Sandgate

There used to be a native police encampment at the base of the escarpment, just below where the Catholic Church now stands in Sandgate. During the 1840s, this was a dangerous place, for black and white alike. One man was killed near the Second Lagoon, somewhere near Sotherden St. People died, on both sides, but it was the local Turrabul people who suffered most.

The native police had the job of keeping the two races apart, by force if necessary. It’s easy to imagine where they camped, between the mangroves which grew along the shoreline and the lagoon where they watered their horses, somewhere near the walking track that now links Brighton Road to the houses below.

I used to live in the western suburbs, a featureless sprawl of postwar chamferboard and tile, a streetscape designed by developers, and parks created from wasteland not even a developer could love. I lived in Boomerang Road. The road was shaped like a boomerang, but I had no sense of an Aboriginal presence there. Once the natural watercourses are funneled into culverts, and the hills and valleys are tamed into real estate, it is hard to get a sense of a place. I lived in a suburb shorn of its history.

Sandgate is different. In Sandgate, the past is still visible; the bones are close to the surface. Lagoons, escarpments and the sea. Eels migrating from the lagoon to the sea at full moon, and sting rays in the sand on the full tide. Bird eggs in spring, and fish always, but especially when the coral spawns in early summer. Good tucker. I hear the skeletons rattling here, in a way I never did when I lived on the other side of Brisbane. Since coming to Sandgate four years ago, her history has haunted me. Her history is the story of the Turrabal people and the story of the pioneers, and of the clash between these two worlds.

I’m a newcomer here, but my great grandfather was mayor of Sandgate in the 1890s. He was a newcomer too, in the longer scheme of things. The history of those pioneers is also tangible in Sandgate, written on the landscape. The Masonic hall, the post office, the pier. The rattle of Cobb and Co’s coaches, and ships bringing timber down from Wide Bay to build the fine houses of the Sandgate gentry, like the house on the hill overlooking the water where my grandfather was born. How proud they were of their achievements, those pioneers. A new town hall and a railway line to Brisbane and the Governor coming to eat oysters at the beach.

In Sandgate the past is all around you, within walking distance, if you only pause to look for it.

Toby's Diary

My day begins in the early morning when the man throws a newspaper into the front garden, and it’s my job to wake up the Missus to let her know. Me and the young’un, Rusty, do it together, rushing in through the dog door and into the bedroom where the Missus is sleeping. Rusty’s only a bit of a kid and takes the direct approach, working his way around the bed until he reaches her feet and jumping on them, but this is a bit undignified for me. I prefer a more subtle approach, and I’ve found that the penetrating gaze works a treat. A bit of height helps here, and being at eye level with the Missus means that I can nearly always make eye contact, no matter how dark it still is, and how hard she tries to keep her eyes shut.

After that, it’s a bit of a kiss and cuddle while she gets us our breakfast. By now, it’s almost dawn outside, and I’ve got security duty to do, down at the gate, as all the dogs and their walkers come by. It’s a big job, greeting everyone, because my territory takes in the whole road and the park opposite, not just our place. Great Danes, border collies, a couple of poodles and foxies, they all need to know I’m keeping an eye on them.

Other mornings, the young’un and I have a bit of a stouch in the kitchen, just friendly like, some rough and tumble to toughen him up a bit. The Missus usually doesn’t mind this – funny, that, she don’t really mind the noise so long as it’s inside the house of a morning – but the Boss usually puts in an appearance about now, and complains. So then we crash – the little’un gets tired pretty quickly, and I don’t mind the odd nap myself. When we wake up again, we have to check out the garden, de-pot the odd orchid or two, and let the neighbours know about any dangerous lizards or suchlike.

Then it’s back to the gate, and security duties through the morning – kids going to school, the postman, the man who delivers parcels, the lady with a pram – all potential dangers unless I let the folks know they’re passing by. The young’un hangs around. He’s learning, but he defers to his elders most of the time, and he knows that the barking roster is still my job.

If the folks are home, it’s worth coming up at lunchtime to see what’s worth cadging, but otherwise it’s a matter of following the sun around the house, and finding the warmest spot of grass for another doze. And if the Missus or the Big Boss is out, it’s really important to keep an eye on the front gate so as to be ready to greet them when they get back. The more enthusiastic the better, even if it makes us look like a prize couple of idiots. They expect it, and it’s only sensible to humour them.

Sometimes the Big Boss takes me across to the park to chase a ball, but since the young’un arrived, Rusty stands at the gate howling all the time we’re there, and it gets on both our nerves. And since the Missus’s had a crook foot, she’s fallen down on the dog-walking roster, so really, the young’un and me, we have to make our own entertainment, just like the old days. Stealing slippers, shredding toys, chewing up cardboard, that sort of thing.

Then it’s dinner time, and a bone, or maybe a place or two to lick. And another doze before it’s lights out on another long day, and only a cat fight or the odd drunk from the pub to bark at through the night.

Then, before you know it, the newspaper comes over the fence once more and duty calls again. Busy, busy, busy…. Being a companion animal – it’s a full time job all right!