Who let the dogs out?

Jets of urine hit the hubcaps with pinpoint accuracy and leave trickling mosaics on my car’s dust-covered wheels. The kelpie culprits circle the vehicle, somewhat ecstatic at bailing up a mechanical beast in their territory.

Being greeted by cocked legs and a firm handshake is the way it’s done down on Munna, a 3700-acre property near the township of Coolah, in NSW. It’s a place I’ve visited since lifting my own leg in nappies at an early age.

Man and his dogs enjoy a symbiotic relationship on Munna, a bond built on trust and respect, where four legs are faster than two and canine training is developed on the run. You wont find any puppy parlour or poncy poodles with clipped arseholes in this neck of the woods. This is Red Dog country where a kick from a cow, pesky thorns under paw and tumbling off the tray of the Toyota are all part of a dog day afternoon.

Released from their kennels at first light, the lithe pack of hounds scoot across the ground nipping one another’s heals, sniffin’ bums and marking territory in between sprint sessions. Around the sheds they scamper, flicking stones and leaving cow pats quivering in their wake.

Munna is a playing field that puts ANZ stadium in the shade. There is no halfway, dead ball or boundary line as the fertile paddocks full of wheat, sorghum, oats and grasses stretch far beyond the horizon. Four-legged fitness is paramount. Carry an injury into the game and there’s no physio or trainer to run too with tail between the legs. There are plenty of replacements keen to be let off the chain and any under achievers are given the bullet.

Every day is played like a Grand Final by this bunch of canines. A no guts no glory approach from dawn til dusk. It begins with the master’s first whistle and ends when all players return to their kennels, dog tired. New challenges await. If that means riding on a sheep’s back in the woolshed or turning back a boisterous beast that has scattered from the herd, so be it. Impress the coach, put one over the opposition and “get behind” are all part of the game plan. It’s a barking mad contest between a pack of very likeable mongrels.

Ennis is a menace. Making up for his short stature, Ennis flares his fangs in an effort to assert himself over younger rivals and is the first to create a ruckus within the pack. Give him half a chance and he’ll crap on your hat, wag his tail and bark “not me ref”. Steering clear of all the commotion, Morris is the greyhound who can cross the creek, round up errant sheep, piss on a drum and be back at your feet quicker than you can say Jack Russell. And then there’s Benny – a black dog that is anything but a depressive. His indigenous nouse is matched by a deft turn of speed that leaves his pals perplexed. Benny is a silent assassin who runs rings around bovines and other boofheads who choose to challenge him. Inuit is another top dog that is more friend than fido. Always smiling before and after kick off he refuses to let anything faze him. He’s a natural, bred to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes on game day.

The rest of the team is made up of alot of bitches really. But they don’t ask for much, not even a trophy. A pat on the head, a slab of fresh kill and a handful of Cobber biscuits to woof down at the end of play are all that is required on a premiership-winning day.

Go the Doggies!