Angus. A Bushman's Dog.

I'd like to introduce my unsung hero, my loyal confidante, my personal trainer, and 'King of the Back Seat', Angus Daniels, my trusty K9 companion.

I've heard him described as "a rather handsome mongrel", and despite his toolbox of adorable traits and extraordinary talents, I'll refrain from crediting him with the intelligence to comprehend the paradox. But he understands basic English quite well, doesn't speak it of course, but I'm sure he has a master's degree in human body language. With my splattering of dog code, we seem to have sufficient understanding to run a pretty tight operation.

Gus, for short, is a medium-sized, middle-aged, somewhat robust specimen, much like his owner, but wears four white feet, with a matching belly and head. Splashes of brindle along his back, neck, over an ear and one eye, is what makes him both adorable and unintentionally camouflaged from above. His bottom jaw is perhaps two sizes too big for his head and supports a pair of off-set fangs and the crooked grin completes his lovable lopsided physique.

His father was a Jack Russell called Jack Daniels and was a Hugh Hefner wannabe, more than willing to share his sexual prowess with all in sundry. I've gotta be honest, Jack was a conceited little rascal, a mischievous show-off and a bootyslut.

His mother was a scabby old Bulldog, and rightly so, called Ugly, who lived in the abandoned cow shed across the road. Sometimes called Jabba, (one of the galaxy's ugliest gangsters), she was a dear old thing, but dam, Ugly was ugly. It was most likely a dark and stormy night when the dog version of Beauty and the Beast was perpetuated in reverse.

As a fat patchy pup, Gus the half bulldog and half Jack Daniels miracle committed very few arbitrary blunders.

One morning while I was out, he noticed a large and much-loved book whose back edge was protruding well beyond that of its counterparts. So, as it appeared to be trying to escape, he dutifully proceeded to chew its spine off.

However, the next time he approached this adversary it didn't cower and remained still like before. Instead, it quite unexpectedly leapt out and smacked him several times on the behind as he ran for couch cover, yelping all the way. From then on he would only stare and growl at this intimidating foe but remained well beyond its reach. He still gnaws away on sticks and bones and obliterates the odd forgotten ball, but my collection of literature, I'm glad to say, remains stoically unharmed to this day.

The second mistake he ever made, after the practice of toilet training had been mastered, was to poop five feet from the front door. As this was a misguided attempt to obey the rules, I kept him close while I manned the shovel and walked them both to the back of the garden, explaining to him that this is where you take a poop boy, and to my dismay, he got it in one go and has refrained from defecating anyone's lawn ever since. Without a doubt, a champion in the making.

Now, eight years on, he continues to astound me with his level of understanding, acute hearing and his unfathomable sense of smell.

In the bush, his superpowers are infallible. He'll walk in behind or take up the scent on command, stop dead still when I do, and never, ever barks when we are out hunting, a crime that's brought many a hunting dog to an untimely demise. He only barks a warning bark of impending company at home when a car is traversing the drive or he wants to play 'Chase and Destroy' with bits of firewood he pilfers from the woodshed to place at my feet.

We live in a small cabin on a private nature reserve and in this part of the world introduced pests are killing our native forests and birdlife. Pest control operations are crucial for the health of our wild landscape and precious ecosystems and with Gus on my team, we are managing to keep the predator numbers well down in our area.

Now a highly trained professional, Gus knows all too well what's on the hit list and keeps me informed of what's around and what has passed through recently, as we set kill traps for the Australian Brushtail Possum (Trichosurus vulpecula), bait stations for the Norwegian Rat (Rattus norvegicus) and the largely ineffective traps for the ever elusive and very cunning stoat (Mustela erminea).

It was during one of these missions that we nearly came unstuck and the main reason I'd like to nominate my dog Gus for a Bronze Medal and title of 'Unsung Hero'.

Winter had set in good and proper, it was cold and wet and what's more, it was getting dark. We were on the move, crossing some pretty steep country, both looking forward to a drink and a snack back at the ute when disaster struck...

Everything began to spin as the ground was pummeling me ferociously from all directions and then the lights went out.

Several hours pass.

Thoughts began to stir. Shit I'm sore. Was I drunk? Have I been in an accident--or a fight? I'm wet, but warm wet. There's weight on me. I gasp. The smell of wet dog fills my senses. I push him off and the cold air hits my face like an icy slap. He licks my head and whimpers. It hurts as I touch a crusty headwound. I open my eyes and I can't see. I startle and realize it's night. There's no moon, it's black as pitch. I reach around, feeling for my day pack. No pack. From what I can tell I'm lying in a dirt-filled crevice, and no pack means no water, no first aid kit no torch, no compass. I was under no illusion; Like my Paps would say when the Germans were shelling them with heavy artillery, "We were in a spot of bother."

I tried to move, testing my limbs and sighed with relief, no broken bones. I cough. A stabbing pain extracts an involuntary breath. Shit, cracked or busted ribs. As I begin to rise white lightning strikes at my prereferral vision, I sway and reach out for a hold. I steady myself and take a knee. The all-over pain feels brutal and I think there must be a small machine lodged in my skull and it's stuck on full revs. I try to shake it away but it doesn’t quit. I spit and my tongue fills a space where I’d had a tooth earlier that day. Double shit! Dog whimpers again and licks my knee. I climb out of a shallow trench. Theres some bark missing, but that’s pretty standard and the least of my problems. I take some deep breaths and whisper to myself to stay calm. I know what to do, it was gonna hurt, but I formed a plan.

I felt around and eventually found a stick to use as a crutch/probe. I took off my belt and looped it through Gus's collar for a makeshift lead. Then I say to him in a gentle voice "Want some biscuits? Where's the truck?"

It was slow-going, but Dog was in charge and knew exactly where he was going. I fell twice, lost a bit more bark, but eventually we reached the truck. As always I'd hidden the keys behind the front driver's wheel and we got home just before sunrise. After a hot shower and some toast, I dropped several Panadol and slept for two days.

Things could have been a lot worse without my mate to help me out. Angus Daniels, you saved my arse. Good Dog.