I have acquired several stray dogs in my life, but only one ever made a deliberate attempt on my life. To be fair it might not have been deliberate; the dog could have been deranged. But that was little comfort to me and the half dozen other men whose lives he threatened.

I called him George. He was a long haired English Retriever. A huge golden ball of a dog with tearful eyes, a soft sad mouth and a constant pose of unquenchable nobility - his head up, gaze fixed on the horizon and one paw pointing towards some imaginary game animal.

I found George in the Great Sandy Desert of north west Western Australia. God knows what he was doing there. Possibly he had fallen from a passing truck. More likely he had been driven out there by somebody who knew better than I and ruthlessly abandoned. I adopted him.

He turned out to be an indefatigable retriever of game. In three weeks he brought me four bandicoots, two tortoises, one emu chick, several lizards, on feral kitten, numerous rabbits and a python.

I enjoyed George's company until he brought the King Brown snake into the pub. It was west of Rockhampton in Central Queensland. I had left George in the car with the windows open, pushed through the batwing doors, said G'day to the barman (who looked like an amiable but underfed dingo) and the half dozen other drinkers (all bearded, wearing dark blue singlets and looking like overfed wombats) and ordered a beer.

Sleeping on the bar was a huge, black, shabby tomcat, whose only sign of life was to open one eye and glare at me as I raised my beer. Then suddenly he opened both eyes, sprang to his feet, arched his back, stood his patchy fur on end, inflated his tail and began to spit furiously.

George was in the doorway, his jaws softly clamped behind the head of the biggest King Brown I have ever seen. It's fangs were clearly visible and it thick brown body thrashed wildly. It was angry. The King Brown is one of the deadliest in the world. It carries enough venom to decimate an army, and could certainly deal with the inhabitants of that bar. George advanced and I knew exactly what he was going to do: lay that writhing, furious thing at my feet.

I am not an agile man. But I made it onto the bar with one standing jump. So did the other six drinkers. It says much for Australian fortitude that four of them got there still with full glasses. They even had the foresight to drain them before throwing them at George. Seven of us danced on the bar in terror, screaming at George.

George stood stoically among the showers of broken glass, looking reproachful. The snake thrashed viciously. "George", I pleaded, "go away". George raised his head and looked noble, then lowered it and dropped the snake softly on the floor. That, I thought, was the end of George. But the King Brown seemed dazed and wriggled to the bar. "Get a bloody gun" shouted a drinker. The barman fumbled to load a double barter shotgun. The blast rocked the bar and dug a huge hole in the floor.

This was when I learned that George was gun shy. He howled and bounded across the room and leaped onto the bar to cower at my feet. Seven of us stood on the bar with a cowering dog and a spitting, arching cat, staring down at an evil death slithering towards us. The barman blasted the bar window. The snake reached the bar raising itself on its tail. Then the cat jumped it.

Obviously an experienced snake handler, it grabbed the King Brown by the tail and hauled it toward the door. The snake tried to strike, but the cat had a trick of twisting its head and the snake's tail so it was temporary powerless. (This always works with snakes. Hold one by the tail and as its head comes up to strike your hand, twist your wrist away from it. The snake is rendered powerless for that particular strike. When it strikes again, twist again. Try it sometime.)

We all encouraged the cat as it made for the door. The marksman missed again. Then George intervened, it was his snake. He streaked across the room and grabbed the snake just behind the head. Then he started to drag the snake and cat back, the snake stretched taut between them. The cat's claws dug in and furrowed the floor boards as the trio inched across to the bar.

All of us were throwing bottles and glasses now. Some hit the snake, some the cat and some George. Neither the cat nor George noticed. The snake was past caring. The bartender blew a tuft of fur off the cat's rump. It shot into the air screaming, spun around and fled out the door. This left George unhampered in delivering the King Brown.

I leaped off the bar like a young fawn, as did the others. The bartender tried to blow George and the snake to pieces at point blank range. He missed. Seven men howling with fear and a feeble minded dog, a deadly snake and an excited barman. It was not a happy situation.

Then the little old lady came in. She had a face the colour of smoked eel and a nose that touched her chin. She carried a stick. "What's all this?' Her voice resembled a high pitched peacocks scream. Even George turned. She saw the snake in George's mouth. "Good heavens". She; strode across the room, raised her free hand and whacked George on the head. He cowered against the bar. Neatly the little old lady reversed her stick, hooked the handle under the snake's belly and took it out the door to a vacant paddock.

She came back into the bar. "Tea will be at six o'clock" she screamed at the barman. "All right, Mum" he said trying to hide the shotgun. The cat came back, stalked across to George, glared into his noble face, then gave him one almighty swipe on the nose. George fled to the car. I agree with the cat.

By Kenneth Cook (The Killer Koala) Reprinted from the Sun Weekend August 23, 1986.