Don't Let the Dingoes Get Your Goat
One day my very good friend, which I will call Tony came over to my house very excited. He was preparing to travel to his father's villa in Florida for a while and asked me to take care of his dog which was a rare Australian Dingo. At the time I had no knowledge of Dingos being illegal in the U.S., and later I found out why. I happily agreed and what ensued in the next few weeks was simply a series of atrocities.
I had received several visits from the county dog catcher, showing me a few dogs he had found at different times, which were viciously attacked by the Dingo. This Dingo was always breaking his heavy-duty chain. These dogs the dog catcher showed me were brutally attacked and simply on their last leg. The catcher explained that if the owner was found, there would be penalties, fines, and ramifications. This Dingo was vicious and did not like any other type of animal walking on four legs. I had this Dingo tied up with a thick chain in my back yard although this dog was consistently snapping the chains, sometimes in the middle of the night.
I once took Tony's Dingo for an early morning walk to avoid making contact with any other dog. I had what was called an attack leash which had a trigger mechanism like any pistol. This Dingo was constantly pulling and was like unleashing a missile.
In the distance and down the street I saw what appeared to be a black and white mongrel which the Dingoe noticed before me and I pulled the trigger. The Dingo took off like a rocket and with amazing force hit this dog and all I could see was black and white hair being ripped away. In the distance, I heard a little boy scream, oh God it was the paperboy's dog.
One day as I was working in my vegetable garden an elderly man walking his tiny pooch decided to take a shortcut through my backyard. I kindly alerted the man to please take the sidewalk because of the dangerous dog in my yard. The man started yelling obscenities at me, ranting and cursing telling me to go back to my own country.
All the while, this dingo was constantly but quietly pulling and tugging on his chain and I'm thinking this man doesn't look native American. Suddenly, the chain snapped, and the dingo, like a streak of lightning, hit this man's pooch with a force that sounded like a prize fighter's punch from a boxing ring. The man screamed as he scrambled to pick up his dog along with the Dingoe latched on fiercely to the pooches hind leg.
I gave the man fair warning and had to grab my garden shovel and with all my might, I took a Jacky Robinson swing to this mongrel's body. After this strike, I watched the Dingo flip head over heels three times, land on its feet, and ran into his dog box while this elderly man went limping away with his injured pet. Such is the cost of taking a shortcut.
A few weeks later, Tony had just purchased a nice-looking Pitbull and had thoughts of breeding it with Dingos. Now Tony's father, who I will call Mr. McDowell owned a number of Australian Dingos that he kept at his villa. Tony had high aspirations of crossbreeding the Pitbull with a Dingo which in my opinion would lead to what I called the Frankenstein syndrome.
These Dingos were dangerous carnivores descended from a south Asian wolf and are built low to the ground, muscular, powerful, excellent at jumping, climbing, digging, and uncanny. I considered Tony's idea a monstrous one although keeping my thoughts and opinions to myself.
My wife and I agreed to take a trip with our kids to the villa owned by Tony's dad, Mr. McDowell, and take in the scenery, experience the people, and the culture, and chill for a few.
Upon arrival, we found that Mr. McDowell not only had a few thoroughbred quarters horses and about 6 Dingoes, but he also had a goat and had built a wire fence enclosing the goat. The Dingos were constantly snapping at the heels of the goat to where the goat got so tired he could hardly stand. That's why the poor goat had to be isolated.
It seemed the Dingoes did not get along with Tony's pit bull. Each one of the Dingoes at several different times had fought with the Pitbull and finally, the Dingoes just seemed to tolerate it. There were about seven dogs altogether and they hunted in a pack when they went on the hunt, although they never ganged up on the Pitbull.
Mr. Mcdowel permitted us to use a trailer on his property at low rent until we could get to our feet financially on the ground. My wife took a job at a local barbecue restaurant while I took care of our three children. I had to watch that the dogs did not get close to my kids, for the dogs were unpredictable. One of the Dingoes bit me on my thumb and held onto it without breaking a bone or the skin, letting me know just what he could do, then released me.
Since the Dingoes didn't get along with Tony's Pitbull, Mr. McDowell put the Pitbull in the fenced-off area with the goat.
The Dingoes watched the goat as it would constantly be nudging and bumping the Pitbull to raise him from a sitting position trying to poke the Pitbull from behind. The Dingoes even though didn't get along with the Pitbull, did not like what they saw.
On two other occasions, my two boys were both bitten only to the point where it was a scratch without any type of intentional, treacherous attack but never once touched my baby girl. These dogs were ominous, unearthly, and devilishly intelligent with large evil piercing eyes.
One day Mr. McDowell asked my wife and me to watch the Villa and the animals for a day or so while he took his family on an excursion to an exclusive exotic beach. We agreed and bid the family happy trials.
My wife and I enjoyed the rest of the day with a subtle quietness that swept over the villa with everyone gone.
Later that night at about three o'clock in the morning a loud bang rang out from our front door. As I opened the front door I was blinded by the ray of a bright flashlight held by the neighborhood police. A voice bellowed out from the darkness saying, are you beating your wife? As the police ask this question, my wife tenderly took my arm appearing in her nightgown, and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
Satisfied there was no violence occurring at our residence, the police explained they had received a call from neighbors across the pond who said they had heard something sounding like a woman being beaten. The police proceeded to search the immediate area but found nothing and left the premises.
The following morning the McDowell family returned from their beach excursion. After the family had settled in, back from the beach, it seemed that everything was in order except the goat was not in his pen, only the pitbull was there.
Tony and I took a walk over to the gator lake thinking the goat might have succumbed to the jaws of one of the gators. We didn't find any goat hair, blood, or anything indicating a struggle.
We then looked around the fishing lake and saw something that looked like a lump or rock protruding out of the water in the distance. Upon closer inspection, we found it was actually the goat. Tony proceeded to pull the goat out of the water by grabbing one of its horns. As I attempted to help Tony pull the goat from the water, the goat screamed out in pain sounding just like a woman reeling in excruciating pain. We then completely understood why the neighbors called the police about a woman screaming.
One of the goats' horns was only hanging on by a tendon, the goat's eye had been ripped from the socket and one of the goat's hind legs resembled a ground hamburger. The dingos knew just how far to go before killing the goat, and they wanted the goat to suffer. We of course had to put the goat out of his misery with a bullet right between its eyes.
We buried the goat a few feet from the beach and erected a little cross for the goat. Later that evening my wife and I watched four of the dingoes jump the fence one at a time, then proceeded to grab the makeshift cross, rip it apart, and winged the parts into the lake. Then the dingoes jumped back over the fence as if nothing had happened. The moral of the story is don't let the dingos get your goat.
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