The Battle of Ruffey Creek Bridge
Exchanging minimal good-mornings
with the lady with the grizzled blue heeler
(noting her American accent),
I felt a strong lurch on the leash of my young Lab,
and it left my hand, trailing behind him
as he neared the heeler, signalling
Play with me please.
But the heeler signalled No way,
and curved off down the hill, pressed by my pup,
vanishing onto the footbridge.
We stared after them.
A skirmish took place there,
my pup left the bridge
and raced back up to me,
his leash trailing wet in the morning dew.
The lady went down to her dog, inspected it,
called back up to me ŒHoy, hoy!¹ Then
ŒI want your name and phone number. My dog is limping.¹
ŒMy name is Max, and I live at number eleven,¹
I said pointing. We turned for home, to tell the mistress,
and show off one bleeding forepaw.
Next day the doorbell rang. The owner,
not his American house-guest, with the vet¹s bill.
Torn cruciate ligament. Our responsibility.
We were polite, appalled at the bill, its total
(almost fifteen hundred dollars), its details.
Our pup? The bill is in our hands,
we¹re asking round for advice.
Wednesday 30 April 2008
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
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