‘She’s safe,’ said the vet.
Pender sat, turning his head wildly from side to side.
‘Where’s Dad? I heard Dad calling me.’
‘He’s in the jeep,’ said the vet. ‘We parked the jeep on the edge of the bush. Then we heard the gunshot. He wanted to come at once, but he’s very weak, you know. I told him to wait while I found you.’
But as she was speaking, she was looking at Billy-Bob, not at Pender.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Up you get now and hold the torch for me. I’ll carry Billy-Bob back to the jeep.’
Carry Billy-Bob? Why should she carry Billy-Bob?
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Pender asked, panicking. ‘Why can’t he walk?’
The vet put her torch into Pender’s hand. He looked down. The little dog’s eyes were closed. He twitched. Pender noticed there was a trickle of blood coming from his neck.
‘I think he might have taken a bullet,’ said the vet.
‘What?’ Pender was in a daze.
‘Come on, you help me, Pender,’ said the vet. Her voice was steady. ‘I’ll carry him. You hold the light ahead of me so I don’t trip. We’ll get him home. Come on, Pender. Help me.’
Pender stumbled to his feet, holding the torch. The vet carefully picked the dog up from where he lay and carried him nestled in her arms like a baby. Pender followed her along the track that led out of the bush, aiming the torch in front of her feet so she knew where to tread. But his hand was shaking so much that the light bobbed up and down like a bird skimming across the waves. Billy-Bob. How—
When they reached the jeep, Pender ran to his father and buried his head in his shoulder.
‘Brindabella’s safe,’ he said, through tears.
Pender’s father stroked his head.
‘Yes, she got away all right,’ he said.
Pender got into the back seat and the vet laid Billy-Bob down next to him and started the engine. The jeep made its way down the dirt road, away from the bush back to the house. None of them spoke. The little dog lay still and quiet. Once he opened his eyes, briefly and with a kind of deep exhaustion.
When they got home, they carried him in, using Pender’s coat as a stretcher, and laid him on the mat in front of the low light of the kitchen fire. Billy-Bob’s breathing had become very slow, tiny short breaths.
‘Pender,’ said the vet, gently. ‘Billy-Bob is dying.’
As the pale light of dawn shone into the house, Pertelote came inside too, creeping forward on her delicate chicken legs. She sat herself down next to Billy-Bob.
‘Can’t you fix him?’ said Pender, in desperation. ‘Can’t you do something?’
The vet shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘The injury is too serious.’
‘But he saved her!’ said Pender. ‘He saved Brindabella. He saved her life.’ He turned to his father. ‘It was her, you know. That kangaroo. I know it was her. It was Brindabella.’
‘Well, you would know,’ said his father, ‘if anyone would.’
Pender got down from his chair and lay on the floor in front of the fire. He put his face next to Billy-Bob’s. He remembered what his father had said—that the little dog dreamt of things they would never know about. Dog-dreams. He put his lips next to the small ear, edged with fine strands of fur.
‘You were a good man,’ Pender whispered.
‘Pender,’ said his father. ‘You’re bleeding.’
That was when they realised a bullet had also struck Pender. It had not entered his body, but had flown across the skin of his hand. Pender stared at the sticky blood, oozing out of his palm.
It was strange, it didn’t hurt at all. Not then. Afterwards, when it had healed, it left a scar for all of his life. He often found himself running his fingers along it, up and down, without quite knowing why.
The next day, they buried Billy-Bob on the side of the hill that the little dog had so loved to run up and down every morning, up to the shepherd’s old hut.
Pender and his father dug a hole together with a big spade. Pender did most of the digging and he made the hole as deep as he could. It was hard work because the earth was rich and heavy, and as he dug, his arms and his back and his neck ached.
‘That’s enough,’ said Pender’s father after a while, taking the spade from him.
They wrapped Billy-Bob in the mat that he lay dreaming on by the fire in the hut. Together, they lifted him up. He was so light, like a bundle of leaves. Then they laid him down inside the deep hole and covered him with the earth.
There were stones scattered across the hill, big and small. Pender wandered up and down, picking them up and putting them in his pockets. When his pockets were full, he came back to the place they had buried Billy-Bob and knelt down next to it. One by one, he took out the stones and pebbles and pushed them into the dirt in the pattern of a circle, to mark the spot. The stones were smooth and round, and very old.
His father stood watching in silence. When Pender had finished placing the stones, he stood up.
‘Goodbye, Billy-Bob,’ said his father.
‘Goodbye, Billy-Bob,’ repeated Pender.
He looked up, away from the grave. Across the hill, families of wombats grazed peacefully as the sun set. Way up in the bushland beyond, the tall swaying trees beckoned, Come, come, come inside...
He remembered those two round eyes like gleaming cherries, beseeching him in the darkness. It was Brindabella. There was no doubt at all in his mind. She had seen him, she had known it was him.
It was time to go inside. They left Billy-Bob safe under the earth and made their way down the hill. Pender held his father’s arm to stop him from slipping. The wooden stick he used to lean on was gone forever, lost in the bush when Pender had thrown
