Bobby the Ute and Frederick headed down the dust spluttered road looking for the fishing spot they found last year. Bobby was sure it was just south of Exmouth, but Frederick reckoned it was closer to Onslow. Anyway, none of this really mattered at the moment because they were still on the inland road, where the dust and heat and mulga trees attracted flies, not fish.

 

Bobby grrrrd along. He didn’t mind hard work. In fact, if there was a good reason for going somewhere, like fishing or camping, he would just rev up and go. Sometimes if the going was really tough he would puff out a few chugs of black smoke, like the time when Frederick took him way into the Malimup sand dunes. They’d been fishing then, too, but were low on supplies and had to get back to the camp. His tyres had been let right down, his engine was hot and there were four k’s of boggy dunes to cross before they were back on hard ground. Bobby revved and toiled, sweated and pushed all the way. The hills with sharp bends were the hardest. He would be flat tack climbing when he would need to suddenly change direction – while maintaining power – in order to get over the crest. That was when the smoke would blow. Just when he thought his hoses were about to burst he’d reach the top. Man that was hard work. Then Frederick would drop the revs and they’d cruise down the other side. Crikey. Bobby was thankful that that didn’t happen too often, but secretly he was also proud that he knew he could do the hard yards when needed. Frederick was proud too.

 

Now they were blowing through the orange dust of the outback. Frederick had the window down and one hand on the wheel, eyes half closed keeping out the heat and the glare. Bobby was in cruise mode too. Engine drumming that consistent, long haul beat.

 

“Whoa!” cried Frederick as he plunged on the brakes. Bobby tried to swerve but stuck out his right bull bar to protect himself as he ground to a sudden halt – Thud! He hit the roo’s thigh before he could stop. It didn’t make a sound, just winced at the last moment when he knew it was too late. He got up, stumbled, fell down. Got up, fell down, tried to get up but all he could do was kick at the ground.

 

Frederick got out and slowly walked towards the roo. Bugger. He looked at the roo and the roo looked back, more frightened than in pain. Frederick knelt down and surveyed the situation. Looked like a broken leg. The roo knew the situation. He was in it deep. Frederick looked at the roo with sympathy, “Well, can ya talk?”.

 

“Course I can talk!” cranked the roo, “It’s just that you guys can't understand it, that’s all!”

“In that case I may as well just shoot ya, then eat ya,” laughed Frederick. The roo looked at Frederick in amazement.

“Don’t annoy ‘im,” said Bobby, “’e probably will.” The roo gave three sharp, sudden kicks as he realised it was Bobby talking, yelped as much in fear as in pain, and passed out.

“It’ll make it easier to get him on the back anyway,” Frederick said to Bobby as he hauled himself up. “No road sense these roos.”

 

Bobby had parked in the shade and Frederick had splinted the roo’s leg and poured some water into an enamel dish by the time he came ‘round. His feet were tied because Frederick knew from experience that the first thing he would try to do would be jump off the back and that could do some real damage.

 

Sure enough, the roo was still only half conscious when it tried to jump up.

“Sorry, you ain’t goin’ anywhere,” said Frederick. The roo looked at him with mouth half open. All he could manage was, “….aaarrrrr…”.

“What’s yer name?”

“…arr…umm…Ti-Tigger,” stuttered the roo.

“Funny name for a kangaroo.”

“Yeah…umm…Winnie the Pooh…Tigger”.

Frederick stopped what he was doing and squinted at Tigger, “A leap before you look sort of Tigger?”

“Yeah,” said Tigger sheepishly, “somethin’ like that…”.

“How old are ya?”

“’bout four,” answered Tigger.

“Four?!!” shouted Frederick, “You should know better than jumping straight out onto roads by the time yer four! How the heck did ya live to be four?!!”

“Track,” said Tigger.

“What?”

“It’s a track. Roads are bigger and usually grey or black. And they’ve got lines painted on them.”

“Glad to know you know about roads,” said Frederick eyeing Tigger’s broken leg. Tigger went quiet and moped.

Frederick made himself some lunch and refuelled Bobby from the jerry cans on the back. It was time to get going. There was still a day and a half of driving before they reached their fishing spot – if they could find it.

“What are we gonna do with you?” asked Frederick, looking at Tigger. Tigger just shrugged. “Ever been fishin’?”

“What’s fishing?” asked Tigger.

“You know, catchin’ fish with a fishin’ rod.”

“What’s a fish?”

Bobby couldn’t help letting out a chuckle. Frederick smiled, “looks like you’re comin’ fishin’, then.” Tigger looked confused. “Now don’t try to jump of the back,” said Frederick, “we’ll look after you until you’re better.”

With that, Frederick shunted Tigger onto a makeshift bed that he had made out of some old wool packs. That would make the ride a little more comfortable. Bobby revved up and they were gone, a trail of orange dust fading up into the bright blue sky.