Fog a Dox Read Online Free

crook cricked into voice and soon set up such a drumming and insistent alarm that a fox’s eyes might pop right out of its head?
    Albert found himself laughing under his breath and Brim would glance up at him with mild reproof, burdened with her relentless vigil of looking after one, two … ah … and another one, two pups and one, two … ah … well, who cares, lotsa foxes. Do you know what it’s like, Albert, she seemed to say, having eyes in the back of your head? Watching this one tumbling around the fire and upsetting the billy? This one chasing butterflies and falling off a log? That one with its head stuck in a jam tin? That one, no two, trying to gang up on the choughs? It’s exhausting, that’s what, so you look after them if you think it’s that funny.
    But Albert had his own work to do, and plenty of it. Hard yakka. Splitting out the green posts, heavy and slippery with sap. But he had to admit the frivolous antics of the pups and cubs made the day go quickly.
    He was aware that other people might think him strange, being so fond of his animals and the bush creatures. All very well to go all dreamy and sooky watching the cubs being cleaned before bed, but what would other bushmen think? Foxes? The enemy. Some of them didn’t look at Brim very kindly, either, despite the fact she was the best dog from Combienbar to Wangarabell. No, what some of them saw was the dingo in her, the enemy. Some people could find enemies everywhere. All Albert saw were living creatures, little animals of innocence.
    He’d have to be careful when they got older and bolder, have to make sure they kept away from the other bushmen’s camps. The pups would be all right because there were plenty who knew Brim’s worth and any pup from her was sure to be sought after.
    Her first litter had hardly been weaned before rough-bearded bushmen and practical country women came to stand about Albert’s campfire to watch the pups, making their claim for one or the other depending on which they perceived would best meet their needs.
    Some wanted a good watchdog and so they looked for a bright eye and a keen bark; some wanted a bold dog who would be good around sheep and cows; the women often wanted a trainable dog, a pup that you could teach to leave the chooks alone and to let babies pull their ears and inspect their teeth.
    Mrs Carbone had a baby boy who, thinking the goat was his brother, wanted to see why he was wearing a ridiculous false beard, and, of course, ended up being butted head over heels into the chicken poo. Mrs Carbone knew any dog she brought home would have to tolerate close inspection with gentle patience.
    One of the bushmen kept his requirements to himself but chose the fattest and laziest pup out of Brim’s first litter. Cranky Dave kept himself to himself and his opinions were his own. People thought he was a grumpy old coot but in truth he was a shy man, and if he grunted at you when you said good morning it was because he flushed so red with embarrassment his lips were as useful for speech as an earthworm for a tent peg.
    â€˜That one,’ he told Albert at last.
    â€˜That one?’ Albert said, ‘well, that’s lucky isn’t it, Dave?’ Albert never used his nickname out of politeness and, to be honest, decency, because Dave wasn’t a bad bloke, just a bit quiet and serious. ‘That’s lucky indeed, old mate, because that’s the only one left.’
    â€˜I knew that,’ Dave grumbled, ‘but it’s the one I want.’ So he went off a happy man because he’d chosen a fat and happy pup. He figured that a fat pup would be the warmest and warmest was what he wanted. He secretly christened her Queenie, well Queenie Bush Bess Lovelock to be exact. He’d have to keep the full name a secret because Lovelock was Dave’s surname, and you’d have to keep that secret wouldn’t you? No-one knew about Lovelock, not