2 Texans Down Under

Maybe there should be an organization for people like me, people addicted to the famous short story published in 1901 by the writer some have called “the Mark Twain of Australia,” Henry Lawson.

I could go to meetings of others with my problem, stand up and say, “Hi, I’m Bob, and I’m addicted to ‘The Loaded Dog.’” The group’s initials would be LDAA, for Loaded Dog Anonymous Association.

We could help each other control our impulses to memorize and recite key lines from the story of a friendly dog with a bomb in his mouth. We could petition governments to declare Mark Twain “the Henry Lawson of America.” We could be, well, not alone.

Sure, I could, maybe, just go cold turkey on the dog tale, but I began to doubt my inner strength this morning when I got an email from my friend, Glenn Turner, and followed up on what he told me: anyone can read this hilarious bit of writing at a web site he’s found.

Trouble is, he gave me the URL, and I clicked on it. I had a lot to get done this morning. I had a to-do list. But there they were, on my screen, the opening lines of the funniest short story I’ve ever read.

But, you say with indignation in your voice, you’d read it twice just days ago while writing a previous blog! Yes, yes, I know, but I was lost and I had to read it through again to the end, laughing as I went. I’m out of control. I can’t help myself.

Anybody have a URL for the LDAA? Google couldn’t find it for me, but it did find a wealth of information likely to further my addiction.

Talk about co-dependency! Everywhere there are people and places ready and willing to profit from my weakness, such as a veterinary clinic in Whyalla, which is somewhere in South Australia. Earlier this month they put up a steel sculpture of the Loaded Dog and it’s as big as a horse.

News reports say the sculptor, Andy Scott of Glasgow, flew in for the unveiling, which means there’s an airport near, so I have to visit Kim, my travel agent, and scrounge together the price of a ticket to see this literary wonder. (I’ve already been inside the “Giant Pineapple.”)

I fear Whyalla is a long drive from The Loaded Dog Hotel in Targo, New South Wales, but I’ll want to stay there before I fly to England to visit the Loaded Dog pub in Leicestershire.

Then I’ll have to see London’s Loaded Dog club for live blues and jazz before I use the last of my meagre savings for a plane ticket back to Australia, where I’ll try a little of the hair of the one that bit me at the Loaded Dog Folk Club in Sydney.

You see, I’m lost, caught forever by a story of three gold miners and their exuberant pet.

You may have noticed that I haven’t yet shared the URL Glenn sent me. I wanted you to stay with me and not be caught up in the seductive writing of the devil himself, Henry Lawson.

But I trust your superior strength of character. Click here if you think you can read “The Loaded Dog” once and then let it go. Just remember that I warned you.