Camp dog, sea dog

I was 6 months old when I met my best friend. He was around 6 months old too. A small brown bundle of energy, with more personality than one could expect from a man who had lived a hundred lifetimes. From day 1 we were inseparable. Wherever I went there he was, following closely behind. A watchful eye on a mischievous child. He was a Dingo, although my family fondly referred to him as a 'camp dog' due to the unkind stigma society created against the breed. We rescued him from a shelter in a small town in North-western Australia. His name was Digger.

I had a unique childhood. Growing up I lived in 10 different houses before my 10th birthday. Constantly moving to new towns, travelling through outback Australia, often camping by a creek bed or truck stop gravel pit. I spent many of my early years playing with insects in the dirt, reading children’s books on an old tarp laid between tents, bathing in freshwater creeks. Digger was my companion through it all, my teacher, my best friend, my protector.

One of my earliest memories of Digger was when I was around 5 years old; were camping at a place called Mataranka Springs. One of the most peaceful spots in Northern Australia, surrounded by native Australian flora, swimming holes crystal clear, the self-reliant campsites meant we would frequently find ourselves alone, free of tourists or other campers. It is still to this day my favourite place to be. I remember wondering from my parents’ campsite, I can’t remember exactly where I was headed, I was just wondering. I had a lot of freedom as a child, I guess my parents knew I had a furry guardian angel always two steps behind. Finding myself by the creek I looked down and noticed a shiny brown stick. But this stick wasn’t a normal stick, this stick was moving. I looked back up the path I had walked, and I saw Digger. He was running towards me, but I remember thinking this wasn’t him just running to catch up with me, I remember the change in his body. His ears pinned back; tuffs of fur raised on his back. I looked back at the brown stick, that definitely wasn’t a stick, and noticed it was coming closer to me. The next thing I knew I was in the dirt. The shock of the fall sprung tears from my eyes. Digger had run past me, barrelling me over. He putt himself right between me and harm. The brown shiny stick retreated to his snarls. I remember wiping away my tears as Digger reassuringly licked my hot sweaty face. I cuddled him before standing and whiping the dirt from my stained denim pants. Spooked from the incident; I kept Digger close to my side whenever I went wondering after that. I knew I was safe with him. I had a love and a trust for him that is unexplainable to those who haven’t had a furry companion. It is a different kind of love, unlike the love that you feel for people.

It would be fair to say my parents had the ‘itchy feet’ syndrome. It wasn’t until I turned 11 when they settled for a year or two. We lived in Darwin, the capital city on the coast of the Northern Territory of Australia. It was nice, to stop for a while. I went to a mainstreem school; they went to work. However, it wasn’t long until the mundane routine of life became unbearable for us all. Three days after my 13th birthday, they bought a boat. That’s when our next adventure began.

It was a sailing boat, a 48ft Catamaran. I was worried at first, that my camp dog who had spent his life exploring the Australian bush wouldn’t adjust to life on the ocean. Whoever said you can’t teach old dogs’ new tricks had never met Digger; at the ripe age of 13 Digger went from camp dog to sea dog. He loved everything about boat life. When we were anchored in a bay, he would spend the mornings sitting on the front deck. His nose would twitch, smelling the fresh ocean wind whilst watching the birds fly above him and the other boats travel past. In the evenings we would fish for dinner, this was his favourite time of day. Sitting next to us on the transom, spoiled with baitfish and off cuts. He would spin in circles every time we reeled our rods in, knowing very well what was on the other end of the line. We had a small aluminium dinghy to travel ashore. Digger used to get excited and run-in circles at the world ‘walk’, but now nothing would excite him more than the word ‘dinghy’, or to hear the diesel outboard rev into life. Trotting up and down the deck, tail wagging, howling at us when we took too long. Knowing we were more than likely going to explore a new beach. Even as an old boy, he never lost his sense of adventure.

We travelled the East Coast of Australia for 2 years. Digger was 15 when we anchored off Gladstone, a small city off the north east coast of Australia. We had gone ashore for some supplies and to explore the town. Digger wondering ahead as we walked down the main street. Something caught his attention and he darted into the bush that boarded the path way. 'He’s probably chasing lizards' I thought. Digger had an unexplained hate for blue tonged lizards, he never missed an oportunity to chase them. It was always an unfortunate fate for any poor lizard that was too slow to escape his hunt. I heard a tussle in the shrubbery, the next sound was Digger. A short angry howl that faded into a whimper. I ran into the shrubs after him. As I got to him I saw the end of a shiny brown stick retreating into the bush, identical to the one Digger had saved me from all those years ago. I was too late, I knew I was, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. Digger was lying amongst the leaves and dead shrubs, nursing his left paw. I couldn’t see a mark, but it was far to obvious what had happened. Tears uncontrollably poured from my eyes. A sound escaped me; one I didn’t know I was capable of making. I screamed for my parents to catch up. My desperation for time to rewind was overwhelming. I clung to him, sobbing into the soft fur coat of my whimpering puppy. I knew I was going to lose my best friend. He took his last breathes in my arms.

Life is cruel, it broke my heart to know I couldn’t save him from the thing he had saved me from.

A lifetime with your best friend is never long enough. My camp dog taught me bondless love and sacrifice and to embrace every adventure and moment that life gives you. He is still my best friend, my brown furry protector in the clouds.