My mother’s first job in Australia was at the ABC in Ripponlea back in 1972. She worked at the canteen where she served meals, made cups of tea, and cleared tables. My mother often took me to work so she could keep an eye on me. Naturally, I was bored and began chatting to the staff when they came down for their break. It was there that I met Leigh, a young university student doing a work placement over the summer holidays. She took a liking to me, and we spoke about many things that summer, including our love of dogs. Leigh lived with her parents in Ferntree Gully and owned a kelpie.
‘Kelpies are Australian dogs. They’re the best,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come and meet him?’
‘Would I ever!’ I said
‘I’ll have a talk to your mum. Maybe you could come over this weekend to meet him,’ she suggested.
Leigh kept her word and arrived the following Saturday to collect me in her Mini Minor. My parents hadn’t owned a car since I was five and I felt grown up and important sitting in the front seat. At that time, I had seen very little of Melbourne and only knew the places in my immediate environment, places I could walk to easily. We drove for what seemed like hours, down straight roads and through endless suburbs. Finally, we came to a house up on a hill. The driveway was steep and treeless. A sleek brown kelpie ran to meet us, barking and nipping at the wheels. When Leigh stepped out of the car, he could barely be contained. His tail wagged his whole body. This dog was loyal, smart and a whole lot of fun. I wanted a dog just like him.
Leigh and I hatched a plan to get a rescue pup.
‘I won’t be allowed to keep it, Leigh’
‘Leave it to me, I’ll talk to your mum.’
I wasn’t so sure. ‘What if she says no?’
She laughed. ’I’m pretty good at convincing people.’
Leigh worked her magic on my mother, and I was finally allowed to go with her to the Lort Smith animal home in North Melbourne. We drove from the ABC during one of her long breaks. Going in the car with Leigh always felt like an adventure. We drove down St Kilda Road all the way into the city, then past Queen Victoria markets and up Flemington Rd. Everything was so new to me. The modern office blocks on St Kilda Rd, Flinders Street station with its open mouth reminding me of the entrance to Luna Park on the St Kilda Esplanade and the smells wafting from Victoria markets were all new sights and sensations. I could have driven around town with Leigh for hours, but I was anxious to get my new pup.
When we finally arrived, we were taken to where dogs were kept in what looked like large cages. The sound of dogs barking, whining, and howling echoed along the concrete walls. The result was a cacophony of misery. Walking along, I felt as if I were a warden in a prison, just like I had seen on our black and white television set. It was a depressing scene to witness. Dogs came to the front of their cages and pleaded with us for their freedom. I found it hard to meet their gaze. And then there was the foul odour of too many dogs in a confined space. It smelled like wet dog, excrement, and fear. It may have been cleaned regularly but the smell crept into every corner and was impossible to eradicate.
Finally, we came to an enclosure teeming with tiny black and tan pups. The warden with the key opened the gate and we were let in.
‘Go and choose one,’ Leigh said. ’Take your time and choose the one you like best.’
There were about ten puppies in the enclosure. It was feeding time. The pups all ran towards the trough and the strong ones pushed the weaker ones aside. One small pup with a protruding belly was trying to get to the food but was not strong enough to muscle in. It looked sad and forlorn. My heart went out to that pup.
‘This is the one I want,’ I said, pointing at it.
‘Are you sure?’ Leigh asked.
‘Yes, this is the one that needs me.’
The pup was taken for a check-up at the veterinary hospital attached to the facility. The vet looked at us.
‘Are you sure you want to take this one? It looks as if he could have distemper, and he may not survive,’ he said gravely.
‘He is the one I want.’ I said with tears welling in my eyes. ‘If he dies, at least he will be loved until that time.’
The vet looked apologetically at Leigh.
‘We’ll take him,’ she said.
‘Look, if he dies in the next couple of weeks, we’ll give you another one,’ said the vet. What will you call him?’
‘Scooby,’ I said. ‘Like Scooby-do.’ It had been my favourite cartoon when I lived in England.
Leigh paid not only for the dog but also for his vet bills. It must have cost her a packet. Despite everyone’s concerns, Scooby pulled through and lived to a ripe old age.
My mother stopped working at the ABC and Leigh went back to university. After that summer, I lost contact with her. Even now, so many decades later, I wish I could express my gratitude to her for the kindness and generosity she showed to that little migrant girl in her fledgling months in Australia.
From Quill to Quote 