Section 6: My Sweet Dog

The old saying goes that dog's are a man's best friend. After a few weeks of being on my own, nearly 4000 kms away from my family and friends, with little to no furniture, I was definitely in need of a friend. So to say that I was excited that Mikey, our big playful golden Labrador was on his way up, was a massive understatement. Mikey had a fairly gruelling flight up from Melbourne airport, instead of the usual 4 hour flight Mikey had an 8 hour trip with a stop over in Alice Springs. Already our almost one and a half year old lab had more done more travelling than some of my human friends.
Poor Mikey had had some difficulties with his first travelling experience, heading down to Melbourne he was blissfully unaware of what was ahead of him, all he cared about was that he was going for a big drive in the car. For a puppy born in the wheat belt area of Longrenong and raised in Ararat, Melbourne airport must have been something else. A veritable sensory overload, so many new people to meet and smell! For a social creature like Mikey that would have been nirvana. Unfortunately for Mikey, the person working for Australian Express that day wasn't in such a sociable mood.
As anyone who owns/has owned a Labrador knows, they are a breed of dog that despite being full grown display their puppish behaviours for the first few years of their lives, Mikey was (and still is) no different, his friendliness sometimes spilling over into unbridled puppy excitement. The Australian Express employee was either having a bad day/not a dog person/a complete douche (I personally think it was the last one) and didn't appear to appreciate Mikey's friendliness and unwillingness to get cramped into a travelling cage that was too small for him. Captain Australian Express decided that the best way to get Mikey into the travelling box was to yell at not just our poor confused dog, but also at Bec and her friend Alyce, who had gone for some moral support. Thankfully a more level headed person from a pet minding service was there to help. It was an emotional day for Bec as she watched Mikey board the plane, looking at her with the 'why are you doing this to me?' expression on his face normally reserved for when we go inside after playing tug of war with him, and tears were shed. Bec would not be that emotional again until a few weeks later when Mikey skyped her.
Up in the top end, my emotions were the opposite of Bec's. I was at the airport 45 minutes early, I was so excited to see my mate and take him for a stroll along the foreshore. When he got off the plane into Darwin, he seemed both relieved and a bit overwhelmed by the combination of the flight and the heat. But he had a wading pool of water, some new toys and a bed waiting for him at the crap shack. Hell, at that stage he had more possessions in Darwin than I did!
Darwin is, despite the mammalian unfriendly climate, very much a dog friendly place. It seems everyone has a dog, the most common being what we came to call simply 'Darwin Dogs' usually staffy crossed with god knows how many other breeds, usually behind 6-8 foot high fences that would come tearing down towards the footpath with a look of malice and intent in their eyes if you dared walk past with your dog. The beaches around Darwin are also leash free beaches, which we thought was a wonderful thing until we learned that the reason for leashes being optional is that if there happens to be a saltwater crocodile lurking in the water (and yes, there are crocodiles in the coastal waters of Darwin, last year over 300 were pulled out of Darwin harbour and a 2.5 metre croc had also been spotted lurking near the popular tourist spot Mindil Beach mere metres from a swimmer) then the crocs would be more likely to attack the dogs first, given the humans time to beat a hasty retreat. Suffice to say, we kept Mikey on a VERY close lead while down at the beach.
Crocodile worries aside, the beach was one of Mikey's favorite places. he had never been in the ocean before, so when the first small waves lapped at his legs he didn't know what was happening, there certainly weren't any waves in the dams he had been swimming in out on the farm, but he soon got used to that. he loved splashing in the shallows, misjudging the depth of rock pools and falling head first into them and chasing birds up the beach. He also loved the mangrove mud from the beaches near Cullen Bay and came back half golden, half dirty black mud colour. Fair to say that as much as he loved the mud, it did little to improve his personal odour. Mikey also loved going to the Jingli water Gardens and splashing around in the fountains there with the other dogs.
As was the case with Bec and I, the climate gave Mikey some issues. In his second week in the NT he was off to the vet after I had noticed blood behind his big floppy ears. the humidity had made the skin around his ears so soft that when he scratched his ears it broke the skin. And then there were the scourge of canines in the top end, the ticks. One of the worst things we had to do was pull ticks off Mikey, literally dozens at a time. This also meant monthly trips to the vet for tick prevention injections.
Mikey was an occasional visitor to my work place, where the household residents seemed to get a kick out of him being there, however that was infrequent due to a staff members phobia of dogs. Mikey also gave obedience training a second crack, a little more successfully than his previous attempt when he was a drop out. And if it wasn't for Mikey, i would have spent Christmas Day and New Years Eve alone. I appreciated having my big pup there with me on those days especially.
So many of our experiences involved Mikey, whether it was cleaning up after him after he had left a 'present' on his Auntie Madie's bed while she was out, watching movies in the air conditioning with Mikey asleep at our feet or Mikey freaking out the staff in the McDonald's drive through by sticking his big gold head out the window as soon as he saw his beloved soft serve ice cream being handed to us (he LOVES McDonald's soft serves and still gets excited when he goes anywhere near a McDonald's). Having Mikey with us made the whole Darwin experience that bit more tolerable and I sometimes wonder if he misses the place at all. Except for the ticks of course.



TITLE SONG: My Sweet Dog by Hi-Standard, from the album Angry Fist.

Section 5: The Artist In The Ambulance

I met a number of different people from different backgrounds during the year that I spent in the Northern Territory, some good, some not so good. Some immanently forgettable but some that I shall remember for the rest of my life. The person I am going to write about here is one of those people who I shall never forget. He gave me a different perspective on life and opened my eyes to a number of things I would never have seen. For confidentiality reasons, I won't be using this mans real name or even his skin name* I shall refer to this person as 'The Artist'.
I first came upon some of the artists legacy quite unknowingly. I was sitting in the foyer area of the Somerville Community Services administration building when I spotted a painting by an Aboriginal artist on the wall. This didn't surprise me much, after all, the NT is well known for the Indigenous art that is produced there, so I didn't pay it much heed at the time. That would change over the next twelve months.
It was on my tour of the facilities that I would be working in that I first met The Artist. Of course at the time I didn't know that the skinny man with the grey hair sitting in his wheelchair watching TV was an artist. At that stage he was one of the new residents of the house I would have to get to know, just like the other five people living there at the time. It wasn't until my third day on the job that I found out who he was prior to coming to Somerville.
It was the official opening day of the sparkling new facilities that the Somerville admin staff were enjoying and I was told that The Artist was to attend. I was happy with this, after all we were a disability service, why shouldn't he attend? It was on the way there that I was told the reason he was to go. The painting I had been admiring was actually one of his paintings. Someone from Somerville had found it in one of the local indigenous art galleries and decided to buy it upon hearing who the artist was. The painting would have been a metre high, on bark, and depicted Ngalyod the rainbow serpent and some Mimi Spirits, which are mentioned often in the Dreamtime stories of Arnhem Land. The detail was painstakingly intricate, done in the traditional line style of Western Arnhem Land that must have taken months to produce. Each individual line seemed to tell it's own story, about the subject, about the artist, about his and his people's history and culture. After the formalities (including a meet and greet and photo with NT chief minister Paul Henderson) were done, I decided that I had to learn more about this man, his art and his culture.
The Artist, unlike the majority of residents in Somerville's houses, wasn't born with a disability. Once upon a time he had been a respected member of the community of Oenpelli (also known as Gunbalanya). Oenpelli is a permit only  community, about 300 kms east of Darwin in Western Arnhem Land. Oenpelli is known for it's spectacular scenery (being just outside Kakadu National Park) and it's artwork and artists. It holds the largest single collection of rock art in the world in the region surrounding it. It is also home to the Injalak art's centre. The main population of Oenpelli are the Kunwinjku people (pronounced Gun-win-gu for more). Kunwinjku is also the main language spoken in this area (click here for more info). The artist was prominent in his community, learning his trade at the feet of his uncle, also a renown artist. In addition to his art, The Artist was apparently a pretty good footballer back in his day and also used to coach the local kids in the finer points of Australian Football. Due to his people's custom, he never married as he had never been promised a wife and as such had no children. All this got me to thinking about how such a talented, respected, intelligent man end up here and not touring galleries in Europe with his work?
After such a long time in the disability field, not much shocks or saddens me. I have learned not to feel sad or sorry for disabled people. They are not objects of pity, they're human beings who when given the right opportunities have as much chance of making a success of themselves as anyone. But I couldn't help but feel somewhat sad for The Artist, even though I know he wouldn't want my pity. Here was a man with a wonderful gift that had been struck down by a plague on society but a particular curse on Aboriginal society, alcohol. The Artist had had an alcohol induced stroke so severe it left him permanently brain damaged and wheelchair bound. Gone were the fine motor skills that allowed him to produce such beautiful pieces of art such as the one displayed in the Somerville foyer, gone also was the capacity to verbally communicate his thoughts, hopes, desires and dreams to people. But probably worst of all for this proud Kunwinjku man, gone was his independence. He was now totally reliant on others to do the things in life most of us take for granted such as feeding himself, washing himself, dressing himself. Gone was the option to go wherever he liked whenever he liked, replaced by a reliance on others to take him places that they thought he might like to go. Also gone was his attachment to his community, no longer living at Oenpelli with his people and his traditional culture and ways of living, but into the stagnant world of twenty four hour group home care. An intensely private man now not just living with strangers, but having strangers have to complete the most basic of tasks for him.
It took a little while for me to get to know The Artist. He was a naturally wary and reserved person around strangers especially balanda (whitefellas) from down south. We shared a common interest however, football, and at first that was our major discussion point. The Artist was still able to indicate yes or no by nodding or shaking his head, had a very expressive face and a wicked sense of humor. So at first we talked footy, I found out he was an Essendon supporter (but I didn't hold that against him!) and we spoke about the Bombers, my team the Swans and about some of the past and present champions of the AFL, in particular Aboriginal players such as Michael Long and Adam Goodes. The Artist also loved to read books, especially ones that were on familiar topics such as Aboriginal art and the top end, his beloved Oenpelli and bush tucker (we would sometimes compare notes on the different bush tucker we had eaten). He also loved the Footrot Flats comics, just like I did when I used to read them on my auntie and uncles farm growing up. Plus we were both country people (albeit, Ararat and Oenpelli are VASTLY different!) so we could talk about the bush, about goanna's chasing us around camping sites and going swimming in dams and waterholes (no chance of kinga (crocodiles) eating me in Victoria though!
The Artist loved nothing more than getting out and about, seeing people he knew from the past and observing those he didn't know. He enjoyed going to the footy, seeing the NT Thunder and the AFL games, going to the pub for a quiet beer and going to cafes for a delicious mango smoothie. The more I was around him, the more I came to appreciate this man and what he could and did teach me. The Artist also found my attempts to speak Kunwinjku somewhat amusing, but nodded knowingly when i finally managed to get the words correct. He had to deal with disappointments during my time there, such as seeing his trips back to Oenpelli cancelled for varying reasons out of everyones control, but he took it in his stride. After a while, I saw The Artist less as a tragic figure and more as an individual who could teach me so much about his culture and life.
By the end of my time in Darwin, I was proud to call the Artist my mate. Even he said I wasn't too bad for a balanda. When the time came for me to resign, he was the first person I told. He seemed sad that I was going, but he understood. Just as he liked to be with his mob at his home, so did I. Saying bobo (see you again) to The Artist was the hardest of all, but he gave me a smile and a nod as if to say thanks. He's a person who shows all to clearly the dangers of excess alcohol consumption, yet despite everything else remains a rightly proud and dignified person. The Artist is one person I'll never forget and I look forward to seeing him again someday and saying kamak (hello) to him one more time.


*For an explination of skin names in Western Arnhem culture


Title Song:  The Artist In The Ambulance by Thrice, from the album The Artist In The Ambulance.