Wally's Dog Wattle.

Wally’s Dog Wattle

Wattle came into my life at two months old, an unusually large tangle of pipe cleaners with lower legs so substantial he prompted my farm neighbour to exclaim: “Cripes! He looks like he’s got gum boots on.”

My cat Sammy took one look and disappeared. Strange behaviour for a normally aggressive stalker of visiting dogs. Then reappearance with a fresh rabbit and “I’m definitely going to be your mate” attitude. And so it was.

Maternal instinct got the better of Silk, my (at the time) six year old deerhound/stag cross, so bonding was instant.

And he grew! 36 inches at the shoulder at 9 months. But importantly he grew in character. Hunting can never be a serious option in this area, so I adopted a joey and a lamb and set about teaching him to differentiate between stock, pets, native fauna and ferals.

That’s the great thing about being able to have your dog with you 24 hours a day. They, and this is especially true of deerhounds, sense your every vibe and soon know precisely what they can and can’t do. And the “hound ear?” Sorry can’t hear you you’re too far away? Well, I used a long lead at first but later on a well placed shot with a “shanghai” seemed to cure deafness.

For the next 7 years we were a familiar sight along country lanes and back roads in the district.

I seldom allowed the dogs on private property, so they restricted their activities to the couple of chain between fences although on occasions a rabbit or hare would be pursued over the fence if there were no stock that could be upset by doing so. A swim and drink in a dam on a hot day didn’t go astray either. And roos, wallabies, deer and goats encountered? Fun to run beside until the familiar call then veer off and lose interest.

Other dogs fell into three categories. Good mates - chased around and inevitably caught with much rich baritone baying. Aggressive strangers - flipped on their backs and demoralized without a scratch to fearsome growls and “move and you’re dead” intimidation until submission was accepted and promotion to first category. And, the “to be ignored at all cost” small yappers.

When it came to bitches, Wattle showed all the finesse of a cave man in line with that presence that emanates from a dog that always expected to be at the top of the hierarchy. He demanded recognition of his station. But he was certainly no rapist and took no for an answer with some grace although the question would be put again and again and again.

Wattle continued to grow and at the time of his debilitating ailments, caused, I now believe, by his pelvis being damaged in the very first days of his life, his weight was a massive 68 kg.

To put this in perspective he was by far the tallest deerhound I have seen and although I always suspected a weakness in his hind end through his inability throughout his life to stand upright on his back legs, he wasn’t disadvantaged in jumping or running.

He did, as time went by, exhibit signs of discomfort after a heavy workout and this was borne out by the discovery, during one of his operations, of muscles torn away from the inside of his pelvis and evidence of a fracture that certainly never occurred any time after he was eight weeks old and, I suspect that the younger he was when this unfortunate injury happened the less likely it was to be detected. Also a green fracture on a new pup would heal very quickly and nobody would be any the wiser about the detached sinews inside the pelvis.

It has been my fortunate lot in life to be able to have my dogs with me at all times and so I have had many great mates and all of them have been unique and appreciated as such.

Breeders whose dogs I have taken as my own include Dorita and the knockabout patriarch Finlay, Judy Fallon and the grand matriarch Gilly, Joe Hands and the dazzling tragic Myles, and my own sweet wonderful Lilka.

But the passing of Yvonne Wynd’s great dog Wattle hit hardest and as his adopted mother Silk and I grieve along with my wife Katia and all those fortunate enough to have known and enjoyed this wonderful ambassador of the best breed of all, I suspect that the only way to close the book will be to one day bring home another pile of twisted pipe cleaners with his gum boots on..

Wally Atkinson