We did a long drive through the Gold Coast hinterland yesterday; a strange, contrary world of mist shrouded valleys, plunging rainforests, icey cold streams and tiny hamlets. Nothing like the plastic shimmer of Surfers Paradise.
The morning started with a rescue, however. Jane and I were sitting in a cafe atop Mount Tamborine when young Kelpie came bounding in, darting from table to table. It was quickly obvious the pup was over excited, super firendly and utterly lost. He dashed around looking for love and table scraps, found himself chased out of the kitchen, and was in clear and present danger of darting back out on the busy road where nothing good was going to happen for him.
Jane managed to secure him with her belt, stapped to a post on the verandah, and I hunted up a bowl of water. He may have had some scones. His handmade wooden dog tags were useless. Chewed off. And most people in the cafe were, like us, not from 'round those parts. We rang a local vet and organised to drop off the runaway, hoping he'd been microchipped. Also, it's my experience that vets tend to see the same runaways over and over again. Maybe they'd know him.
We were headed for our our car, about to whisk the brown devil 10kms away, knowing that his actual home was probably within a minute's walk, when his owners arrived to collect him. They had no idea how he got out. (Spoiler. He's a Kelpie. He jumped the fence no matter how high it was). We were glad to get him back where he belonged. It was a nice start to the day.
His name was Taco.