Where There Is LOVE

A classic tale of a boy, his dog and a bittersweet truth

- ALETHA LINDSTROM

WE GOT HIM with the other animals when we bought the farm. Not that we wanted the black, shaggy mongrel. We had our hearts set on a collie—a pup we could train for the farm as a companion for five-year-old Tim. But when the former owners failed to return for their dog, we resigned ourselves to keeping him. Temporarily, we thought.

“If we ignore him, maybe he’ll go away,” I said to Carl, my schoolteacher's husband. He didn’t. In fact, the big beast apparently considered the farm his responsibility. Each morning, he inspected the animals and the farm buildings. Then he made a complete circuit of the entire 61 acres. That finished, he bounded across the sloping fields to slip beneath the fence for a visit to old Mr Jolliff, who lived near a creek at the farm’s edge.

The big dog—we learnt from Mr Jolliff that his name was Inky—was pensive and aloof those first weeks. Grieving for his former master, Inky asked no affection, and we offered none. Except Tim, who sat by the hour on the back steps, talking softly to the unresponsive animal. Then, one morning, Inky crept close and laid his head in the boy’s lap. And before we knew it, he had become Tim’s shadow.

All that summer the boy and dog romped through fields and roamed the bush. Each day, they brought back treasure. “Mum, we’re home!” Tim would shout, holding the screen door wide for Inky. “Come and see what we’ve got!” He’d dig deep in his jeans and spread the contents on the kitchen table: a feather; wilted buttercups with petals like wet paint; stones from the creek that magically regained their colours when he licked them.

All too soon it was time for Carl and Tim to go back to school, and lonely days for Inky and me. Previously, I’d paid little attention to the dog. Now he went with me to the letterbox, to the chicken coop and down the lane when I visited Mr Jolliff.