Moody took the substitute dog to a vet in Rosehill that afternoon. It did not appreciate its examination and managed to bite the gloved vet, Mr Kimber, on the hand and his young female assistant on the forearm.
‘Should be put down for that,’ short, rotund and bespectacled Kimber said as he dressed the wounds.
‘I’m thinking about it.’
‘No, seriously, Mr Moody; has he drawn human blood before?’
‘Once that I know of.’
‘Three bites give them a taste for it. It’s like humans who murder. They often want more.’ When Moody didn’t respond, the vet added, ‘It must be kept off the streets. I can put it down now, easily and quickly. I won’t charge you.’
‘No, I’ll try to set it right.’
The vet gave an ‘as you wish’ shrug and asked Moody to hold the dog while he finished the examination. Moody was relieved to receive a perfect bill of health for the dog. He had this written out for the benefit of the authorities to verify that he had been responsible for a fit and well, rabies-free animal. Even in the short time they had together, the dog had responded a little to Moody’s kindness and manner, especially when he was fed well.
‘At least he has stopped biting the hand that feeds him,’ Brooker observed.
‘For the first, and maybe last time.’
‘They’re not going to put it down, are they? Not with that vet’s report?’
‘I just don’t trust them.’
Moody had a sleepless night and got up on 9 March feeling depressed. He tried telling himself that this was the price that had to be paid for Horrie’s survival. At breakfast, Brooker noticed Moody’s melancholy.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve become attached to the little mutt already?’ he asked, looking around at the dog.
Moody didn’t respond.
‘Look, Moods, you know it’s for the greater good.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Think of it this way, the fella at the pound said this animal was “for the firing squad” on Monday or Tuesday. The vet wanted to kill it off at the surgery. You’ve at least given it a couple of chances of a reprieve.’
‘Won’t help if Mr Wardle puts him down.’
‘Has he replied to your letter?’
‘No. That’s what is making me nervous.’
It was another dry, sultry day and Moody was determined to take the dog in on his own. Brooker wanted to come with him for moral support.
‘No,’ Moody told him, ‘they’ll only become suspicious and you’d be implicated further.’
‘But my picture was in the paper with him!’ Brooker protested.
‘That was a few weeks ago. Circumstances have changed.’
Moody, wearing a suit and tie, asked Brooker to take a photo of him walking to his car with the leashed dog, ‘just for the record.’
‘And maybe posterity,’ Brooker said, securing the shot. Then he hailed a neighbour to take a shot of him and Moody with the dog.
‘Why do you want to be in the shot?’ Moody asked.
‘Solidarity. The Rebels are with you all the way.’
Moody was touched. They shook hands.
When Brooker ushered a despondent Moody into the Rebels’ surprise party for him on the night of Monday March 12, there was a real surprise: Horrie. The dog clawed at his thigh. Moody was overwhelmed. He held back tears as first Gill, then Fitzsimmons, Harlor, Shegog and Featherstone pressed forward to shake hands. Horrie had never been more energised. He bounced around the group, more pleased than any of them to be with his ‘family’ again.
With a beer in one hand, Moody shook his head and asked Brooker: ‘Why isn’t he at Cudgewa? I thought he was on his way, or at least there by now!’
‘There was a delay in arranging a lift. I didn’t want to worry you about it. Then I heard most of the boys would be in Sydney by now. So I asked that he be held back.’
‘But … that’s so dangerous!’
‘Not now,’ Gill said with a grin, ‘Horrie is dead, remember? Brains blown out courtesy of our compassionate government.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Moody said, ‘don’t bloody remind me!’
Gill raised a glass and pointed to Horrie: ‘To Horrie!’ They all saluted him, and cried in chorus, ‘the Mighty Aussie War Dog!!’ Horrie loved the attention. He barked and trotted around the lounge room, much to the glee of the group.
‘He’s still in danger,’ Moody half-protested.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Gill said, putting an arm around his shoulder, ‘I’ll escort Horrie to Eddie Bennetts’ farm myself.’
‘I want to do it,’ Moody said.
‘You can’t, mate, and you know it. The whole country has seen your photo in all the papers every day for weeks! If you are seen anywhere with Horrie, the game will be up. He’ll really be dead meat.’
‘And you, good Private Moody, Mr AWL, will be in jail,’ Brooker added, tapping him on the chest.
‘You’re right,’ Moody conceded, picking up Horrie and cuddling him. ‘You and I won’t be seeing each for a couple of months.’
In a ceremonial act, Horrie was presented with a massive bone, even bigger than the one he had been given in Palestine by the ever-grateful Barry the Butcher. To everyone’s mirth, Horrie could hardly drag it. He saw the joke and was not offended. He just barked and wagged his tail. Then he settled down to gnaw on it where it was, his tail a constant reminder that he was enjoying himself on every imaginable level at this ‘family’ affair.
‘You’ll have to build a huge slit trench for this one, Horrie boy,’ Fitzsimmons said, pretending to attempt to lift the bone as if it weighed a tonne.
The Rebels drank on, fuelled by stories of all their adventures. Someone asked about Murchison. Horrie pricked up those magnificent ears at the mention of his name. He circled the room, looking up at the Rebels.
‘He remembers!’ Shegog said. ‘The little devil remembers!’
‘Yeah well, Murchie made an impression on all of us,’ Brooker said, and then, addressing the others, asked: ‘Anyone heard anything about him?’
‘Last I knew, he was in Java,’ Harlor said. ‘I’ve got a mate in 2/3 who said Murchie landed there with a forward contingent in February ’42. A month later he was listed MIA.’
The room went quiet. Brooker poured himself another beer.
‘I’ll believe Murchie got knocked when someone tells me he witnessed it, not just the government saying he is missing,’ he said. ‘I’d want to know that his body was identified properly. Otherwise I’ll never believe it. Murchie is a survivor. And he is just the type to disappear and start a new life somewhere.’
‘Thousands of blokes are missing,’ Fitzsimmons said.
‘Thousands?’ Gill said. ‘You mean tens of thousands.’
Thoughts about Murchison’s fate put the party in a sombre mood for a while. They drank on into the early hours of the next morning. Moody’s sense of guilt about the execution of the substitute dog was temporarily salved, especially when they all agreed with Brooker’s dictum: ‘It was for the greater good, so that Horrie, who saved every one of us, could be an Aussie dog!’
Brooker pointed to Horrie, who sat wagging his tail. His ears were erect for a moment in a way chillingly yet wonderfully familiar to them all. ‘To Horrie and a long, happy life as an Aussie dog! To Horrie!!’
The Rebels raised their glasses and responded in loud chorus: ‘To Horrie!!’