complete
surrender. A remarkable and entirely unusual display of desperation. Nothing like
this had ever happened to her.
The bitch walked on stiff legs to where he had prostrated himself. Stood over him
and ignored his pathetic throat but looked instead to where she thought he might
have come from.
He had been wounded with a shot in the back leg on the point of the left buttock,
blood streaked his fur down to the hock and inside pastern. His pads were torn and
also bled. She looked away and back again. All the pads except the foot of the wounded
leg.
She once again overlooked his wound and continued to study the ground he had crossed
to her hiding place. Her nose raised above the stench of his terror. Ears pointed
and straining for any hints of danger pursuing this idiotic pup beneath her. She knew he must have carried that leg, tearing as fast as he could away from whatever
it was that had done this.
She bent her head and smelled at the blood welling up from the clean shot gash. Licked
at it. Recognised it. The young dog flinched as she licked his wound, pulling his
leg away. She raised her head and yet again looked towards the valley of the yate
trees. The same thing had killed the black dog who had covered her. The sire of her
whelp. The old man with a blue car and guns had shot him to pieces, dragged his body
behind the car, gutted him. His open mouth and protruding tongue, pink intestines
and flapping lungs becoming a smear of blood in the road. Wired his outstretched
body to a boundary fence. She could smell him for days until the wind and sun dried
him out.
After a few minutes the bitch bent her head, opened her mouth and took the young
dog’s offered throat in her mouth. He was passive, unresisting, a penitent and would
never now be without her. He swallowed as his life was offered to her to take.
She let go of his throat, sniffed at him between his legs. Licked his penis and licked
the wound in his back leg. Once again he flinched but as she kept her mouth there;
he eased and allowed her to clean him as a mother would. She continued to patiently
lap at the wound and the young dog lay, stretching his head out, and after a moment
he blinked. Opened and closed his mouth. He was as pretty as a weaning pup. So far
at least. If he could keep up; if he could run with her, then they would see. There
would never be names.
CHAPTER 21
They were on the second run of the first morning when John Drysdale came into the
shed.
Chains of wet dust in the wrinkles of his neck. His Adam’s apple moving up and down
as he swallowed. The burnt side of his face had white zinc cream on it. Some dust
had stuck to the cream. Lines the colour of bloodwood through the zinc. He stood
at the end of the board holding a teatowel-covered basket in one hand and a black
tea kettle in the other. ‘I’ve brought the morning smoko boys,’ he said.
Lew saw him first as he dragged a hogget out of the catching pen, called out above
the noise of the shed. ‘Painter.’
Painter, as usual, wearing his blue Jackie Howe and thick cotton trousers with protective
padding sewn on the insides of his legs. Bowyangs below his knees and woolshed moccasins
made from sacking on his feet. His broken face and muscular arms shining with sweat.
Sheeps blood on his left, holding, forearm. Strong, ropy shoulders. The tattoos like
a storybook you could look at but not read. He would say nothing or, at the most,
I was drunk and I forget. His silence like a closed door. There was wool over the
board and with no shed hands, the two shearers had been reduced to doing makeshift
roustabout work.
Painter had his left fist pushed deep into the flank of the sheep as he made the
last of the back-leg blows. Straight back, bald head shining. No place here for the
weary. He looked up at Lew. ‘What?’
Lew indicated with his head to where Drysdale was standing.
Painter finished the wether and pushed it out the porthole. Helped it on its way
with a gentle backward kick.
surrender. A remarkable and entirely unusual display of desperation. Nothing like
this had ever happened to her.
The bitch walked on stiff legs to where he had prostrated himself. Stood over him
and ignored his pathetic throat but looked instead to where she thought he might
have come from.
He had been wounded with a shot in the back leg on the point of the left buttock,
blood streaked his fur down to the hock and inside pastern. His pads were torn and
also bled. She looked away and back again. All the pads except the foot of the wounded
leg.
She once again overlooked his wound and continued to study the ground he had crossed
to her hiding place. Her nose raised above the stench of his terror. Ears pointed
and straining for any hints of danger pursuing this idiotic pup beneath her. She knew he must have carried that leg, tearing as fast as he could away from whatever
it was that had done this.
She bent her head and smelled at the blood welling up from the clean shot gash. Licked
at it. Recognised it. The young dog flinched as she licked his wound, pulling his
leg away. She raised her head and yet again looked towards the valley of the yate
trees. The same thing had killed the black dog who had covered her. The sire of her
whelp. The old man with a blue car and guns had shot him to pieces, dragged his body
behind the car, gutted him. His open mouth and protruding tongue, pink intestines
and flapping lungs becoming a smear of blood in the road. Wired his outstretched
body to a boundary fence. She could smell him for days until the wind and sun dried
him out.
After a few minutes the bitch bent her head, opened her mouth and took the young
dog’s offered throat in her mouth. He was passive, unresisting, a penitent and would
never now be without her. He swallowed as his life was offered to her to take.
She let go of his throat, sniffed at him between his legs. Licked his penis and licked
the wound in his back leg. Once again he flinched but as she kept her mouth there;
he eased and allowed her to clean him as a mother would. She continued to patiently
lap at the wound and the young dog lay, stretching his head out, and after a moment
he blinked. Opened and closed his mouth. He was as pretty as a weaning pup. So far
at least. If he could keep up; if he could run with her, then they would see. There
would never be names.
CHAPTER 21
They were on the second run of the first morning when John Drysdale came into the
shed.
Chains of wet dust in the wrinkles of his neck. His Adam’s apple moving up and down
as he swallowed. The burnt side of his face had white zinc cream on it. Some dust
had stuck to the cream. Lines the colour of bloodwood through the zinc. He stood
at the end of the board holding a teatowel-covered basket in one hand and a black
tea kettle in the other. ‘I’ve brought the morning smoko boys,’ he said.
Lew saw him first as he dragged a hogget out of the catching pen, called out above
the noise of the shed. ‘Painter.’
Painter, as usual, wearing his blue Jackie Howe and thick cotton trousers with protective
padding sewn on the insides of his legs. Bowyangs below his knees and woolshed moccasins
made from sacking on his feet. His broken face and muscular arms shining with sweat.
Sheeps blood on his left, holding, forearm. Strong, ropy shoulders. The tattoos like
a storybook you could look at but not read. He would say nothing or, at the most,
I was drunk and I forget. His silence like a closed door. There was wool over the
board and with no shed hands, the two shearers had been reduced to doing makeshift
roustabout work.
Painter had his left fist pushed deep into the flank of the sheep as he made the
last of the back-leg blows. Straight back, bald head shining. No place here for the
weary. He looked up at Lew. ‘What?’
Lew indicated with his head to where Drysdale was standing.
Painter finished the wether and pushed it out the porthole. Helped it on its way
with a gentle backward kick.
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