We are all older now …

nearly time for parting.

Bwana sleeps most of the time

except for his insistence

on regular morning and afternoon walks,

albeit much shorter

than they used to be.

But the time will come.

We will all know when.

I'll take him to the vet

and hold him close

while he goes to sleep

for the last time -

hoping that my own ending

might be as easy

and surrounded

with such love.

But then …

I am human …

not a dog …

no one's pet.

A BUSH CHILDHOOD

It's gone.
I've checked.
I know.

But then,
it never was
much.

Made mostly of scraps;
A rough frame of old bush lumber;
Walls of flattened fuel cans
and lime coated hessian;
A roof of corrugated iron,
battered and rusting.

Scorched by searing summer heat;
Blasted by dust storms;
Chilled by winter frost.

Insubstantial
against the vastness of desert
that stretched in every direction
from the tiny bush town.

But it was home.
Within its walls
were love and care.
At its table
were sustenance and conversation.

For three years
we lived there
when I was a boy.

I'd rise early
and sit on the edge
of the gibber plain
with our dog
watching the sunrise.

One morning
I heard
the jangling of hobbled camels
returning to town
from a night
in the desert.

On another,
there were herds of cattle,
walked in from
an outlying station
for drafting and yarding,
then transport southward
in a train
hauled by a small steam engine.

At the stock-yard
we'd pretend to be cowboys,
prodding the cattle in the loading race
with sticks,
revelling in the dust and noise,
caring little for their terror
or their destination.

One day we hiked
out past the stock cemetery,
of carcasses leering sightless,
scavenged by crows.
We trudged
to the red sand hills,
then back to the rail-line
for a ride home
with the fettlers.

We went barefoot often -
foot-soles like leather
from the searing sand.
In the heat of the day
we'd pause in the scant shadow of a bush,
to choose the next meagre patch of shade,
then run like the wind
to roll on our backs,
waving scorched feet
in the air.

It's still all there in my memory.
Every few years
I take the old track north,
just to check,
to experience again,
to remember.

Other than the vastness of the desert,
it all seems smaller now -
one tiny settlement
within the compass
of an unbroken horizon.

The old house
is just a memory.

It's gone.
I've checked.
I know.

But then,
it never was 
much.

                                                         The old house and where it was.