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Mum was a huge fan of the stray dog. It was well-known that she was a soft touch. Any sob story would have her finding ways to help someone else out – Mum always seemed to see the good in others, even when it was so deep down it needed an excavator to come to the surface. But taking in strays wasn’t limited to people.

Dad worked away and when he returned home, he’d pause at the back door, kick his boots off and let out a ‘Coo-ee’. We’d pile out of whatever part of the house we were in, stampede up the hallway and skid into the kitchen. After giving Mum a kiss and a cuddle, he’d do a headcount, then raise an eyebrow at Mum if there were more than five people in the kitchen ready to greet him. There were usually a couple of extra kids or occasionally an adult or two in the house, but Dad didn’t seem to mind.

The only time Dad seemed put out was when, in addition to the pack of kids and one of Mum’s cousins, there was an old border collie tucked up on a rug near the pantry.

‘Who’s this then?’

‘This is Patch.’

‘And what’s he doing here?’

‘He belongs to old Mr Doherty. The poor man had to go into respite for a couple of weeks, and there was no-one who could take Patch in.’

‘Patch looks older than Mr Doherty. You know I’m not a fan of dogs, Vicky.’

Mum shrugged. ‘He’s no bother. He likes to sit in the kitchen and keep an eye on things.’

It was clear that Dad wasn’t impressed, and Patch seemed to shrink a little onto the old blanket that Mum had found for him. But then it was time for dinner, and we all scattered to wash our hands and set the table. Mum was right about Patch: he watched us move about the kitchen, and didn’t whine or try to beg a bit of food. Mr Doherty must have trained him well.

Time passed, and poor Mr Doherty needed more time in respite than expected. Patch didn’t seem to mind living among our noise and chaos, and whilst he wasn’t the kind of dog you could play with or take on walks, he had a friendly face and never growled or barked. He’d wag his tail when he saw one of us, and we’d take turns in patting him.

Mum was on the phone to one of her sisters one hot summer afternoon a few weeks later, and some of us had the brilliant idea to freshen up Patch. We’d coaxed him into the bathroom and lifted him into the bathtub. We filled the tub with warm water and bubbles, and Patch was in the middle of it, looking wet and happy when Dad walked in.

‘What’s that mangey thing doing in here?’

Patch just wagged his tail, sending bubbles all over the place.

This piece was written to a prompt on the Writer’s Digest website. That Mangey Thing: base your story off the first line, “Mum was a huge fan of the stray dog.”

Photo: dog in a bathtub at Gunning, NSW