Enter the Dingo

Now Bluey, Bluey the Dingo, had a self esteem problem. Dingos may have been in Australia for a couple thousand years, but as far as the marsupes were concerned, he was still a new boy. This got right up Bluey's bum. Worse still he had few characteristics that could command respect. His fur wasn't a sleek black like a panther. He didn't have lethal horns like a bull nor did he have vicious fangs like a saber-tooth tiger. He wasn't huge like a killer whale. And he couldn't roar and snarl like a lion. To put it bluntly Bluey was a yippy, runty, red-head who looked like someone's pet.

One day Bluey was sniffing around the remains of a family walkabout when he found a Golden Book edition of the Three Little Pigs. Some carpet shark must have dropped it while shifting its nappy. Bluey was enthralled by the big, the bad, the biggest and baddest wolf he'd ever heard of (in fact it was the only wolf he had ever heard of). I mean this mongrel was laying waste to major architectural structures with his breath. Bluey found himself a role model.

He started wearing a reversed black baseball cap, heavy neck jewellery, pumped-up sneakers and tried his damndest to howl at the moon to no avail. Nevertheless, he was now bad, and he knew it. All he needed were a trio of piggies to eat for his supper. But since he had Buckley's chance of finding such creatures nearby, he figured the three wombat siblings would do in a pinch.


Copyright May 1996 Katherine Phelps