It was hot. The ground breathed dryness into the air. Soon the winds would bring the rains again, but today the soil was too warm under her paws.
The dog was tired. Today’s hunt had been short. Many dogs had flushed out the mob of big hoppers for the men to spear. Two of the men carried the great beasts back to the camp.
But she was old. Too weary to walk any more just now. She lay on the grass, panting, then put her head on her paws.
Bony Boy looked down at her. He was tall and muscular, not bony at all, but the dog still thought of him as she had when they first met. ‘You tired, old dog?’
The dog whined softly.
Bony Boy grinned. He kneeled in the grass and lifted her expertly, so she lay across his shoulders, front and back paws dangling each side of his neck. He strode through the grass after the other hunters, bearing her on his shoulders, his big hands gently holding her paws.
There was no need to walk when she was tired now, not with Bony Boy to carry her.
Tonight there’d be a feast around the fire. There’d be bones to chew, for her and the other dogs, her puppies and her children’s children too. But Bony Boy would make sure she had the best bits of all, the squishy parts she loved most. Perhaps tonight she’d hear howls from the darkness, where her wild children and their pups hunted for themselves.
The dog let herself enjoy the rocking motion as Bony Boy walked, the smell of fresh meat, the warmth of the sun.
It was a good day to be a dingo.