The Loaded Dog
by Henry Lawson (1867-1922)
. . . the story ends with . . .
The retriever went in under the kitchen, amongst the piles, but, luckily for those inside, there was a vicious
yellow mongrel cattle-dog sulking and nursing his nastiness under there—a sneaking, fighting, thieving canine, whom
neighbours had tried for years to shoot or poison. Tommy saw his danger—he’d had experience from this dog—and
started out and across the yard, still sticking to the cartridge. Half-way across the yard the yellow dog caught him
and nipped him. Tommy dropped the cartridge, gave one terrified yell, and took to the Bush. The yellow dog followed
him to the fence and then ran back to see what he had dropped. Nearly a dozen other dogs came from round all the
corners and under the buildings—spidery, thievish, cold-blooded kangaroo-dogs, mongrel sheep- and cattle-dogs,
vicious black and yellow dogs—that slip after you in the dark, nip your heels, and vanish without explaining—and
yapping, yelping small fry. They kept at a respectable distance round the nasty yellow dog, for it was dangerous to
go near him when he thought he had found something which might be good for a dog to eat. He sniffed at the cartridge
twice, and was just taking a third cautious sniff when——
It was very good blasting powder—a new brand that Dave had recently got up from Sydney; and the cartridge had been
excellently well made. Andy was very patient and painstaking in all he did, and nearly as handy as the average
sailor with needles, twine, canvas, and rope.
Bushmen say that that kitchen jumped off its piles and on again. When the smoke and dust cleared away, the remains
of the nasty yellow dog were lying against the paling fence of the yard looking as if he had been kicked into a fire
by a horse and afterwards rolled in the dust under a barrow, and finally thrown against the fence from a distance.
Several saddle-horses, which had been ‘hanging-up’ round the verandah, were galloping wildly down the road in clouds
of dust, with broken bridle-reins flying; and from a circle round the outskirts, from every point of the compass in
the scrub, came the yelping of dogs. Two of them went home, to the place where they were born, thirty miles away,
and reached it the same night and stayed there; it was not till towards evening that the rest came back cautiously
to make inquiries. One was trying to walk on two legs, and most of ’em looked more or less singed; and a little,
singed, stumpy-tailed dog, who had been in the habit of hopping the back half of him along on one leg, had reason to
be glad that he’d saved up the other leg all those years, for he needed it now. There was one old one-eyed
cattle-dog round that shanty for years afterwards, who couldn’t stand the smell of a gun being cleaned. He it was
who had taken an interest, only second to that of the yellow dog, in the cartridge. Bushmen said that it was amusing
to slip up on his blind side and stick a dirty ramrod under his nose: he wouldn’t wait to bring his solitary eye to
bear—he’d take to the Bush and stay out all night.
For half an hour or so after the explosion there were several Bushmen round behind the stable who crouched, doubled
up, against the wall, or rolled gently on the dust, trying to laugh without shrieking. There were two white women in
hysterics at the house, and a half-caste rushing aimlessly round with a dipper of cold water. The publican was
holding his wife tight and begging her between her squawks, to ‘hold up for my sake, Mary, or I’ll lam the life out
Dave decided to apologise later on, ‘when things had settled a bit,’ and went back to camp. And the dog that had
done it all, ‘Tommy’, the great, idiotic mongrel retriever, came slobbering round Dave and lashing his legs with his
tail, and trotted home after him, smiling his broadest, longest, and reddest smile of amiability, and apparently
satisfied for one afternoon with the fun he’d had.
Andy chained the dog up securely, and cooked some more chops, while Dave went to help Jim out of the hole.
And most of this is why, for years afterwards, lanky, easy-going Bushmen, riding lazily past Dave’s camp, would cry,
in a lazy drawl and with just a hint of the nasal twang—
‘’Ello, Da-a-ve! How’s the fishin’ getting on, Da-a-ve?"
page one page two
About the Author
See our page on Henry Lawson Includes a linked list of all his writing available on our website.
Back to Australian Writers