Mum had slowly built up a collection of stuffed animals, reptiles and birds. Her favourites were two long snakeskins, one of which still had the head and fangs intact, though a trifle flattened. Then there were an Irish pheasant, an echidna, a turtle, an eagle, eight frogs playing different musical instruments and numerous crocodiles of varying shapes and sizes.
Mum was passionately interested in the world of nature, and avidly watched any television program dealing with cruelty to animals. She would sit in her favourite chair by the fireside and, between sobs, decry the brutality of man. The fact that, while she did this, she was surrounded by a small, but growing, collection of glassy-eyed, taxidermied creatures never bothered her. Her passion was for the dead as well as the living.
One evening as she sat engrossed in a program about the extinction of the Tasmanian tiger, I crept slowly around the darkened room. Mum failed to notice my movements, because she always insisted on watching television with the light turned off. She reckoned it made it more like the movies. By the time I returned to my own chair, I had managed to turn the faces of her entire collection towards her. When the Tasmanian tiger disappeared for good, Mum was feeling quite emotional. Consequently, when I suddenly turned on the light, pointed to the other occupants of the room and said, ‘Mum, LOOK!’ she completely broke down. The slight of all those glazed, accusing eyes was just too much, she fled to the kitchen.
After a good sob, she returned ready to berate me. By this time, I’d taken up residence in her fireside chair and was engrossed in a quiz show. She confronted me with, ‘Sally, you sod of a kid, don’t ever do that to …’ then, noticing that her entire collection was now standing in a small group, warming themselves by the fire, she paused in her tirade and asked, ‘What are they doing there?’
‘Poor things are cold,’ I replied with a straight face. She was too big a woman not to see the humour of the situation. Between bursts of ‘You’re terrible,’ she giggled uncontrollably.
Mum seemed to like owning peculiar things, so none of us was surprised when, one day, she turned up with a stray dog that she had rescued from being run over on a busy city street. To everyone else he looked like a shaggy, black mongrel, but in Mum’s eyes, Curly, as she had named him, bore a close resemblance to a rare Bedlington terrier she’d read about in Pix magazine.
Mum received support for her views from an unexpected quarter; our neighbour. He commented to Mum that Curly was a rare sight. Mum had mistaken this comment for a compliment. The next time she was conversing with our neighbour, she brought up the subject of Curly again.
‘Unusual, isn’t he?’ she said smugly.
‘You got a prize one there, Glad,’ nodded our neighbour in agreement, ‘it’s not every day you can pick up a dog that looks like a cross between a toilet brush and a pipe cleaner!’
Mum was terribly upset, but when she told us what happened, we all burst out laughing. I agreed with our neighbour. I had genuine doubts about what Mum maintained was Curly’s fine pedigree. I tried to point out to her how close set his little black eyes were, and how his only pursuits were of the basest nature.
Nothing would dampen Mum’s enthusiasm. It didn’t matter what horrible and degrading act Curly performed; in Mum’s eyes, he was still a gem of a dog. She maintained that his many eccentricities were related to his long pedigree, just as in the human population, those who are especially talented may sometimes have an unusual side to their natures.
One of his most embarrassing habits was to greet newcomers to our home with a unique ritual of his own. He simply focused his zealous, close-set, black eyes on his intended victim and, in a flash, rammed his wet, black nose into their crotch, sniffing deeply. Mum’s initial reaction to this extraordinary behaviour was one of wanton laughter, but then, she’d never been attacked.
She rationalised his actions by pointing out that since Curly had been with us, the number of Mormons, Jehovah’s Witnesses and Avon ladies knocking on our door had decreased.
One evening, Mr Willie came round to visit and to inform us that he would soon be moving to Victoria. He was sorry he was leaving, but would make sure we got a nice Legatee in his place.
We were all rude to Mr Willie that night, and, after he left, Mum told us she was ashamed of our behaviour. She didn’t understand that we felt abandoned. He’d called us his second family.
It wasn’t long before our new Legatee rang to say he’d be popping around in an hour or so to visit us. Anxious to make a good impression, Mum rapidly tidied up the house. This was done in her usual manner by shoving all the clothes and junk scattered over the floor into the wardrobes and under the beds. Anything she couldn’t find a spot for was simply screened from view by closing the door. With five children who never tidied up after themselves, and who were always playing some imaginary game that involved the use of sheets, blankets, blocks of wood and kitchen utensils, it was a handy trick. By the time she finished, it looked quite neat, and one would never suspect the mountain of gear stowed away.
Our new Legatee arrived promptly at six p.m., and knocked loudly on the door. Curly, who had just finished his usual dinner of curried chops and was about to embark on his favourite dessert, warm Weetbix generously topped with sugar, pricked up his furry, flea-bitten ears and darted to the door.
‘Sally, grab him,’ Mum yelled as she hurled an old dishcloth in a futile attempt to halt his frenzied exit. By the time I caught up with Curly, he was leaping up and down at the front door, whining and yelping in eager anticipation. I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him down the hall and into Mum’s bedroom.
‘For God’s sake, make sure you shut him in, Sally!’ Mum whispered urgently as she hurried past. I gave Curly’s backside a quick shove with my foot and, despite his growls and snapping teeth, managed to pull the door shut just as Mum said to our guest, ‘Hello, please come in. Sorry to keep you waiting, I didn’t hear you knock.’
‘That’s quite all right, Mrs Milroy,’ responded our visitor politely, ‘think nothing of it.’ And then, seeing me, he added, ‘Aah, now this must be your daughter. No mistaking the resemblance, eh?’
‘Er, yes …’ Mum replied as she cast an anxious glance to her bedroom door, ‘this is my eldest daughter, Sally.’
‘Hello,’ I smiled. I could just make myself audible above Curly’s fervent whining, scratching and yelping.
‘You have a dog, Mrs Milroy? Got one myself, nice little fellow, good company. No need to lock yours up just because I’m here.’ Mum smiled politely, then, looking helplessly at me, she said, ‘Oh no, no, he’s all right, he likes being in there, doesn’t he, Sally?’
‘Er yes …’ I muttered, totally amazed at Mum’s comment. I eyed our puzzled guest compassionately. I could picture his dog: clean, trimmed and well trained. Not an unkempt, uncouth mongrel like Curly with a brain the size of a dehydrated pea.
‘Come and meet the rest of the family,’ Mum said as she grasped his arm and quickly changed the subject.
‘Yes, yes, of course. That’s what I’m here for.’
I led the way into our lounge room, where my brothers and sisters were waiting quietly. I halted abruptly when Mum shrieked, ‘Oh my God!’
Somehow, Curly had freed himself, and, with unparalleled speed, he zapped out of the bedroom, down the hall and up between our guest’s half-open legs. Our visitor, who was only a short man, leapt to his tiptoes and clutched the wall behind him. Mum, her fingers desperately digging into Curly’s matted fur, yelled, ‘Down Curly, down!’ All to no avail. He was abnormally strong for a small dog.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ our victim spluttered as he leapt repeatedly in the air in response to Curly’s probing nose.
‘You disgusting dog, you’re just disgusting!’ Mum scolded as, with one final heave, she tore him away and tucked him firmly under her arm.
‘I don’t know what’s got into him,’ she said unconvincingly. ‘He’s normally such a good dog, he’s never done anything like this before. I’m so terribly sorry.’ Still apologising, Mum lugged Curly out through the kitchen and onto the back verandah.
To his credit, our Legatee, having straightened his clothes and regained some of his composure, struggled on.
Following me into our lounge room, he solemnly introduced himself to my brothers and sisters, who had hurriedly reseated themselves. Then, with a shaky sigh of relief, he carefully lowered himself into our battered green lounge.
‘And how are you doing at school, Jill?’ he enquired politely, turning slightly in his chair. A flatulent noise followed. Jill managed to stammer, ‘Oh f..fine … good.’
It would have been less embarrassing if our Legatee had been able to control his nervousness and sit still. Each of his movements, however slight, were accompanied by flatulent noises of varying pitch. It was one of the hazards of sitting on our vinyl lounge. We had all complained to Mum about the lounge before, but now, following Curly’s attack, the noises seemed peculiarly appropriate. Our guest’s plucky attempts at conversation met with little response. We were all desperately trying to control the laughter that threatened to bubble forth whenever we opened our mouths.
When Mum finally returned, she could see things weren’t going too well and it took only a few minutes for her to realise why. Four brief sentences and she excused herself on the pretext of making a cup of tea. If she’d stayed any longer, she’d have broken her own code of etiquette and burst into a fit of giggles.
Fifteen minutes later, she calmly returned with a tray laden with hot cups of tea and a plate of mixed biscuits. Placing the tray on the wrought-iron table she’d bought at the school fete, she said warmly, ‘Would you like a biscuit with your cup of tea?’
Thankful for the diversion, our guest responded eagerly with, ‘Aah yes, Mrs Milroy, thank you,’ and, rising very, very slowly from his chair, he bent down to retrieve a ginger nut.
Suddenly there was chaos. Curly had slipped unseen through the doorway and struck again. Ginger nuts, Milk Desserts and Chocolate Slice biscuits scattered themselves all over the floor. The hot tea from the upturned cups and saucers splashed downwards, slowly melting the Chocolate Slice biscuits and staining Mum’s floor rug. Mum leapt over the table shouting, ‘Aaarrgh Curly, you bloody stupid dog! STOP IT!’
Our Legatee was virtually helpless, he was pinned between the table and his seat by Curly sniffing as though his life depended on it. The very act of straightening up caused buttocks to come together, giving Curly’s persistent black nose added advantage. The thought of sitting quickly down was too horrible to contemplate.
By the time Curly was finally removed, his little furry chest was heaving spasmodically, as it did during one of his asthma attacks. Mum tucked him under one arm and admonished, ‘You’re an animal, Curly, just an animal.’ She had a habit of stating the obvious.
Much to Curly’s disappointment, the gentleman never returned. A few weeks later, we were informed that we had been appointed another Legatee. Whether he heard about Curly from his predecessor I don’t know, but he rarely visited, preferring instead to communicate by telephone or letter.