Red Dog Part 2

'Glad I didn't stuff it up.' Jocko looked proud of himself, and Vanno clapped him on the back. 'Good on ya,' he said.

'Will he be all right?' asked John.

'Too early to say,' said the vet. 'First thing is I'll have to get those bullets out.' The vet looked at the animal a little more closely and exclaimed, 'Well, I do believe it's Red Dog.'

'Jeez,' said Peeto, 'how did you know that?'

'This dog,' said the vet, 'everyone knows. The first time I met him, it was at Pretty Pool, and we were waiting to watch the stairway to the moon, and we'd all brought stuff for the barbie, and Red Dog here, he ate my salami, and he got my neighbour's steak. Everyone knows Red Dog.'

'He's been here a lot?' asked John, astonished. Red Dog followed him about faithfully for most of the time, and it was hard to imagine when he might have found the opportunity to travel so much.

'Every time anything's going to happen,' said the vet, laughing, 'along comes Red Dog in a road-train, and then when it's over off he goes. It's my belief he's got a couple of girlfriends hereabouts, 'cause just recently I've noticed some of my youngest clients look just a little bit like him.'

'Good lad,' said Jocko, stroking his muzzle.

The men sat outside in the waiting room whilst the vet and his nurse extracted the bullets. They couldn't think of very much to say to each other, and just kept exchanging glances, and wiping their brows with the backs of their hands. The suspense was too much to bear, as it seemed to them that Red Dog was fighting for his life and could very easily lose the battle.

After half an hour or so the vet came out and told them, 'I think he'll be fine. Lucky for him, the bullets missed the bone. He probably lost a lot of blood, but he's strong and obstinate, that's for sure. Give him a while to wake up, and we'll see how it goes.' He held out his hand and dropped the two distorted bullets into John's outstretched hand.

John looked down at them and shook his head. 'What I don't understand,' he said, 'is why anyone wants to go around shooting at dogs.'

'You'll be surprised,' said the vet. 'It happens all the time, and I take out more bullets than I'd ever expect. It's the farmers and the station men. They'll shoot anything that looks like a fox or a dingo or a dog, and they say they're protecting the stock, but if you ask me half of them are trigger-happy morons who do it for the sake of it. They're the kind of people who still eat damper and think they're starring in a western. I've heard of people driving around with hunting rifles sticking out of the windows, blasting away at anything that moves. It makes you despair, it really does. The only thing that's worse is when they go round leaving poison bait. That's what really gets me riled. It makes you sick to see a dog die of strychnine. If they could see how horrible it is for a dog to die of poison, I don't believe they could bring themselves to do it.'

Before long the men were called into the surgery, and found Red Dog, his wound heavily dressed, lying motionless but awake on the table. 'I doubt he'll be able to move,' said the vet, 'but he'll certainly recognise you.'

The four fellows made a fuss of him, and Red Dog sighed happily. 'I've got to keep him a couple more hours,' the vet told them, 'so why don't you go out and get a bite, and come back later? I don't mind hanging about. I've got paper to shuffle about in the office.'

John looked at his watch, and said, 'Well, I reckon it is tucker time.'

Jocko pulled a face; 'I've just realised I haven't told me missus where I'm gone.'

'You're for it,' said Vanno. 'I bet you a dollar she's cooking something up right now.'

'I'll give her a tinkle,' said Jocko.

The men turned to leave, and Red Dog, thinking he was going to be left, struggled to his feet and made to jump down. 'Hey, you,' said the vet, 'you're not going anywhere.' He told John to keep the dog still, and gave him another dose of sedative with the hypodermic. 'I can honestly say,' said the vet, 'that I've never known a dog as ill as this do anything like that before.'

They made their way to the Bungalow Cafe and ordered plenty of food. They ate with the appet.i.te of men who have been reprieved, and it put them into a thoroughly good mood. 'What say we find a bar?' said John. 'It's my shout. Least I can do.'

They started off with a couple of middies each, and then Peeto said he'd taken a yen for a Bundy, 'just to top it off.' The others declared it a fine idea, and they had a Bundy each. 'Here's to Red Dog,' said Vanno. 'Chin chin.'

'Long life and good health,' said Peeto.

'Lots of girlfriends and lots of pups,' said Jocko.

'Here's to you lads for helping me out,' said John.

They knocked back their Bundies, and sighed with satisfaction. 'Just one more,' suggested Peeto.

'Let's have a Scotch,' said Jocko, licking his lips and raising his eyebrows. 'It's a special occasion, is it not, and nothing's better than Scotch.'

An hour later they staggered out of the pub, happy and hazy, full of beer and Bundie, and made their way back to the vet's. There they found Red Dog in spirits almost as good as their own, and such was their state of happiness that they read the sum at the bottom of the vet's bill several times before they appreciated how big it was. 'Would you mind,' asked John, 'if we paid you later? Some of the boys are having a whip round.'

'We haven't got this much,' said Peeto.

'If we pay it now we couldn't buy enough petrol at the servo to get us home,' said Vanno. 'We'd have to push it all the way from Whim Creek.'

The vet looked at their anxious and slightly drunken faces, and decided he could take the risk of deferring payment, but he warned, 'I don't think any of you should be driving. You've had a few too many.'

Such was their confidence, inspired by alcohol and relief, that the four fellows decided to drive home anyway. Somewhere near the Sherlock River bridge, however, they realised that behind them was a car approaching quickly, with its blue light flas.h.i.+ng.

'Oh, jeez,' said Peeto, 'it's the coppers.'

'We'll help you pay the fine,' jested Vanno, and then regretted it later.

Peeto pulled in to the side, and got out of the car as the policeman approached him with his notebook at the ready. 'h.e.l.lo, Bill,' said Peeto.

'I'm not Bill when I'm on duty, mate,' said the policeman, who was in fact one of Peeto's neighbours.

Peeto couldn't resist saying, 'And when you're on duty I'm not "mate". I'm "sir".'

That was Peeto's big mistake. No-one with any sense should be cheeky and clever with a traffic policeman who has been on duty for six hours and has become so bored with sitting at the side of the road in his car that he is in just the right frame of mind for being nasty to someone.

Peeto failed the breathalyser test, and the policeman wouldn't let him off, even though he had been one of the saviours of the famous Red Dog.

Next day during smoko they worked out how much it had all cost. There was the loss of the day's wages, the cost of the petrol, the food and the booze, there was the vet's bill, and the fine for driving whilst under the influence of alcohol.

'Hey,' said Vanno glumly, 'what say the next time we fly a surgeon in? It's gotta be cheaper than this.'

One evening John was sitting in his hut drinking tea, when there was a scratch at the door. It was Red Dog's scratch, so he got up to let him in. Just as he was reaching the doorhandle, however, there was also a knock. 'Strewth,' thought John, 'Red's learned a new trick.'

He opened it, and there was Red Dog with someone he had never seen before. She was a woman in early middle-age, with a tightly permed hairstyle and a worried but resolute expression.

'Sorry to bother you,' she said, 'but I've come about the dog.'

'I'm not selling him,' said John. 'In fact I'd sooner sell me mum. If she was still alive, that is.'

'Oh, I don't want to buy him,' said the woman. 'I've just come because I'm worried about him, and I know he's yours.'

'Belongs to everyone, really,' said John, 'but I'm his best mate. What's up then?'

'It's the ticks,' said the woman.

'Ticks?'

'Yes. Look, my name's Ellen Richards, and I just moved up here from Perth, and I've got a job at Hamersley, in the admin office, and I heard there's a problem with ticks round here.'

'Yes,' said John, 'you burn 'em on the backside with a hot needle, and they drop off, and you kill 'em in metho.'

'Yes,' said Ellen. 'It's just that Red Dog visited me this evening, and I couldn't help noticing that he's got ticks.'

'He gets them sometimes,' said John. 'I check him every couple of days.'

'Well, I checked him too,' said the woman, 'and I found some on his ears and one on his back and I burned them off, but there are some strange browny pink ones on his stomach, and I can't get them off; and when I try to burn them off, he just squeals. I'm worried about it, and as he's your dog, I thought I ought to let you know.'

It was John's turn to be concerned. 'Ticks on his stomach?'

'Yes, on both sides.'

John called Red Dog and rolled him over on his back. He lay there with his paws in the air, wondering whether his master was going to rough him up and tickle him, which was very acceptable, or whether the woman would be coming at him with hot needles again, which definitely was not. 'Where are these ticks?' asked John.

The woman knelt down and pointed. 'Look,' she said, 'there's about four or five on each side.'

John was horrified. 'You haven't been putting hot needles on those?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'but they wouldn't drop off.'

John scratched his head in disbelief. 'And he squealed, did he?'

'Oh yes. It was horrible. I think that when I burn them they just bite into him harder. Maybe you should take him to the vet.'

'Listen, lady,' said John, 'I can't think of a nice way to put this, but those aren't ticks.' He paused, thinking how best to express himself. 'You've never had a dog of your own then?'

'Oh, yes, I've had several.'

'Were they dogs or b.i.t.c.hes, then?'

'Both. I've had both.'

'And you've never noticed?'

'Never noticed what?'

'They've all got ... well ... they've all got t.i.ts. Even the dogs. They don't use 'em, but they got 'em.'

Ellen put her hand to her mouth. 'You mean?'

John nodded, 'Those aren't ticks, they're t.i.ts.'

She went pale and sat down on John's only chair; 'Oh my G.o.d,' she said, 'and I've been putting hot needles on 'em.' She forgot about John and went down on her knees. She put her arms around Red Dog's neck and started to cry 'Oh, Red, I'm so sorry I hurt you. I'm so sorry, so sorry ...'

Red Dog looked up at John, sharing this moment of embarra.s.sment. Red liked to be hugged as much as the next dog, but not necessarily by somebody who was whining and wauling in his left ear, and whom he didn't know very well at all.

The next day, much to her shame, and much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the workers at Hamersley Iron, Ellen discovered that the news of her mistake had got to work even before she did. 'Watch out for your t.i.ts, mates,' called the men, covering their chests with their hands, and pretending to run away.

It took years for Ellen to live it all down, but Red Dog came and visited her anyway, because he could forgive anyone who was generous with food, and she'd soon given up all that painful business with hot needles and methylated spirit.

John bought a nice powerful motorbike because, although he already had a car, he liked the idea of riding around on hot days with the breeze blowing in his face. It was great for short journeys, as long as you weren't carrying much with you, and anyway, the girls quite liked a man with a motorbike as long as he wasn't a crazy driver. Once or twice he put Red Dog on the seat in front of him, with his paws on the petrol tank, but he didn't seem to like it very much, greatly preferring the comfortable seats of trucks, buses and cars. When John kickstarted his bike, Red didn't make any moves to come too, as he always did when his master started up the car. Instead he lay in front of the door, waiting for John to come back, or he consulted his encyclopaedic memory, and took a stroll to one of the houses where somebody might have fed him years before. Sometimes in the fierce summer he went to the shopping centre where Patsy had once tried to kick him out, and lay in the air-conditioned cool of one of the shops, seeming to know by instinct when John was due to return.

One night John went to have a meal at the house of a couple of friends, and he took the bike even though it was July and the nights had been very cold indeed. Red Dog was out on patrol, looking for other dogs to fight with and cats to chase, and by the time he came back, John had already gone to dinner.

What happened after that dinner will always be a mystery.

John had some beers, but he wasn't too drunk to drive. He was in a happy mood, because of the company of his friends and the good meal they had given him, and there didn't seem anything wrong with the bike as he started it up and drove off down the road. His friends waved him goodbye and went back inside to clear up and go to bed.

There is a sharp bend on the road coming into Dampier, and the turning is very abrupt in the place where John had to turn off. In the undergrowth around the verges are heaps of the great red rocks that make the landscape of the Pilbara so particular.

John never made it round the bend of the road. Perhaps he misjudged his speed, perhaps there was a stone in the road that made him skid, or perhaps the beer had affected his judgement more than he realised. Perhaps the cable on his accelerator jammed. It is just as likely that a wallaby suddenly hopped out in front of him, and he tried to swerve to avoid it.

Whatever it was, John lost control of the motorbike, hit the kerb and went flying through the air. As bad luck and destiny would have it, he landed on a rock, which caved in his chest.

No-one knows how long John lay dying on that freezing night, with no-one except Red Dog to realise that he was missing. John did try to crawl back to the roadside, and perhaps if he had reached it he might have been found in time. However, he was too weak and too greatly hurt. After a while that gentle animal-loving man, who was a friend to everyone, died all alone in a rocky patch of spinifex. Perhaps he dreamed about Red Dog as he faded away into that long last sleep, on such a cold and starry night.

The next moming John did not appear for work and Peeto and Jocko and Vanno wondered what had happened to him.

'I got a bad feeling,' said Vanno, shaking his head.

'It's not like John,' said Peeto. 'He phones in if he's not coming.'

'Let's give him 'til smoko, and if he's still not here by then I'll go out and look for him,' said Jocko.

John was not there by breaktime, and so Jocko went round to John's hut. He found Red Dog waiting outside the door. The dog got to his feet and greeted Jocko with some relief. 'Where's your mate?' asked Jocko, and Red Dog flattened his ears and wagged his tail. It always gave him pleasure when someone mentioned his mate.

Jocko knocked again, and waited for a while. If John was there, he wouldn't have locked his dog out. John's Holden was parked outside, but there was no motorbike leaning against the wall round the back. With a sinking feeling in his heart, Jocko remembered that the previous night John had said that he was going out to eat with friends. Jocko went back to the depot and rang them up. 'John left at elevenish,' he was told. 'Why? What's up?'

'Was he on his bike?'

'Yes.'

'He never got home,' said Jocko.

Jocko borrowed a company ute and drove over to the friends' house. He had a brief word, and then drove back in the direction of John's accommodation. He thought about the time when he used to have a motorbike himself, and watched the road with the eye of experience. There were always places that were especially dangerous for motorcyclists, such as where there were potholes, or loose gravel, or places where kangaroos and wallabies crossed at night. When he came to the sharp bend, he stopped the car and got out. He wandered over to the other side and looked down into the hollow.

It was a very small community back then, and everyone knew everyone else. John had been well liked, and for several days everybody felt a sense of shock and loss. People's minds went numb. They didn't want to have to talk. Everyday things seemed too trivial to discuss, and if somebody tried to make a joke, somebody else told him to shut up. John had been so young, much too young to die so suddenly and so senselessly.

Now no-one would know what John might have achieved with his life, whether or not he might have started a business, whether he might have married and had children, or whether he might have gone back to New Zealand to start a new life with his pockets full of Hamersley cash. He had died with the best part of his life still to live, leaving behind him only his grieving friends, who would have fond memories of him for ever, and a devoted pet dog who had no idea what had occurred, and never would.

Amid all the sadness and the arrangements for the funeral, everyone forgot about Red Dog, and it wasn't until three days had pa.s.sed that anyone noticed that he was still waiting outside John's hut. John's friends brought food, which Red Dog would eat, before lying down in the dust with a heavy sigh to wait once more, even sleeping there through the chilly nights, and waking in the dawn with his russet coat glistening with dew.

After three weeks Red Dog came into the transport depot in case John was there. The drivers treated him as an old friend, and to begin with he spent half his time in the depot, and half his time waiting for John outside his empty hut.

When John failed to appear, Red Dog could only think of one thing. No-one knows how much language a dog has, or exactly how it thinks, but Red Dog's mind was full of a single great question: 'Where is John?'

There is only one thing worse than losing the one you love the most, and that is losing them without knowing why. If you are a dog, then your master is like a G.o.d to you, and the pain of losing him is greater still. Red Dog's heart was sick with longing, he had only one desire, and he had only one plan. He went to every place that he and John had ever visited together, and sniffed in every corner to find a trace of his master. When the scents faded he looked up into the face of each person he met, hoping that somehow they might divine his trouble and lead him out of it. If he could have spoken, he would have said over and over again, 'Has anyone seen John?'

It was from this time that Red Dog became the Pilbara Wanderer, the Dog of the North-West, who belonged to everyone because he couldn't find the one he loved the most, and wouldn't settle for less.

Red Dog had his greatest adventures after John's death. He had always enjoyed his freedom, but he had always had John to return to. Now he took absolute liberty, and refused to give it up. He would have given it up, no doubt, only if he had been able to find his master. Being such a well-loved and well-known local character meant that almost every week somebody tried to adopt him, to make him comfortable, and to feed him up so that he would settle down and stay. Red Dog liked these people, and if their children were sick he would even wait patiently by the bed until they were better. Then one day they would come out of their house and find Red Dog by the car, waiting to be driven away on his next great quest. With sadness in their hearts, the people who had hoped to own him would drop him off wherever it was that he wanted to go, and it might be months until one evening there would come that imperious scratching at the door, signalling his temporary return. Red Dog simply treated people as people treat their friends, dropping in, and then pa.s.sing on.