Free New Australian Stories 2 by Aviva Tuffield Page B

night’s scotch. He turns on the tap, letting it run into the kettle, gazing out at the back garden and groaning at the piles and piles of unearthed soil and chewed bamboos that once supported the first creeping of beans. The dog out there too, looking at him, jowls on paws. The man’s own jowls to-ing and fro-ing as he shakes his head, standing with his hands on the stainless steel of the sink, the kettle grumbling.
    He’s outside later, traipsing about the garden in his dressing-gown, using a small shovel to fill in holes and pick up dog-dirt. The lab sulking, or twisting round occasionally to fuss over her breasts that are almost neon with rawness. Small cries filling her throat.
    The old man can’t recall seeing a dog like that, mammaries hanging down. More naked somehow than when male dogs get their erections in the park — cantilevering behind some bitch with her bum on the ground.
    It’s been three days now and still no posters up. He looks for the collar in the parking lot bin but it’s been emptied of everything but stench.
    In the newsagent’s he picks up the special-edition Winning Post and the daily papers, both of which have a picture of a glistening racehorse on them.
    FREE Cup Day Form Guide!
    He scans the sports sections of the nationals and there it is, a column in each paper. He’s aflame with pride. His smile sustaining all the way through the usually curt transaction with the shopkeeper.
    He sits at the pub with a celebratory beer and smoke. Reads the articles both. Then reads them again. Raises his beer to the hills. Cheers , the old man’s mouth says, and a little girl in the back of a car looks like she’ll remember it forever. A lonely old man with nobody to cheers.
    People come in and out of the supermarket with armfuls of alcohol. Men and women go by in the garb of pageantry. Every other car is a taxi.
    The man sees the woman sticky-taping a sheet of A4 to a power pole then moving on, a stack more of them under her arm.
    Back home he hurriedly unburdens himself of keys and newspapers, the sticky tape from the poster catching on his sleeve, the old man arrested for a moment by the dog’s agonised yelps.
    He opens the laundry door and she remains distressed, the smell of ammonia, a puddle on the floor. She comes out, stopping to lick at her underbelly, walking away, a perfunctory wag of her tail, then pausing again to fuss and fuss at her swollen teats.
    Please help , the poster says (a picture of Chocolate with an array of snuggling, suckling puppies, their eyes closed). Her puppies and family miss her! Reward offered.
    He takes the piece of paper to the phone, shutting both the back door and the one in the hallway against the yelping.
    Ordinarily he’d wait, give it a few days. But it’s Cup Day, his first without an invite to the hills. Last year it was little Jerome and Daniel cheering the telly, the dog barking, the old man laughing — their dad working his busiest day of the year.
    He shaves again, drinking from a bottle as he does. Runs a towel under a hot, hot tap and puts it to his face, dancing a little in the bathroom. He brushes his hair. Dresses in his suit, chooses a tie. Takes the suit jacket off. Looks at himself. Puts the jacket back on. Takes off the tie. Goes out and pats the dog panting on the lawn, listless, whimpering.
    He opens the cupboard and tries to remember which of the dangling leads is Chocolate’s. He chooses string instead, for authenticity.
    They leave the house, Chocolate putting on a smile despite her discomfort. That same dachshund yapping at the automatic doors outside the supermarket, working them open and closed like its bark is a clicker.
    As he turns the last corner he can see the woman at her gate, her hand up to her forehead to keep out the sun. Then she’s coming along the footpath, halfway between walking and jogging, Chocolate straining on the string until the old man lets her go and her