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‘Easy solution, Kim.’ Like his ex-girlfriend ever took the easy solution. ‘Leave him with me permanently.’
He waited for her to cry, or bleat aboutlittle Gussy, like she usually did whenever he brought up the idea.
‘I’m prepared to open negotiations on the exploration of a trial separation period,’ she said.
‘Really?’ He wasn’t sure what it was about her show-off legal speak that dropped him off the edge from pissed-off into deep rage, but it was too late now. He was in the red zone. ‘Well, here’s mynegotiation, Kim. You lost your ownership rights the second you put a large young dog into a crate for eight freaking hours with insufficient water.’
‘That is ridiculous; I hired a reputable pet courier. Besides, you can’t justdecidehe’s yours. We have an agreement, and it’s legally binding. I could take you to court over this.’
‘You can take me to fucking woop woop, Kim. Next time you turn up and dognap Gus, you’d better expect a visit from the police.’
He slammed the phone back into his pocket. If yelling at Kim was supposed to make him feel better, it hadn’t worked. He could go install a towel rail in Mooball, or something equally mindless yet constructive, but then he’d just be reminded of the woman who wasn’t standing beside him, helping him.
The woman who was probably on the highway headed south right this second.
The woman who had ripped open his ribcage and left this—thing—in his chest.
Gus gave the bush he’d been peeing on one last, lingering sniff before trotting over to sit at Joey’s feet. His hair was all over his face and he looked more like one of those wandering sheep, who ended up as feel-good news stories when they were finally found and shorn of three years’ worth of wool, than a dog.
He had scissors somewhere. A haircut for Gus, then he could spend the afternoon burying his angst under all the Bush Poetry Muster phone calls he had to make. ‘Looks like it’s just you and me, mate,’ he said. ‘For the rest of our lives, probably, if this arvo is any indication.’
Gus licked his hand.
Hedidn’t get to wallow for long. He’d just managed to cut enough curls off the groodle’s face so Gus had eyes again when the back door slammed.
‘You there, mate?’
‘In the bathroom.’
Pete’s voice was closer this time, and his boots on the floorboards gave his words tempo. ‘If you think I need a visual of you taking a piss, you’re very much mistaken …’
‘Yeah, we’ll give that one a miss.’ Joey stopped himself from going on. This muster he’d taken on must be infecting evenhisbrain with iambic pentameter.
Pete appeared in the doorway. He’d switched out the smart-developer look he’d been sporting the last few times Joey had seen him—shiny blue suit, cufflinks, a tie that could gift-wrap jewellery—and had his tradie gear on. ‘What the hell happened in here? Looks like a Dolly Parton wig exploded. Didn’t even know you had him back.’
‘Yeah. Me neither until half an hour ago.’
Pete took a step forward and held the dog’s snout in his hand, turning it this way and that to check it out. ‘That’s got to be the worst haircut in the history of dog grooming, Joey. Pass me the scissors, will you?’
Joey eyed his friend. ‘What makes you think you can do a better job than me?’
Pete ignored him. ‘Look up, Gus, and stay still.’
Huh. Pete wasn’t doing too crappy a job. The dog’s eyebrows were now even, at least, and his bottom jaw was starting to look less old mophead, more handsome young boy dog.
‘Do you take payment in beer?’ he said.
‘Later I will. I’ve got some old floorboards in the back of my ute from a reno the boys started on today: crow’s ash, like the floor ofMooball. Thought we might rip out your bodgy ones and get these installed. Saves me finding a place for them in my shed.’
‘Thanks, man.’
Pete gave the dog’s head a tussle, then handed Joey the scissors. ‘So how about it? A few hours on the tools, you tell me why you’re looking about as fun as a flood report, then we hit up the beers in your fridge.’
The debrief he could do without, but the floorboards and Pete’s joinery skills were too good a deal to pass up. ‘I’ll find my steel-capped boots.’
Pete had parked by the homestead, so they both got in his ute for the short drive over the honeymoon paddock to the farmstay cottages. Gus galloped along beside them until they reached the stable-turned-workshop, where he disappeared with a happy bark to harass Dobbin and the chooks.
Pete reversed his truck into the verandah of Mooball then hauled on his brake, twisted in his seat and gave Joey his serious face. ‘So I’m pretty sure it’s not the Bush Poetry Muster committee that’s got you down.’
