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Day One
VI. MIRIJULA - SPIRIT DOG
1. Cry Of The Pup
The last time I didn't go to help a dog, I lay in my bed
listening & didn't know what to do, as the dog
howled until dawn, later I learned that the dog had a
fish hook in its mouth, dad said, "You wouldn't like it
on some nights 'ere, dogs are always having their
throats ripped out in alleys when the bitches are on
heat, it goes on all night", next morning down at the
Bre museum, I was talking about the Gunderbooka
rock art with Brad Steadman, until I saw concentric
circles, he talked about everything moving into a
point, before expanding back out again, until I saw
the landscape as a painting & began to travel along it,
but there came a certain point where I wasn't
aboriginal, where I came up against an invisible wall,
he said, "The whites see us as either gods or victims,
either way, they keep us at arm's length, but we're
not interested in the guilt trip, we just want to be
treated as human beings", I nodded & felt kept at
arm's length, from a focus, a point, a totem, a tribe,
land meaning & so I came in the end, not to ritual, or
culture, but to hold the pup on a back verandah,
beneath stars that boomed out behind the watertank,
this time I heard the whimpering of a frightened pup,
it went on & on, very loud & miserable & the whole
street was shaken up, by the cry of a baby animal, I
ran out into the yard, the backdoor slamming on its
crooked hinges, I said, "Someone is killing a dog",
dad said, "Don't go down there", as I ran off down the
street, into the dark pitch, towards the distress of a
pup's big emergency, with a stick, ready to take on
the outback alleys & unknown households, or
whoever was doing it, dad said, "You'll get hurt,
leave it alone", but I was gone, I entered the premises
of the spirit dog & asked, "Is anybody home?", then I
kicked the door in, the splinter of the weak wood
around the lock, the light left on in the empty kitchen,
it was a very young pup, left on his own, in a laundry,
that he had newly demolished. |
