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A Tale Of Two Strays

When an old dog taught me new tricks

I don’t talk much about my childhood. For the most part it’s a blur of fear, pain and confused emotions with very few shining moments.

When I reflect back on life, my story usually begins at the age of thirteen. Life began on the night I ran away from home and never looked back, chasing a dream filled with all the hopeful promises of a life lived on my own terms.

This is a story from those first chapters of life, and how I was saved by a mutt. This is my tale of the two strays.

I’d been homeless for about a month when we met. Sitting on a swing, one leg tucked underneath me and the other lazily pushing back and forth on the worn out dirt that stood as a testament to hundreds of heels having skidded along during countless of hours of play. Intentionally attempting to pass as just a bored kid wasting time, but my eyes were trained on the parking lot and loading bays across the road, keenly watching as the bakery workers, supermarket stockists and kitchen hands disposed of the day’s unsellable produce.

There was a golden moment of opportunity between the day time stores closing and the evening trades opening. A brief window of time where neither the hustle and bustle of the corporate workers nor the lively fanfare of city nightlife would be on guard to notice a scrawny kid hauling themselves into a dumpster to scavenge for scraps.

The last lights went off, two workers laughing happily and waving their goodbyes as one disappeared down the alley and the other went to a beat up old car. Shifting slightly as I watched the car start up and head around the corner, practically spring loaded and ready to launch myself into a sprint.

Car gone, one final scan, counting slowly to ten just to make sure everything remained still and silent. All clear. It was go time.

The foot underneath me pressing firmly against the seat of the swing as the other stretched out, literally ready to hit the ground running. Hauling myself up and over the short fence, dashing across the parking lot and scurrying behind the dumpsters. Crouching in that hidden corner, out of sight and catching my breath with ears pricked, searching for any sound of life other than the rats and I.

The bakery had the best bin. I could often find a few untouched bread rolls, pies or other savoury pastries. On this particular night, I was in luck, right there, at the top of the first bag I opened was a box filled with small sausage rolls, quiches and some form of stuffed filo squares, it must have been a catering order gone wrong or failed to have been picked up. My delight in my good fortune was short lived, however, thanks to a series of loud barks coming from right outside the dumpster.

This was not what I needed.

Peering over the edge to be greeted by a dog very much barking at me. It didn’t look like a guard dog, it was dirty, mangey even, scars and scrapes and patches of missing fur announcing its status as a fellow stray. I tried furiously shushing it, firmly pointing away from the bin, I threw a small piece of sausage mince at it — nothing. This dog wanted something and was showing no signs of letting up.

“Hey! Get out! Go on, get! Damn mutt!” A voice out of sight but booming with a level of authority I was not ready to mess with.

Quickly pulling up my hoodie and burying myself out of sight. Pulling trash bags over me as I felt the muted thwack of something hitting the side of the dumpster, followed by a whimper and a scampering of paws. I waited until the world seemed still again, a general sense of quietness only the street rats really understand.

Hesitantly peeking over the edge again. No shouting, no signs of human life. Looking around for the box I’d found earlier, locating it along with a plastic bag of squashed doughnuts, which I shoved into the pouch of my hoodie, before gently dropping the box to the floor and pulling myself back up and over the lip of the bin.

Another sprint back to the playground, skidding past the swings, under the platform of the flying fox, army crawling my way into the hollow shell of the play equipment framework.

I didn’t even have time to begin eating the spoils of my bravery before a snarfling, grunting, scratching sound came from the entrance to my hidey hole. Pressing my face flat against the ground to investigate, only to see that same damn dog following after me.

It was not an instant love at first sight from my side. I’d always had a great love for dogs, but this one was different, any creature that threatened to draw attention to me was seen as a threat. Sounding the alarm and drawing the attention of whoever had shouted by the bins was not the type of introduction that encouraged particular fondness. Nonetheless, he seemed to have chosen me, and so it was that we spent our first night, sharing stale baked goods and huddling together under the plastic shell of childhood dreams.

We may not have had the best of introductions, but over time we became inseparable. I began calling him Scout, always on the lookout and ready to sound the alarm during our scavenging.

Scout became my protector. He would growl and scare away people who came too close, in one instance outright attacking a man who had tried to force me down an alleyway with intentions I find it best not to think about.

He was my confidante and best friend. He heard my whining and gripes with the world as well as my hopes and dreams. We plotted and schemed together, we found new places and explored abandoned buildings together.

He taught me the ways of the streets. He would navigate through alleyways, knowing which ledges to jump on, where there were holes in fences and where the hidden parts of the city were. Often wandering off and doubling back, repeating and retracing steps, nudging me along until I managed to follow his lead.

I have Scout to thank for my now far healthier and more acceptable love of parkour.

Scout was also the reason we ended up with a referral to Youth Off The Streets, an event that would change both of our lives forever.

Someone had stopped to give me a sandwich one day while we were sitting by the beach, waiting for the showers to be clear. Normally, I wouldn’t have accepted food from strangers at all, certainly not without making sure it passed the Scout test, but it had been a few days since we’d had a decent feed and the hunger clouded my judgement. I hungrily began to scarf it down. The first bite brought a searing pain along my cheeks and in my throat, I tasted blood — coughing and spitting out the glass they’d placed inside, I could see them watching from a distance, smirking. It was not an uncommon prank, masking disdain for the homeless in acts of kindness was all too familiar, but falling for it was not and my eyes stung with tears of self loathing and humiliation as much as with tears from the pain.

Scout jumped into action, barking loudly and running to every person he could find, getting their attention and running back to me. He repeated this process until we had a solid crowd around us, thankfully a crowd containing people willing to help.

Life got better after that.

At my stubborn refusal to be parted with Scout, the youth organisation managed to place us in a home run by a rotation of social workers. We had our own room, clean blankets, clothes, and food we neither had to beg for or steal.

Scout went to the vet where we learnt he was roughly around the same age as me, in human years at least. I always felt more like he was a wise old soul, a guardian angel of sorts come to life in the form of a battle worn dog.

At fourteen and nine months to the day (the legal age to begin working in Australia), I got a job at a fish and chip shop. Scout would follow me to work and wait on the pavement outside, at lunch we’d go to the beach and share the free staff meal. My plotting and scheming turned to telling him dreams for the future, planning a proper life where I wasn’t always on the run or living one day to the next.

At fifteen we got an apartment with one of the other kids from the group home, Lukas. Scout settled into the life of a spoiled couch potato, choosing the lounge and day time TV over feeling the need to shadow me. I took it as a sign we were doing well, that threats no longer lurked around every corner and Scout trusted the state of things enough to let his guard down. We both starting trusting the world and the people within it again.

Scout passed away shortly after my eighteenth birthday. He was old by that time, he had slowed down a lot and it was his time — but I can’t help but think he held on just long enough to see me into adulthood before leaving.

The way I tell it, our stories started at the same time, two strays who found each other and fought for a better life.

Scout was the dog that raised me, and I’ll forever love him for it.

This story was written as part of the “Our Beloved Pets” writing competition at The Narrative Arc.

If you enjoy reading about the bonds we have with our furry family members, please consider reading other entries as well as following both the publication and the tag to be alerted to new entries.

I strongly recommend reading “The Answer To Trauma Is Love” by Terry O for a heartfelt story of the unique and healing power his dog, Sandy, brought to Terry as a young boy who needed it most

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