Punk

 Loo’s strong,beautiful pups found a ready market. A soldier in Victoria owned a fine Old English Bobtail Sheepdog. When he went to the war his Bobtail was desolate. I heard of the dog and went to the soldier’s house, saw the shaggy huddle of misery watching the street corner around which his master had disappeared. I knocked on the house-door; the dog paid no heed, as if there was nothing now in that house that was worth guarding. A woman answered my knock.

“Yes, that is my husband’s dog, ‘Punk,’ sulking for his master-won’t eat-won’t budge from watching that street corner.”

A child pushed out of the door past the woman, straddled the dog’s back, dug her knees into his sides and shouted, “Get up, Punk.”

The dog sat back on his haunches, gently sliding the child to the ground-she lay there kicking and screaming.

“Will you sell the dog?” I asked.

“I cannot; my husband is ridiculously attached to the creature.”

I told the woman about wanting to start a Bobtail kennel and my difficulty in locating a sire.

“Take Punk till my husband returns. I’d gladly be rid of the brute!”

I went to the dog. After tipping the child off he lay listless.

“Punk!”

Slowly the tired eyes turned from watching the street corner and looked at me without interest.

“He will follow no one but his master,” said the woman.

The dog suffered my hand on his collar; he rose and shambled disheartenedly at my side, carrying the only luggage he possessed–his name and a broken heart.

“Punk!” Not much of a name to head a kennel! But it was the only link the dog had with his old master; he should be “Punk” still.

Loo cheered the desolation from him slowly. Me he accepted as weariness accepts rest. I was afraid to overlove Punk, for fear the woman, when she saw him washed, brushed, and handsome, might want him back. But when I took him to see her, neither dog nor woman was pleased. He followed me back to my house gladly.

Punk and Loo made a grand pair, Loo all bounce, Punk gravely dignified. They were staunchly devoted mates.

My Bobtail kennel throve; the demand for puppies was good. The government was settling returned soldiers on the land. Land must be cleared before there was much stock-work for sheep and cattle dogs. But Bobtails were comradely; they guarded the men from the desperate loneliness in those isolated places.

Punk had been with me a year. He loved Loo and he loved me; we both loved Punk. I came down the outside stair of my house one morning and found a soldier leaning over my lower landing, hands stretched out to the dogs in their field. Punk was dashing madly at the fence, leaping, backing to dash again, as breakers dash at a sea-wall. The woman who had lent me Punk and the child who had tormented him were beside the man.

“You have come for him?”–my heart sank.

The man’s head shook.

“I shall be moving about. Keep him–I am glad to see him happy.”

He pushed the hair back from the dog’s eyes and looked into them.

“You were comfortable to think about over there, Punk.” The man went quickly away.

Parting from his master did not crush Punk this time; he had Loo and he had me.