MEL BUTTLE
“This dog was going to turn my social status on its head”
One of the best and worst things that ever happened to me as a kid occurred one warm afternoon in 1992. I was 10 and because I’d memorised some information about the First Fleet, I was elevated into the Year 5 and 6 composite class in what I think was an error. I parroted back things I’d recently read which gave my teacher the impression that I was perhaps more intelligent than I actually was.
So, in hot playground news I, along with a few other hand-picked Year 5s were promoted into the elite composite class. I realised a mistake had been made when I saw who else had been given the call up. Glenn, who was always getting an award on assembly, Matthew whose mum was a teacher so he knew everything already, and Paul who could draw anything, and do bubble writing. I was in way over my head.
In addition to now being a member of the hottest new class in the school, another huge thing happened in 1992.
The movie Beethoven was released. Until I saw that film, I’d only ever heard of the folklore of St Bernard dogs from old blokes at barbecues who told tales of these giant dogs with barrels of brandy on their collar who saved people buried under the snow.
On a warm afternoon in 1992, while I was bouncing a ball against the garage door, a real life St Bernard wandered into our yard, and right up to me. I thought that my wildest dreams had come true, the universe had delivered me my very own Beethoven. What a way to gain back some of the cred I’d lost doing maths on the balcony with a teacher aide … this dog was going to turn my social status on its head.
Unfortunately, as soon as he arrived my parents launched into action trying to find his owner. “He’s a lovely dog, but he’s not ours, we can’t keep him,” Mum said. Logically I knew this, but I still hoped for a miracle, that no one wanted him and we’d just have to keep him.
Dad went out looking in the local streets for anyone searching for a missing dog, and Mum called the phone number on his collar over and over again.
According to his tag, his name was Oliver. That would be changing, I thought to myself. While my mum made phone call after phone call to a number that rang out, my hopes soared.
I marvelled at the size of Brian, his new name after my favourite member of
East 17, his paws were the size of two Tamagotchis, his head was larger than my ALF doll. Within hours his rightful owner showed up to collect him. Of course she was really nice, she said
I could come and visit him. No thanks, I needed to go cold turkey off this high.
We parted with Brian after this blissful afternoon; he wasn’t allowed inside, he drooled everywhere and I was highly allergic to him, but let’s not let the facts shadow what was, in retrospect, a glorious time.
The rest of 1992 was a non-event. I was invited to clean the blackboards by Mrs Hardington on the occasional Friday afternoon, and I turned my interests from East 17 to basketball cards. I had hoped to leverage this St Bernard situation into me getting my own dog. It didn’t work, but I did get a guinea pig eventually which, in my and many parents’ minds, is a halfway point between a pet rock and a dog.