ONCE UPON A TIME, IN A MORE PEACEFUL, CAREFREE BRISBANE,

I lived alone in a little Queensland cottage I had restored (not ‘renovated’) in a peaceful Kangaroo Point.  The house had required major repairs and rebuilding, and was on loan to me courtesy of a finance company charging  18%. Needless to say, I had to get out as soon as a buyer could be found.

It would be a very reluctant sale. The simple, pretty cottage with its level, virgin plot, its new paint, its veranda facing the lane, very soon became a home, with lovely neighbours, mostly kindly old folk who had lived their entire lives there. We visited each others houses for cups of tea and gossip. It was a pleasure to be part of such a community.

The City was almost within walking-distance over the Storey Bridge, the pub two lanes away, with a few necessary shops and bus-routes, and a phone-box. I could park my car anywhere; off the lane, in the lane. There were no restrictive signs, and few neighbours had vehicles: what need|?

Other than the threat of horrendous re-payments, there was one sad situation that niggled at my peace-of-mind.

In full view over my new back fence was a little brown dog, sitting on its box of a kennel, and regularly, if quietly, with head down, emitting a moan. It was chained to its box all twenty-four hours and was fed and watered once a day by a man otherwise absent.

I talked to this dog every day over the back fence. Silly. But to see its ears prick up and its tail wag at my brief attention was so endearing. The owner noticed this, eventually, and we chatted. A surly bloke; there was a wife in the house I had never seen: it’s her bloody dog, he said.

She doesn’t want it. I got it for her, but it jumps up all the time so we have to keep it out here. Do you let the dog off the lead? No, it just goes mad and runs away. What, in your yard? It jumps over the fence. Spent hours getting it back once, so we chain it up.

What’s it’s name, is it a dog or a bitch? (I couldn’t see from my place).

It’s a she: doesn’t have a name.

And so the weeks passed.

Then one day: do you want our dog? What?

We’re getting rid of it. The Pound. Do you want it?

My first thought was No. What could I do with a dog in my life as a carpenter? She was so cute, small, brown, short hair, smiley face when attended to. Then I thought of tradie’s dogs I had known. Roof-tilers’ Jack Russels, which scampered up ladders and ran around roofs. (But had to be carried down!)

She could be my work-companion: not out of the question.

So next day, I said yes, I’ll have your dog, but under my restrictions.

One: she stays on her box for a while, a week maybe, but I feed and water her. I’ll come over the fence. Two: from now on, you keep away, don’t approach her. Three: later I’ll move her box into my yard and feed her. Again, you keep away.

Of course, now someone was interested in the dog, he couldn’t keep away, and I caught him feeding her as before, and remonstrated. Do you want the dog? No! Then stick to our agreement. Which he eventually did.

So one day, after acclimatising herself to me and my back yard, (and we were already the best of mates), it was time to release her from the box, the chain and her isolation. It was to be a neighbouhood event. The previous owner was asked not to appear, but did, of course: it’ll run away, you’ll never see it again……well, I said, it’s none of your business now, unless you want her back…….No, no, it’s your bloody dog now, I want nothing more to do with it………

So as the neighbours sat with cups of tea in the back yard, Honey (her new and only name) was released!

Without one look back, she jumped the fence and bolted.

The neighbour appeared. Ha. Told you so, you stupid bugger.

Minutes later, she raced past my gate in the opposite direction. I opened the gate, but she was out of sight. The neighbour laughed.

After fifteen minutes little brown Honey ran into my yard and flopped at my feet, panting and happily exhausted, and buried her face in the water-dish.

There were withdrawal symptoms. She occasionally forgot where she lived and turned up at the neighbour’s back door. Foolishly and annoyingly, he fed her. YOUR bloody dog’s come back. Well, she might if you insist on feeding her! I thought you’d finished with that? So after a few week’s settling-in, Honey became my partner in carpentry and runs at Mt. Coot Tha, and at the beach, and on my boat (not happy!) She was a fixture on my ute and on the job, and a favourite with my clients and their families, where she quickly made herself at home.

Altogether a happy relationship of many years, and fond memories, and I’ll leave my life with Honey there. Me, my ute, the smiley little brown dog in the back, everyone’s mate, but mine especially!