Chapter 24 - Schultzy and the Pig - Part Two

Schultzie and his best bud, Archer.

In the morning, I went back up the hill again to ring the vet. This time, there was a message saying Schultzy was ‘All better now’, and we could pick him up, just like that! We drove into town, paid the terrifyingly large vet bill that had somehow doubled from the original quote, then headed back to the block and got Schultzy settled inside the shed. We were to keep him quiet and watch him carefully over the next few days, to make sure he wasn’t getting blocked up again. This sounded easier than it was. Unlike Goose, Schultzy likes to take himself out of the public eye to do his business, and if you get too close to him, he gives you a scathing look - Jees, can’t a guy get a little privacy! and holds on until you look away.

I put him on a long lead and followed him when he left the shed. Off we went, around and around the dam, up a track, back down to the field, over to the tanks, behind a bush, back to the shed. Every now and then he stopped and stared at me, and I felt the need to apologise and explain that we were very busy getting ready for the pig on the spit party, so if he could just hurry it up a little, I’d greatly appreciate it.

I decided to leave him to his own devices and follow his progress with the binoculars while hiding in the shed which didn’t save me any time, and was not as much fun as it sounds. I was worried. He didn’t seem ‘all better’, in fact he looked even more broken than before and when I zoomed in on him over near the dam, he was still straining, hunched over, opening his mouth every now and then as if he was gagging. Once he was back safely inside the shed, I made a start on salads, turning every now and then to ask him if he was okay. He wasn’t.

Meanwhile, Smash had the big fire going. He’d made a ring of rocks next to this fire, placed the rotisserie over it and connected it up to the generator on a very long lead, so the running noise wouldn’t kill the ambience. Thanks to the spit roasting tutorials, we’d learned that the coals needed to be spread in a layer the same size as the pig, 30 centimetres below the lowest point of the meat. To test if you have enough coals, you hold your hand 30 centimetres over them and if you can keep your hand there for more than 3 seconds (without extreme pain) you need more coals. If you have to snatch your hand away before 3 seconds, it’s too hot. Everything was set to go, the coals were building, glowing, radiating extraordinary heat. Smash got the pig out of the bath, seasoned the skin and cavity and rubbed her all over with olive oil, then made up a mixture of apple juice and apple cider vinegar to spray on her every hour or so. We placed the skewer into the slots and turned the rotisserie on. Off she went!

 As a hangover from having kids, whenever something momentous happens, I say, ‘Check this out!’ and have kept saying it to the dogs, more as a habit than expectation of a response. Goose, although nearly blind was mildly interested in the smell, but when I turned to see what Schultzy thought of it all, he was nowhere to be seen and I realised, I’d left the sliding door open.

While Smash kept the fire going and tended the pig, I went searching and calling. I wasn’t too concerned at first, thinking he probably just wanted some privacy to go to the toilet, but after half an hour, I started to worry. He’d never disappeared for that long before. I tried using the failsafe method of calling Jackson’s name. Schultzy adores Jack and Jack’s dog, Archer. If we mention their names, or say we’re going to see them, Schultzy will fix us with his most intense stare, then make a squealing howl that he never makes at any other time.

I called out, using all kinds of inflections in my voice, pretending Jack had just arrived.

‘Jacko! Good to see you!’

‘Smash, Jacko and Archer are here!’

‘Heeeeeeeeeere’s Jacko!’

Nothing.

Guests arrived, including Jackson, so we set up a line search and moved through the bush, calling Schultzy’s name. Still nothing.

Smash was sweating over the rotisserie, ladling coals underneath it, trying to get the pig to turn smoothly, instead of jolting on every rotation. He also had quite a sore hand from testing the heat of the coals so much, so Jackson left the search party to lend a hand. He excels at chores where a level of perfectionism is required, particularly anything mechanical, and he got those coals at the perfect temperature and meticulously adjusted the counterweight so there was no jolting movement in the rotation.

Nice work, Jacko.

The search party all returned in dribs and drabs. We’d looked everywhere, twice. The five other dogs came with us and helped look: ‘Where’s Schultzy? Where is he?’ They loved the game of searching and had a whale of a time bounding through the long grass but didn’t come up with any results.  

Once night fell, I really started to worry. Schultzy had never stayed out like that before, and certainly not past dinner time. I thought of him in pain, or perhaps being unable to defend himself against a wild pig, dog or feral cat. With a heavy heart, I went inside to finish the coleslaw and had a bit of a cry, wishing I’d kept the doors closed, or put him on a lead.

 Outside, guests gathered around the rotisserie. As the pig rotated, rendered fat drizzled around the body, coating the skin and crisping up the rind. The mood was weird: convivial because it was a party and a delicious looking pig had been invited, yet sombre because everyone knew how we felt about Schultzy and what we were going through. There were hugs and commiseration, anecdotes of similar situations with their own dogs. Smash was quiet and busy. I so badly wanted to know where our beloved if infuriating dog was. Even if he was dead, I wanted to find him – to know. I made a stupid deal with myself that if Schultzy turned back up, I wouldn’t have any of the pork (not even the crackling). Unsurprisingly, it didn’t make him turn up.

After four hours of roasting, it was time to eat. Smash and Jackson lifted the pig, skewer and all, onto a stainless-steel bench. It was meant to rest for a while, but everyone except the one vegetarian kept picking bits of crackling off. I had one more search and call for Schultzy then snapped off a slab of crackling – the best crackling I’ve ever tasted, salty, honeycomb crisp with the perfect gelatinous layer underneath. Smash sliced up the pig, grim faced, no jokes, no excitement. His long-anticipated roast pork no match for that little black dog. The meat was sweet, succulent, perfectly cooked – we all agreed.

After dinner, some of us went out with torches to search again. Then it started raining and the party fizzled to an end. At first, I was glad for the rain; Schultzy hates getting wet; even a light shower will send him racing for cover and I was sure it would make him return. An hour later, it was still raining, but no sign of Schultz. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being out there, cold and wet and on his own.

We kept the side door open while we washed up, glanced toward it every now and then, packed the rest of the pig away. I asked Smash if he’d enjoyed the roast pork and he said, ‘Yeah, it was great’ in a monotone, then started packing up the leftover meat without another word.

With everything cleared away, we put music on, stoked up the fire and went to bed. By then, I’d come to accept the heartbreaking likelihood that our little black Schnauzer had gone off to die.

Smash and I have differing versions of what happened around 1AM (of course, we do). He maintains he opened his eyes and saw Schultzy standing next to the bed, staring at him. My account is that I hadn’t been able to sleep, and had been lying on my side watching the doorway when I saw Schultzy walk in. Either way, who cared – he was back. Bedraggled, soaking wet, skinny, tail still down, but back.

There were tears aplenty, lots of ‘Where have you been?!’ as if he might tell us. Even Goose got out of bed and came to say hello. We dried him and got him settled in front of the fire and finally, we all got to sleep.

In the morning, he seemed much better. I watched him like a hawk, and when he took himself off, I followed him to a spot in the long grass that was flattened out in a circle – a Schnauzer sized nest. If that had been the spot he’d been hiding in all along, we must have walked within inches of him, time and time again. I wondered why the dogs hadn’t alerted us to his presence – they must’ve known he was there. Perhaps they understood what we had not been able to: he’d just wanted to be alone.

As for the pig, I felt sorry we hadn’t been able to do her sacrifice justice. I’d like to try it again one day, without the lump in my throat.