As we were kicking through the scrub near Packsaddle Creek, Robert disturbed an injured feral cat. Its back right leg had been snapped and the break formed an artificial elbow. It limped away silently, whereupon Robert grabbed a heavy branch from the ground and gave chase. I watched with apprehension as he hurtled through the scrub. The cat could not run far and soon he was above it, stepping on its tail to hold it still while it let out a pathetic mewl.
He lifted the club above his head, poised to strike a death blow. Suddenly looked up at me and asked, "should I kill it, or just leave it?"
His face had an expression of such earnestness that I knew he would not bring the club down on the creature if I didn't give permission. I was taken aback. I had been listening to his stories of pig shooting and bush life for days and thought that summary executions were a part of his daily life. To see the anguish he was going through over such a pitiful and moribund creature felt raw and poignant.
It was as though he was seeking approval for euthanizing this poor creature, or to make me complicit in his actions. I thought for awhile, and despite being uncomfortable about the situation, I knew we were not going to carry it back and look after it, or take it to a vet - it was a feral cat.
"Better than letting it starve out here I reckon". I was glad I was not the one who had to do the killing, but I knew I would if I had to. The club broke on the first blow and he was forced to use his boot.
The sun burned high as we dragged our feet through dusty beds of ephemeral creeks, nudging at the the bleached bones of the channel country's lifeless inhabitants. The wind from the south brought with it the sickly sweet scent of the gidgee trees and chilled the sweaty streaks pooling under my backpack. Occasionally I would dig out an ancient fossil with the toe of my boot, or find what was the ostensible purpose of our survey: Aboriginal artefacts.
We were climbing high into the mesas, looking for ancient playgrounds, places were the old people set up stone arrangements for rituals and purposes of the spirit. I never felt comfortable being around them, I always felt as though I was trespassing.
Robert and I explored the caves that had been etched in to the caps of the mesas and buttes. I heard him call out so I rushed over to find he had pulled out a dingo cub from a shallow cave - there were three in total, squashed against the back wall, but this one had been the most curious.
It was the cutest little dingo pup! We named him stinkarse. We took him back to the car and drove on, we were heading home though it was a few hours back to Windorah. After a few stops to let the dingo shit, it was beginning to stink, and Robert was having second thoughts about keeping it as he had a 1 year old daughter and 3 other dogs at his house.
We arrived at Betoota and got out to stretch our legs. There is not much at Betoota, a pub and a population of zero. The annual races had just been on and we spoke with a bloke collecting rubish, and grabbed an empty XXXX slab box to put Stinkarse in. He offered us $10 for the pup - said he could get $30 for it's scalp and that they only way to tame them was to drain the blood out of them. We drove on, but after awhile we pulled over at a creek and let stinkarse go.
I hope he makes it in the outback on his own.
RIP STINKARSE
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