‘He’ll forget all about me in a day,’ said Brindabella, unmoved. ‘Or two.’
The red hens, led by Pertelote, came tentatively over to the verandah step.
‘Eaaaarp!’ said Pertelote.
‘Go away!’ snapped Brindabella.
The other hens took off. Not Pertelote, though—she knew something was up. She stayed to listen. Billy-Bob picked himself up from the ground and went over to Brindabella. He could just reach her at the end of his rope. He leaned his head against her furry shoulder.
‘But you don’t know anybody in the bush,’ he said. ‘You’ll be lonely. You’ll miss us.’ He paused. ‘I might even miss you, Brindabella.’
Brindabella flicked her black-tipped ears.
‘Could you stop carrying on?’ she said. ‘And help me?’
Night fell and the moon rose, huge and gleaming and thick as cream.
The lights in the house shone behind the closed curtains. Pender sat with his father in front of the kitchen stove. His father was reading and Pender was looking at his drawings of Brindabella and making up stories about them in his head. He yawned. Soon it would be time for bed.
He looked down at Brindabella. She lay on a big cushion at their feet, looking particularly demure. Poor Brindabella. What were a few flowers and strawberries, after all?
Suddenly, outside in the dark, Billy-Bob began to bark. Brindabella moved very slightly on the cushion.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
‘Something’s up with Billy-Bob,’ said Pender to his father.
‘Possum, maybe,’ said Pender’s father, not looking up from his book. He continued reading. Billy-Bob would calm down soon.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
They could hear the little dog bounding along the verandah and back again.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
Pender’s father put his book down on the table and went over to the window, pushing it open.
‘Calm yourself, Billy-Bob!’ he called out. ‘Stop that racket.’
But Billy-Bob would not calm down. He took another deep breath and kept on running and barking.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ said Pender, getting up to look.
His father shook his head. He closed the window—the night air was cool.
‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, and picked up his book again.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap!’
Exasperated, Pender’s father threw down his book and went to the back door, opening it and shouting:
‘Billy-Bob! Come inside if you can’t keep your mouth shut!’
Billy-Bob stood still for a moment in the moonlight, looking at Pender’s father, his head on one side. He was very tempted. How delightful, an evening in company in the warmth of the kitchen. Perhaps…
But he thought of how Brindabella would react if he let her down. She had such a temper, it didn’t bear thinking about. So, remembering the principles of true friendship, he kept tearing around the perimeter of the house, barking as loudly as he could.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
‘Maybe he’s sick?’ said Pender.
‘Funny sort of sickness,’ replied his father. ‘We’ll have to catch him and drag him in. I really can’t stand this noise.’ He pushed the door open and stepped down to the grass, holding his stick out as Billy-Bob came past to try and trip him up.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’ puffed Billy-Bob, streaking past.
‘I’ll get him,’ said Pender.
Billy-Bob whizzed past again, a rush of dark energy. Pender took off after him as fast as he could.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
The moon was so low and so full and the ground was smooth with silver light. Billy-Bob ran, Pender ran.
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!’
Poor Billy-Bob gasped for breath between yaps, but he was excited now, too.
‘Come on, Brindabella,’ he thought. ‘This is your time. Come on!’
‘Yes, hurry up, Brindabella,’ thought Pertelote, her beady eyes peering out from the low branch of the tree where she liked to perch. ‘The door will close soon—they will realise. Hurry, go now!’
If Pender and his father had looked back, they would have seen that Brindabella was now standing at the open door. This was her time! She sniffed the air. She heard the rustling leaves high up on the hill.
Hurry, Brindabella! Hurry! Pender will catch him! Then it’s all over. Come on—go!
Pender fell forward and grabbed the dog in his arms, rolling on the dusty ground. And Brindabella held her shoulders forward and bounded with all her pent-up strength out the door into the darkness.
Out, out, away, away she went, far away and up the hill into the deep freedom of the bush.
Brindabella bounded up the hill, into the bush where she belonged. Soon she was far enough up the hill away from the house that she no longer heard the sound of Billy-Bob barking or Pender’s voice calling, ‘Brindabella! Brindabella! Come back!’
She did not go back. She did not even look back. Her tail hit the ground and the wind was cold and she felt as though she was sailing into the starlit sky, as if she was becoming a star herself.
‘So this is what happiness is!’ she thought. ‘This is it!’
She had never felt this way before. Happiness. Strength. Freedom. She bounded on, deep into the bush, past trees and rocks. She was not afraid, not even of dingoes, not now. She was not fully-grown, but she knew she was quick. A dingo would not catch her. The bush at night was thick with noise. She could feel so many eyes looking at her, so many hearts beating and lungs breathing in and out. Possums, owls, bandicoots, rats, mice, wombats—and so much more, she knew. She knew them all. How did she know?
‘I just know,’ thought Brindabella with a kind of joy. ‘My mother must have told me. I do remember!’
She only stopped when there was no place to go on. She had reached a tumble of rocks next to a burnt tree stump, and for a moment, she couldn’t see her way through. She stood, panting, her heart beating fast. Part of her was glad to stop, to rest, even in her excitement.
She stiffened. Behind the stump, she thought she saw a
