On the footpath outside a Helwick Street café in Wānaka, there is a plaque, a leash hook and a water bowl.
Bingo’s back arches, suddenly, like those silly cats when they get a fright. All the hair on his back stands on end as if magnetised. In that moment between surprise and concern, he has time to consider how he must look. He hopes no one is watching. His wonder-filled life plays before him. It doesn’t flash, but moves like a slow-motion movie. The Best of Bingo.
The Best of Bingo features what he considered his most important job. It started out part-time, when his owners were on holiday in Wānaka. They would visit their favourite café, and Bingo would be tied up to the post outside. Then they moved permanently to Wanaka so The Boy could go to school, and his work there became almost full-time.
His days at the café started with a check of his pee-mail. There were always several messages. “Ah, the old dog has been past, oh, that one must have had her pups, boy, that dog was big.” Bingo would never be able to pee that high.
Then it was time to accept visitors for patting therapy. Bingo’s work must have appeared easy to the working dogs who rolled past in their owner’s trucks; he would have looked lazy to them, lying there while people patted him.
But it was hard labour soaking up all that human stress, and even the love was overwhelming sometimes. Not all the people who came by knew how to pat (like those who drummed on his head with a flat hand and made his teeth clack together), and he often struggled to teach them the correct technique. He had to encourage them to pat in the correct place by rolling over and exposing his tummy. Sometimes people seemed nervous about touching him. Their initial pat was tentative, without any pressure, so he just lay there waiting for them to get the hang of it. As their tension melted away, he felt an intense satisfaction. Some people would only glance down at him, they were in such a hurry. Others breezed past and barely brushed him with a hand. There were times so many people went by it was like being on the lake shore with waves surging at him relentlessly. Those people had a frantic undertow.
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At times it was torture sitting outside the café. The smells––the smells! The sausage rolls were his favourite. He could smell the individual ingredients: milk, egg, flour, onion, garlic, and the meat always made him salivate. Every lucky now and then, he’d get a titbit to eat.
Lying on the footpath, Bingo looked perfect. Pale, almost white, long soft fur, and he didn’t even mind children pulling his tail. He wasn’t perfect, though. He had his vices. Food. He knew it was wrong, but sometimes he’d run away from his owner Jonathan because he could smell something tantalising. And ducks.
Why was he so fixated on them? It was like an addiction. Once he swam more than two hundred metres out into the lake chasing a duck. The further he got from shore, the more selective his hearing became. What was all that yelling? “Bingo”, “Bingo”, “Bingo!”, “!”. He was convinced it was another Bingo being called. He didn’t notice how cold the water was, nor that he didn’t have a plan for getting back. All that mattered was how good it would be to latch onto the duck. Not that he knew what he’d do once he’d caught it, he’d never actually killed anything. Whack! He looked around with a start. Jonathan was right there; after the smack, Bingo found himself dragged back into the boat.
“Where’s the duck? Wow I’m tired!” Back on shore he took his further scolding with grace. He knew the punishment wouldn’t last long.
The movie of memory spools. Bingo collapses. He can still taste the funny stuff he ate from the shed down the road. Some of the worst food he’s ever had, even though it smelt amazing.
And then time goes forward and he finds himself in that building with the sterile smells and the people who are friendly and give him treats. They have an edge of seriousness he feels only from them. They are focused. Someone is holding his paw and he can feel their heart beating, that wee tick, tick in the thumb. It’s fast. He can hear someone saying, “It’s alright Bingo, it’s alright, good dog.” He feels an itch or a prick or a bite on his leg.
He’s back chasing the duck. Thank goodness. No one is calling him back, and he’s swimming as hard as he can, but the duck is small, blurry even, and he’s tired now. So tired. He surrenders to the fact he may never catch it, and gently slips beneath the surface.
ALLAN UREN
