Name of the dog
The sun was a sliced blood orange bleeding into the smoke that laced the near sky. Shadows of trees and buildings were faded and ill formed by the colour as though substance had been scorched from the earth.
Watched as a helicopter, swinging a bucket of water, dropped below the farther hill. Town, he thought, it might head for the town. Hope the wind drops tonight.
Town a collection of tin and wood shacks that a hundred years ago half circled itself around a now dead rail line and a dry football ground. Trees planted, roads paved. Not time enough: nature was taking it back.
Have to deal with the dog, he thought, and went inside to pack.
As the door slammed the dog looked up with one devoted eye fixed on him, the other buried on the floor.
It watched as he put on the old denim jacket, picked up the hat, and took the rifle from the cupboard and a box of shells. Then it jumped up as best it could.
Seen many summers, this dirt red kelpie. Smart. A rifle meant hunting, usually rabbits. Fresh rabbit for dinner smelled good. Dog couldn’t catch them anymore. Rabbits over the rise towards the yards just sat and watched as the dog limped to the fence.
Now it barked and struggled towards the door, right front leg bent where it was too slow to jump from a motorbike going down when they were mustering. Breath coming in short rasps, choked by cancer in its throat.
Still game for any fight, any struggle. Toughened in the forge of cattle, ‘roos, snakes and heat for 16 years.
Stopped at the door head down. Behind him not the room that Mary made, not the room they carried her out of that last time. Didn't have the softer touch, the eye for symmetry and colour. If he looked back now his heart would bleed into the empty spaces that Mary left. Against her wishes the house drained itself of colour and strangled life, once she was gone.
Then turned and ran his finger through the dust on the stove. The gas had run out a year or so ago and he cooked over a fire outside. Ate sausages, cereal or noodles.
Looked at Mary’s picture, smiling, with the kids, now busy being successful overseas. They visited almost every year, found it dry and lifeless. Nothing held on to them here but bitter memories of heat and hardship.
Too right, he said to himself, nothing here but heat, hard dirt, and hell.
There’d been good times, when they were at school. Bus trips in the morning, sport at every town around, riding bikes over the hills to visit the neighbours, swimming in the creek or the dams, riding horses on muster, motorbikes in dry creek beds as they got older. Those adventures faded from 16,000km away, when you’re fighting for your place in the universe.
There was water too, reliable rain that filled dams and creeks, kept the paddocks green and cattle fat. House tanks never went dry year after year. Sometimes a flood as the creek couldn’t keep up. Locked in for days by water. Wished he had that now.
Put on the hat and stepped out, holding the door for the dog to limp through. Hat given to him by his mum the week he told his dad he’d stay on the farm. She’d picked it up at the seconds store in town. Said it had belonged to a rodeo rider from the States passing through up north. A rider who’d never ride again because he didn’t respect our bulls enough, mum said. He’d worn it every day since, ignoring the laughs in town for the first year till they got used to it.
His dad didn’t say much then, already worn down and torn about what heartache he was handing on. Held his hand in two weathered palms and said: Thanks son. I’m proud of your strength and courage. Yours now. Do what you think is best. Then turned away to hide the tears.
When he died 18 years later in a hospital two hours drive away he’d said little more.
This was his great grandfather’s pick, drifting north west from the cities with a horse and wagon and a family. Into this valley with its trees and creek he found a generational paradise. Staked out 500 acres, splitting the thousands of fence posts himself. Riding east to bring herds over the range and into his nest.
In less than 150 years it had dried up. No longer good for farming or living, like most else west of the ranges. He had to let it go but couldn’t. He’d promised not to.
Lifted the dog into the ute and drove through dusty paddocks emptied of cattle, where hundred-year-old gums along the creek line were beginning to die, up to the cattle grid at the gate.
Rob coming down the road. They both stopped, middle of the road, hanging out ute windows, talked, cars the colour of the road or the ash in the sky. A light dust blew between them, drying their throats, making speech scratchy.
Dry as, said Rob as if the obvious wasn't obvious.
Looking for rabbits, said Mick, answering a question that hadn't been asked.
With half a bottle of Bundy? Be wasting a lot of bullets.
Might be out till late. Could get cold.
You ok?
Yeah. Just missing a few things is all. Blue's sick. You know, winter.
Its spring mate. Look at that sky! Smoke goes on forever! Ain’t that something? Warms your heart. Want anything in town?
Yeah, a bottle of Bundy.
Done. Call before you miss too much and we’ll top that bottle, Rob said, and drove off.
Headed west towards the hills. Stopped when the Cruiser with the tonne of water on the back came around the corner, lights going.
Steve hung his head out. Wanna give us a hand Mick? You know we always need more, and you’ve been there.
Thanks mate, I’m all in this year.
Just turn up if you can. This one’s gunna run for days I reckon, go up past Tom’s where the tallowwoods are and maybe give the town a fright. See ya.
Been there, five years ago. The worst ever they said then, and said every year after that. Hunkered down in the cab, misting pipes buckling too hot for steam, blankets and hoods over them all, as the fire overran till a chopper dropped a bucket load that buckled the roof of the cab and cracked windows. Enough time to get the Cat 2 rolling and out on smoking tyre-less rims. Pilot bragged for days after, best shot he’s ever done, through the smoke and updrafts. Captain kissed him every time he heard the telling of it.
Did he pray then? Someone said Jesus! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Not a prayer but what everyone in that scorching hell was thinking. He worried about what would happen to Mary if he didn’t make it home. Just a lucky shot then, nothing divine in it. But there’s no going back. One hell’s enough.
Turned off the road and stopped in an elbow of the creek where there was a small sandy beach and a log he liked to lie against, but no water. Near dusk, and the dog sniffed and knew there were no rabbits about, and so lay down against his hip, chin on his leg, hoping for an ear scratch.
No country for old men. This spot reminded him of that. He’d watched the movie three times, dragged in by the title, thought it was about him. Tried to read the book from the library but his mind wandered off or just went blank. Didn’t take to the violence but saw how it could happen, knew the ruthlessness of violated and cornered men, and the desperation of the hopeless.
Saw two men take out most of a village in Kosovo with an M70 and a flamethrower. Beyond angry after their own village was blown away. Nothing could stop it, short of killing them, and that wasn’t his brief.
Blake, over the next valley, took the shotgun to his missus, the horses, the dogs, then himself seven or eight years ago. The kids found it all when they got off the school bus.
It got to you, but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t shoot animals or his wife, no matter how tough it got. Couldn’t leave kids in that way. My problems, not theirs.
“Keep your ears sharp for snakes. Might want to cuddle up to keep warm,” he said to the dog as he took the first sharp swig into his throat,
Then, half talking half imagining: “You remember that bull got me up against the rails in the yard and you went at him. Without a blink. Didn’t see it all but they said you climbed the rails, landed on the bull’s back, biting his neck. That got him going, more interested in you than me. They’d opened the gate and you took off with him chasing out into the paddock. Back before they got me into the ambulance and you came to hospital and stayed there till I got out. Two broken ribs and fractured pelvis. Woulda been a lot worse without you. A lot worse.
“Rob always laughs at the telling of it, seeing you gnawing on the shoulder of a two-tonne live bull. Ginni just says it shows I should get away, its too dangerous by yourself, then flies off home and forgets about us. Eh dog.”
The dog blinks at the word, never known another name. The kids gave him Blue, but they’re long gone. He remembers long runs beside bikes, swimming in the creek, plenty of ear scratching at day’s end, the girls tucking him into bed like a doll. Doesn’t recall the dangers or heroics. Dogs live for food and pats.
“She should be hugging you every time she sees you. She coulda been the first of us gone. I had the golf club but you were quicker, over the trolley and into that king brown quickern I could say fore. I almost hit you with it, but you grabbed the snake and off. That was it. We all owe you, but we never tell.”
He lay back against the log, swigged the rum, looked at the few stars and tepid half moon through the haze.
“This is it then Blue,” he said, tears in his eyes.
The dog lifted and cocked its head, ears waggling, puzzled by the name and tone of voice not heard since it saw Mary carried out to the black car two years ago. She was in a box, but her smell was there, fainter, but present. Then he’d sat in his soft chair on the veranda and rubbed the dog’s head and ears for an hour or so before walking down to feed the chickens.
He hadn’t said Blue for years, perhaps ever, just dog. And the dog understood this was a speaking of the love and trust between them, and he had run with the joy in it. Now the saying of the name was strange, and it watched and whimpered as the gun was loaded.
When the gun discharged Blue jumped up, sniffed the fallen hand and bloodied cheek, looked around for help, then limped as fast as it could across dark soil and dry stubble towards Rob's place.