The death of Boofda has left a hole in the street. Everyone feels it. Dogs in the street are a thing of the past, a golden memory – dogs, kids on bikes, cricket. Boof has been like a time traveller. He’d come into their lives and for a while created a place for himself and then gone. He’d broken all the rules. Every day he’d barked at the postie who’d say ‘Git out of it ya mongrel,’ and ruffle his ears. The dog police eventually gave up on him as a lost cause and decided to ignore his indiscretions; he was a hopeless case.
Liz found the Boofda episode difficult to talk about – not because it was painful but because there was so much about it she didn’t understand. She’d hated the way he’d wormed his way into the heart of the street. She believed in the council by-laws that govern the control of dogs. She thought everyone went soft when it came to Boofda. She didn’t like him.
She was learn, that Boofda hadn’t cared whether she liked him or not. He liked her enough to risk his life protecting her home from an intruder. The policewoman had said, ‘You’re lucky your dog was here. We know that man and regard him as very dangerous.’
Now Liz had discovered that she’d liked him too. She’d never liked a dog before, never wanted to stroke one. But now she wanted to touch Boofda; she wanted to look into his eyes. She’d glimpsed something in those eyes but it was too late to explore this new liking. He was gone. She ached. One night, when she and Charles were lying in the dark and he couldn’t see her face, she said, ‘I’m grieving for that dog. I can hardly believe it. I’m grieving for a bloody dog.’
George hears her pottering about the garden and calls over the fence. ‘You want eggs?’ She clambers up on to the bottom rail and sees him coming out of the chicken coop. He reaches up to her and places an egg in each of her hands. He says, ‘Very fresh. You put here,’ and pats his cheeks.
As she walks back to the house, she presses the eggs into her cheeks just under the bone. They’re still warm and so smooth. The sun on her back burns through into her core that feels like ice. Her face crumples and tears flow, yet again.
That evening she rummages around for a new book to begin reading to Olivia. She stumbles across an old hard back. ‘What about this one? I won it when I was in grade 3. The Ethel Prior Memorial Prize for Most Improved.’
Olivia takes the book from her mother and feels the weight. It’s one of her ways of assessing if a book is worth opening. She likes the feel, so opens it and smells the pages.
‘Okay. But I want to choose the story.’
The two snuggle in Olivia’s bed and begin. It’s a collection of Fairy Tales by Hans Christian Anderson. It’s musty and they both sneeze. Olivia points to a story from the contents, its called, “The Angel”. Liz reads. It’s about an Angel who came down to Earth from Heaven to collect the soul of a dead child. But before taking it away, the Angel flies him over the places he most loved and from all those places he collects flowers to take to God. The Angel says, ‘God will press these to His heart and they will bloom in heaven more beautifully than they did on earth. But the flower that God loves the most, he will kiss and it will receive a voice and can join in the choir of heavenly bliss.’
Liz closes the book. She leans back into the pillow and squeezes her eyelids. Olivia is quiet and together they wait for the last words of the story to fade.
‘I love that story,’ says Olivia. ‘But it isn’t true.’
‘How do you know it isn’t true?’
‘Because God is not in life.’
Liz is shocked. Her body flushes hot. What has she done? Nine is too young to know what choosing a Godless life means!
And she sees herself looking into those dark canine eyes.
THE END
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