Small town cops

Cromwell is a small town at the head of a beautiful lake at the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand. You may be unaware of this but South Islanders call this the Mainland. Then again they call Australia the West Island.

And Cromwell might well not be there had they not shifted it a few meters up lake a few years ago as our Electricity company built a downstream dam which miscalculated somewhat and what once had been a small town became a pleasure seeker’s boating paradise.

 Yesterday in Cromwell a somewhat unusual event occurred.

Now let’s be clear here. It is not unusual to witness the hard working, gruff and uncompromising South Island bloke epitomized as a “good, keen man” who characterises this half gallon, quarter acre pavlova paradise driving his ute into town. In his torn driz-a-bone coat, battered cockie hat and in his obligatory gumboots, he’ll always be seen with his faithful sheep dog barking happily into the wind.

 In case you are wondering whether this might all be some made up form of romanticism, let me assure you that on a Saturday night, in prime time, TV One in New Zealand (our main viewing channel) devotes a full hour to show called Country Calendar, in which men whistle incongruous tunes whilst dogs bark at sheep. Not much else seems to happen in this riveting hour-long spectacular. And if that weren’t convincing enough proof for you that this is truly God’s own country, it is not uncommon for our half time spectacular at major sports events to consist of men throwing gumboots at a barrel in the middle of the field. The winner gets them in.

 Back in Cromwell however, our partially drowned town life is lived at a more leisurely pace.

The town is best known for a wharf side village of small stone huts now turned into jam and pickle bottlers run by local women in the town with much time on their hands.

So for a story to emerge from that sleepy hollow that really does get the journalists into gear is an entirely remarkable event and it is especially so when the good keen man’s dog, rather than the good keen man himself drives the ute into town and straight into and through the local café.

 “Dog drives car into café” you will agree is a catchy headline.

Wilco, a staffordshire ridgeback cross, was sitting by himself in his owner's ute when he pushed down the column gear change about 5.30pm yesterday.

The vehicle rolled forward 15 metres before crashing into the front bifold doors of the rather jauntily titled Fusee Rouge cafe.

Senior Constable John Chambers said it was lucky the vehicle was travelling slowly.

The unusual incident was a reminder not to leave the keys in the ignition, he said.

Now you might come away from this story thinking how wonderful it is that we have dogs that not only understand the complexities of a ute’s gearshift, or marvel at the ingenuity of a dog that might not only notice the keys in the ignition but have the dexterity to turn them appropriately.

Or else you can just smile gently at the fact that throughout New Zealand, people do happily get out of their cars and go in for a quick chat and a coffee comfortable in the knowledge that leaving one’s keys in the ignition only constitutes an invitation to inventive dogs.