Bluey

Bluey

Hi! I’m Bluey.

I’m a cattle dog, and I’m always called bluey because I have a distinctly blue cast in my rather rough coat. I’m six and a half years old, but that is really none of your business, because I can still bark a pretty tune with the rest of them. Particularly at people wearing motorbike helmets for, to my doggy eye they look like something from outer space, and because they snarl about on those wretched things on two wheels. Antisocial things they are, and no mistake! There’s no proper place for a self-respecting dog to sit, no front seat so that you can see out without getting your fur all mussed up by the wind. Nothing to curl up on. Not even a decent roof in the sun.

I was given to my mistress by my mistress’s son for Mother’s Day. Sensible bloke! I’m a much better present than a box of handkerchiefs, don’t you think?

Yes, I’m a good watch dog. But let me tell you a secret. I’d much rather get my teeth into a nice juicy bone than in some stupid human’s leg. A bone has to be matured – rolled about in the dirt, preferably – so that the flavour is enhanced. But that doesn’t stop me barking when someone I don’t like comes snooping around. I really get my hackles up then.

What do I like doing, you ask? You wouldn’t understand if I told you properly, but I’m pretty skilled at collecting eggs from those stupid KFCs on their silly spindly legs. And I look after them for my mistress, that’s why they’re not frightened of me. I’m their protector, see?

I also like to play ball. I have a small ball of my own which I flick in the air with my paw if nobody comes to play with me. Busy, busy, busy – that’s what my master and mistress are.

My kennel is a bit swish. It’s made of the same brick, and has the same green roof as the kennel my mistress lives in with her… I was going to say master, but I don’t think he is, by the way she barks at him sometimes.

Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. I have a wide repertoire of barks with which I can tell my mistress if anyone strange is around the place, another if the chickens are in trouble, another for… But there are far too many to list here. Yes, I’m a pretty useful person. Now, can I ask you a question?

Are you as useful as I am?

– Fay Massey
Esk, Queensland, Australia.

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