Bruce Springsteen — a songwriter and performer I feel I could spend some time going on about, if there wasn’t a slight sense that a lot of time would be spend defending his ouvre against that tiresome “ew! so shouty and sweaty!” reaction you get since 1985’s Born in the USA. It’s better to adopt a slightly superior know-it-all smile and suffer in silence, secure in the knowledge that the man has produced some very fine poetic work on the strivings of ordinary folk in a world where the odds are stacked against them.
Here he is with a rather nice ute, just to illustrate my point.
There’s one criticism I can’t find the evidence to defend him from, though, and that is the absence of dogs from his otherwise compendious works. There are lots of cars and the drivers thereof — as is appropriate in the USA where the car is so powerfully symbolic of so many things. And there are more than a few about girls, because the humble working man’s struggles are as much about relationships at home as they are in the world of work, crime, and debts no honest man can pay.
So cars and girls, but not, to my knowledge (and please do correct me if I’ve missed a ballad about a canine and a man on the run having accidentally killed his brother or some such) dogs. I don’t know why — this strikes me as a particularly apt partnership for The Boss to immortalise in song.
There’s something very appealing about the affinity dogs have for travelling in cars. They really love it, don’t they? Their pleasure-centres just spark up when they feel the wind in their hair, ears and – depending on breed – jowls.
And the place to really get the best out of this unalloyed joy is the back of a ute. Think of it from the doggo point of view: easy access via a decent leap, 270-degree visibility, room for lots of friends, and a wealth of intriguing aromas deposited by the various cargos of yore. The back of a ute pretty much has it all, canine-wise — the only thing better would be a sunroof.
Being a place where both dogs and utes are plentiful, Braidwood is perfect for observing this phenomenon. At any one time (during daylight anyway), as you walk down Wallace Street, there will be a couple of utes parked up with a doggo in the back. And if you’re sitting on your veranda, contemplating the rich tapestry of weeds in your lawn, a ute will frequently drive by with a couple of happy hounds in the tray.
The ones who joyously bark at everything and everyone as they go have a particular place in my heart – those Good Boys and Girls who just have to connect vocally with everyone and everything they see. Or is it that they’re just letting everyone know that their human is coming, their human is here, their human is passing by? Hard to know, but it never fails to bring a smile.
If you’re not blessed with the services of a ute, of course, your doggos will have to travel in the car. They’re generally unfazed by this – they’ll find a way of getting their head out into the slipstream if you let them, and that’s almost as good as the back of a ute. My family’s beagle used to stand with his hind legs on the back seat, lean over my father’s shoulder as he drove, and stick his head out of the drive-side window. More than one observer told us that it looked like the car was piloted by the dog – certainly enough to prompt a surprised double-take.
All well and good, when the car is in motion. But have a look at those same doggos when the car’s parked up with the window cracked. They’re not having their best time: it’s boring in there with no scenery passing by at exciting speed, no wind beneath your ears, no wafting scents to savour. They look a bit crestfallen, waiting for their human to come back and cause the magic to commence again.
I’ve said it before – the soul of a hound is something to envy. These simple beings getting their kicks in this simple way adds a sprinkle of happiness to the complex daily comings and goings of a small town. You have to look for it, but it’s there. It’s almost tempting to polish up my three chords and lay down a gritty narrative tracing the thoughts of a dog in the back of a ute bowling through country New South Wales. Delivered Springsteen-style, it’s bound to cause a stir.