Copyright © Mike Turnbull, 26 July 2007

Back in the 60s I joined the PMG as a trainee telephone technician. Following my first year of training in Brisbane I was stationed at Charleville to get experience. Well ... I got experience all right; but not always in the right way, and not always concerning legitimate telecommunications matters.

Just up the street from where I lived there was a small corner shop owned and run by Tom and Mrs Esquire. Mrs Esquire was a fairly even woman; but old Tom had some really strange ways. At one time Tom found religion and used to strip off and lay spread-eagle on the roof of the shop talking to God - but that's another story. Before he saw his epiphany Tom was a cranky old so-in-so. He had a short fuse and a small brain. I'm pretty certain it was something God was never able to fix entirely. Although his rebirth seemed to settle his fiery emotions down, his decision making mechanism had a tooth missing in the main cog ‘til the day he died. It was entirely due to Mrs Esquire that the shop continued in operation as long as it did.

One day, while I was picking up some groceries, Tom Esquire started going on about one of the local mongrel dogs that persisted in cocking its leg on the front door sill of the shop. Tom kept a stern watch for the dog and chased after it with a broom whenever it appeared; but Tom couldn't keep watch all day; he had to go and serve and attend to other matters from time to time. The dog was wily and as soon as Tom left his post he would slip in quickly and mark his territory. When Tom returned there would be the tell-tail puddle on the door-step. Throughout the night the dog would visit several times. Tom was at his wit's end. He didn't know what to do about the dog. The front entry was starting to get a real pong, and shoppers would noticeably turn up their noses as they entered the shop. It was starting to effect business. Tom had to do something to stop it.

Now, as a telephone technician I was familiar with a range of electrical gadgetry. One such device was a box used to generate a high voltage used to ring the bells in telephone extensions at the hospital. From ill-gotten experience I knew that if you hold the output wires of this device in your hand and turn it on it gives you a hell of a shock. Well that's what my sister says anyway. From the way she reacted when I asked her to hold the leads while I adjusted the device, I knew that it did work.

I suggested to Tom Esquire that we could set the ring generator up at his front door by connecting one wire to the mud scrapper, and the other wire to the galvanized sheet metal used to cover the door sill to prevent it from being worn down by the many customers entering the shop. When the dog came to do his business he would get a shock and that would deter him from doing it in the future. Of course, it would have to be set up at night when the shop was closed. Tom's eyes lit up and he immediately agreed to the plan. He offered me free bread for a week to do it. Later that evening I returned with the device and wired it up, giving Tom instructions to turn it on after I had left, and to turn it off in the morning before opening the shop.

Tom waited up later than usual hoping the dog might move into the trap. However, nothing happened, and eventually Tom got too tired to stay up, and went to bed.

Some time after midnight the dog did his rounds. As he let loose his salty stream on the door step the electrical current followed it like a copper wire, through his pissel and down the grounded leg. This contracted the leg muscle and caused the other leg to jump up in the air and the jet of piddle to shoot up the door. That in turn broke the circuit and relaxed the dog's legs allowing him to lower the raised one. For some reason that only a vet could explain, the dog's piddling continued through this whole process; so that, when the stream worked its way down the door to the lentil the whole cycle started again. I tell you, a dog's bladder must hold a lot of piddle, because this went on for several minutes. The whole time the dog was howling the town down. Lights came on in houses all down the street and Tom Esquire woke with a start and raced down the stairs driven entirely on pure adrenalin.

He opened the door just as the dog's stream was reaching its peak height and caught a face full of the acrid tasting fluid. Realizing what had happened Tom gave a mighty roar and kicked the dog with his bare foot. The dog shot through the air and took off with his tail between his legs howling, yapping and whimpering at the same time.

As Tom's kicking foot came down on the mud scrapper he closed the connection to the sill plate with his other foot. Up through his right leg went the current, through his delicate parts and back down his left leg. He stood there, locked to the ground, quivering violently and screaming. Gone was his usual deep growl. He became a high pitched soprano. All down the street people were running out doors to find out what the noise was.

Tom's agony was finally eased when Mrs Esquire turned the ring generator off. Tom stopped quivering and fell to the floor like a lump of soft butter.

When Tom came out of hospital he couldn't bring himself to look at the shop door without quivering. From that time on he walked with his legs noticeably agape. His volatile nature was gone, and he spoke in a squeaky whisper. It was shortly after this incident that Tom found God.

The dog was never seen on the street again. Rumour had it that is spent the whole time under its owner's bed and only came out to eat, pee and poo - which it apparently accomplished with great difficulty, and only while its owner held it gently and cooed reassuringly to it.

I never did go back to claim the promised week's free bread. As far as I know the ring generator is still connected to the door but turned off at the wall.