WOW! What a...!

My “WOW” experience happened nearly 60 years ago and still sends a chill down my spine when I am wakened by a noise at night time that my brain cannot readily explain.

It was my 10^th birthday – double figures and therefore a special one – and my two brothers had promised me a birthday I would never forget. Little did they know just how right they were!

Not having my own pony yet, I had to settle for whatever horse was available when I wanted a ride – usually Jimbo (sarcastically nicknamed Lightning), a moth-eaten black horse of questionable parentage who moved with all the enthusiasm and speed of a paralytic snail with lumbago- but this time I got to ride my brother’s horse, Blaze. He was huge, 17 hands of pure muscle and as gentle as a lamb fortunately because I only ever used a corn bag and surcingle instead of a saddle. Perched way up there, I felt a bit like the proverbial pimple on a pumpkin, but I wouldn’t have swapped it for the world. Every moment I got to spend on the horses – even if it was only Jimbo – was a treasure. I was only home in school holidays with the rest of the year at boarding school, so I worked hard to fit all the living I could into those short breaks.

With the countryside in the grip of drought and wells in danger of running dry, the district farmers had decided to send all the cattle that weren’t part of their milking herds to the Wollum country – a large tract of land in the hinterland of Tin Can Bay that seemed almost drought-proof and was always green and thriving. The younger of my brothers and a neighbour’s son, Kenny were charged with collecting the cattle together, droving them to the Wollum (about a 60 mile trip) and tending them while they were there. By the end of the day there was only one other farm to collect from, so the cattle already collected were shut into a council reserve for the night and we (my brothers, the neighbour’s son Ken, and myself) decided to camp out for the night rather than ride nearly 10 miles home and have to come back next morning. I was beside myself with excitement as camping out was a rare treat for me. Decision made, they set up camp, shot and cooked a couple of hares for tea, and with full dark we rolled up close to the banked up campfire and slept.

It was a breath across my face that woke me. Being a well-seasoned boarder and the brunt of many practical jokes, I played possum instead of jumping up; half opened one eye and got the shock of my life. Almost nose to nose with me was a huge black canine head with gleaming eyes and the biggest teeth I’d ever seen. I literally froze with fright (fortunately) and just lay there eyeballing this huge animal. It snuffled a couple of times around my face and neck then quietly walked away, checked out the dying campfire and trotted out of the camp. It seemed like hours before I moved again but I think I went back to sleep not really believing what I had seen. When I woke in the morning, I was convinced that I had had a very realistic dream until Kenny pointed out the paw tracks beside my head. Each track was a good 3 inches wide which meant one very, very big dog.

In the way of country folk, we just got on with our day and returned to Kenny’s home that night ready for me to go home after an exciting birthday weekend, and the boys to head off to the Wollum. Ken told his father, Barney, about the tracks and my wildly exaggerated account of what I had seen – by this time the dog was the size of a horse and was practically drooling – and then we found out how lucky we had been. The mountain range that ran along the back of all our farms was home to a number of small dingo packs that plagued the farmers by pulling down stock occasionally. The story was that, apart from the few small packs, there was one animal that was a loner. A band of itinerant travellers had gone through the area some years previously doing odd jobs and pilfering what they could. They had a big dog that they sooled on to fight the farm dogs as a distraction while they grabbed what they could quickly throw in the back of their truck. At one farm, their dog was badly injured and they drove off and left him limping along behind. It was this dog that was rumoured to have gone feral, taken to the mountains, and from there the legend grew.

I don’t know if that was the dog I saw, or one of his descendants, but it makes a good story for the grandkids. My oldest grandson shares my delight in paranormal stories, so maybe for his kids I will be his grandmother who was scared by a werewolf when she was a kid.

At least it’s better than a dinosaur!!!!!