The art of delicate dobbing

By The General on April 11, 2017

I don't do dobbing - I'm not that sort of dog. My Mum, Queenie, would turn me in without a second's thought. She just thinks I'm too dumb to take the opportunity to dob but I like to sleep soundly at night. It's a matter of principle for me.

I'm not sure what The Boss thinks about that - I suspect he's slightly on the side of Queenie and doesn't realise what an honourable hound I am.

The subject came up the other night after Four Corners ran a segment on a swamp over Kerang way where some shooters had buried a pile of ducks in pits on Duck Opening weekend.

It looked like they had shot far more than their legal bag of ten ducks each and buried them to avoid being nabbed by the Ranger. Or even worse, they were happy to shoot them but didn't want the trouble of plucking and dressing them.

Either way, The Boss was furious. He likes his wild duck - says they are a magnificent game bird and deserve to be treated with respect. If they're good enough to shoot, they're good enough to eat, he says. I agree with him of course - in my first outing I decided to eat the duck straight away and he had serious words with me.

Now, The Boss has long considered dobbing to be un-Australian - an inclination that goes way back to Australia's beginnings as a penal colony, when authority was never liked or trusted.

But I heard him say he'd turn these people in if he knew who they were. They're shooters, not hunters, he says. And they ruin it for everybody else and give duck hunting a a bad name.

So he's given me permission to dob now and I've been studying how a good dog does it. More or less like this:

 Queenie isn't quite as blunt as this and, with a bit of practice, I might be able to get the jump on her. Not that I'd do it when she wasn't the culprit - although I might think about that as well, if she doesn't stop pushing me around. Woof.

By The General on April 11, 2017

Dummy text