I never pictured myself in the security industry. Not that I’m not tough. No siree! I can bark at and scruff an opponent as good as the next. In fact in my younger days I could run down a wily cow in five seconds flat and I don’t have an issue putting my paw on the back of another dog’s mangy neck if the occasion calls for it. But security? And not just any security but puppy security? Not exactly my cup of mince if you know what I mean. Seven of them. Seven puppies. Howling, 20140707_170936whining, barking, whinging, peeing, digging, licking, annoying puppies. Well, I’m sure you’ve read Seven Little Australians, most two-legged’s have. Well put it this way, the lot next door to my pen are far worse. And the names; Dirran, Jimmy, Jane…. You get the picture. What happened to good old-fashioned moniker’s like, well like Jack. Jack means man. Exactly. Strength, endurance, speed and brains. Not the type of individual that should be next to a litter. But here I am.

20150329_090851Apparently my half-sister Jill has weaned them already. You can find her most days down by the creek sunning herself and when she’s not doing that she’s running laps, trying to get her figure back into shape. Good-luck. I keep telling her, there’s no point straining a tendon, not for the likes of the dogs she hangs around with. Ahem, a blunt-nosed individual named Boland, said father to aforementioned pups although by the looks of the differing hides on the little rascals they could belong to anyone.
Anyway back to security. It started with the full moon last month, the whining and scratching. The scratching developed into an enthusiastic hole digging exercise that was well-planned and well-executed. They’ve got smarts, I’ll give them that. They’d take it in turns. A couple of the bigger pups would sidle up to my side of the netting and run diversion with a few querying yelps. Meanwhile 20150830_173456another couple would be on the far side of the pen going hell-for-leather in the dirt. Those little hind legs were doing bicycle circles they were going that fast. Of course I never thought they had the endurance, but it’s amazing what a fat sausage on short legs can do on a feed of powdered milk and a handful of dog biscuits. By the third week they had the exercise down pat. The littler ones were in on it now and they tumbled around in the dirt, all cute and fun with their pink tongues and wet noses. I knew better. They were diversion number two. This attempted escape was getting sophisticated. Even their game of chase at the end of each day and the sneaky way one of them would lie across the entrance to the tunnel, didn’t fool me. The night of the great escape they were too quiet. That’s what caught them out. I waited until they were piled up and snoring and then lifting the latch on the gate with my nose, padded around to the opposite side of the pen. There I hunkered down and waited. Sure enough, one by one they lined up, with the biggest pup taking the lead and digging out the last few inches of dirt. I waited. And waited, and yawn…. Waited. Finally, when I saw his little wet nose appear, I held my breath. Another inch or so, I willed him. Come on just another bit of a wiggle and I’ll have you. And there the little fella was, his head clear of the tunnel and the other’s pushing up from behind. Got cha! I lifted my paw. Nothing. In the darkness I saw that the big pup was back in the pen. He sat there for a long moment, eyeing me, and I eye-balled him back. Then, along with his brothers and sisters, they began to bark and they kept yapping all night as I lay across the hole and tried unsuccessfully to sleep.