He hurled the plastic bottle at the fence. Harry ran to retrieve it. Dropping the trophy on the ground next to Gus, the dog lay down, paws touching scuffed leather. Gus squatted beside him, ruffled his course black fur, then brushed away a slobbering tongue.
“It’s okay mate. You don’t have to lick me to death.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth as Gus tweaked his dog’s ear. “You can’t work out what the hell’s going on, can you? Don’t worry, I can’t either, but let’s have breakfast and we might feel better.”
The generator started up when he switched the kettle on. Automatically he took two bowls from the dresser and placed them on the table.
Like barbed wire, pain wrapped around his heart. “Why, Amy?” He shoved the second bowl back in the cupboard.
Kenny Rogers, crooning about the girl who found another man, made him want to turn the country radio station off, but the news was about to start. His stomach rumbled, reminding him how little he had eaten the previous day. Nutrigrain, milk and honey; Gus filled his bowl and gave Harry a handful of dog biscuits.
Bombs dropped on Syria; refugees crushed trying to board trains to Germany; fires out of control in California; former priest arrested for molesting boys in 1978.
“Makes my problems seem almost irrelevant.”
The kettle was boiling as Gus got up to make coffee. Amy collected the cups; seven all together, from places they visited on their trip to Tasmania. The blue one, decorated with a rooster, was Gus’s favourite; bigger than the rest and without the flowers, hearts and lovey-dovey words that covered the others.
He was about to stir two teaspoons of sugar into his cup when the local news came on.
“A damaged Harley Davidson was found by a passing motorist at two o’clock this morning. It had run off the road, probably due to severe storms last night. A man and his female passenger were taken to the Geraldton Hospital.”