Dogs. We’re pretty amazing creatures. While I’m not one to bark about feats of glory, although I personally cut a fine figure stretched nose to tail while in pursuit of a wily cow; sometimes a pooch has to put his best foot forward. On Anzac Day I found myself in conversation with some neighbours from up the road, Buck, Len and Jim. One of them, Buck was arguing about the need to celebrate the day and even went so far as to make the mistake of insisting that Anzac Day meant nothing to canines. In past months such a comment would have warranted a quick bite to the provoker’s shoulder however my half-sister Jill was with me at the time and mindful of the girl’s on-going education I took a deep breath, gave a single commanding bark and sat squarely in the dirt.

Sensing a matter of importance Buck, Len and Jim reluctantly sat opposite me and so I set about explaining our proud history.

‘War creates many unwilling heroes’, I began, ‘during World War I, vast numbers of dogs, among many other animals, were employed in varied roles. Some of these included; ammunition, food and cigarette carriers, guard dogs, ambulance dogs and ratters. Messenger dogs’, I explained, ‘were credited with indirectly saving thousands of lives through the delivery of vital dispatches when phone lines broke down between units at the front and military headquarters behind the lines; while Allied Red Cross casualty dogs, much like the German mercy dogs were also vital components of the war effort. They were trained to find the wounded out in no-man’s-land and return to their handler with a part of the soldier’s uniform to indicate that they had located someone’.

‘I never knew that,’ Jill interrupted.

Buck tried not to look impressed. He rested his bead-black eyes on his mates and yawned. Jim to his credit, a red cattle dog with more intelligence than expected from the breed urged me to continue.

‘A French Red Cross dog named Prusco is credited with saving the lives of over 100 men in one day, including even pulling some back into the safety of the trenches.’ Finally I had Buck’s attention. ‘Imagine crawling through barbed wire, across shell holes and sniffing chemical gases while under fire to rescue the wounded.’

‘You’ve made your point,’ Buck muttered.

A dog of questionable breeding Buck was not one for niceties. He said good-bye to Jill and with Len and Jim shadowing, they began walking along the track towards their farm.

I watched them until they grew small in the distance. I could be wrong but I’m pretty sure they walked with a bit more of a swagger along that dusty road.