Tipping Point
This seemed about right to Annie. Abscesses were a messy pain to treat, but she was familiar with the process.
“Look, we’re closed tomorrow . . .”
“Of course, Australia Day.”
“Bring him in on Friday, nothing to eat after 8 p.m. Thursday, and take his water away at midnight.”
“Okay. See you then.”
Australia Day began beautifully. Annie had “camped” in her nearly completed home. She woke to the hallelujah chorus of birds praising a glorious calm morning. They accompanied Annie and Spud as they walked the familiar tracks near home.
“Come on Spud.” They were nearly home; it hadn’t been a long walk, but Spud seemed tired. He was not bustling ahead as he loved to do, sniffing the bush newspaper. (A wombat was here last night!)
“What’s the matter mate?” The dog caught up to where Annie was waiting, wagged his tail and leaned into her pat. “That abscess bothering you?”
She walked more slowly home, Spud at her heels all the way.
It was at lunchtime that she realised something was very wrong. Spud had not seemed hungry at breakfast, but had eaten out of the principle of the thing. Now, she offered him a morsel of cheese from her salad which he took very gently from her, holding it in his front teeth, then pausing before dropping the delicacy on the floor in front of him.
Spud watched the favourite treat and began to drool. After thirty seconds or so he reached down to pick up the food, but after mouthing it briefly he dropped it again.
“Oh Spud, mate, is it that bad?”
Annie tidied up after lunch. With a bit of luck the workmen would be back tomorrow to finish the skirting boards; the painting was now complete.
When Spud struggled to jump into the back of the car, Annie was worried. When they arrived back at their temporary home she lifted him out to save him the indignity of landing badly.
She bustled about for a time, setting the house in order, then she reached for her walking shoes. “What dya think, Spud? Time for a walk?”
He stayed in his bed and watched as Annie put on her shoes. When she went to the door he put his head on his paws and made no attempt to get up.
“Oh mate!” said Annie, walking over and sitting on the floor next to the creature who had been her unfailing companion for the last ten years. She stroked his head, afraid.
She sat there until the sun began to set, then she stretched, gave Spud a hug and got up to begin the evening rituals of food and recreation: reading, writing, watching TV.
When she gave Spud a light evening meal he stood over it and drooled. But he couldn’t eat.
“I’m glad you’re going to the vet in the morning, mate.”
She pulled his bed over to the couch so that he was comfortable and close, her hand resting on his head as she watched an old movie. She could not settle to do anything else, and somehow time seemed precious.
Arriving at the vet’s on Friday afternoon, Annie was clear about what was happening – Ben’s phone call had been as gentle as was possible. Surgery had revealed that Spud had a particularly aggressive cancer in his throat. It could not be removed or fixed. It could only get worse.
She waited for Spud in the examination room. He clattered in pulling Ben behind him on the other end of a lead, disinfectant odours wafting in from the surgery. Annie tried to hug the dog as he greeted her, but as soon as Ben let go of the lead Spud went and stood firmly at the door Annie had come through. He wanted to go home.
That was the way it worked. You might have to stay at the vet’s and they were nice enough people, but it was the vet’s and a dog would just rather be home, wouldn’t he?
The school year began in a blur, but somehow Annie made it to Friday afternoon. A message on her phone told her that she would have a certificate of occupancy by the end of next week, and should start thinking about packing up and moving.
“Good one. We finally get to go home, eh Spud?”
This is how the dead haunt us. Surprising us by not being there when they really should be. When the tears had subsided, Annie went to her desk and pulled out her battered journal.
“He’s been dead over a week now. He was one of the best . . . Words fail me. He was a good dog. A true and noble companion.
I have put away his bed and toys, where they won't catch my eye and jolt me with grief. It's still hard coming home to find him not here. I keep looking for him, forgetting he's not there to pat or care for, praise and prattle to. "What dya think Spud? Time for a walk?" Just one last walk. Please.
I'm glad it was quick. On Wednesday's visit, about the lump in Spud's throat, the vet booked him in for Friday. Australia Day was my last day with my loyal companion. He stood over food, unable to eat or drink now, his tongue suddenly distorted in his mouth. He was in pain.
While the vet gave him the overdose I hugged and praised my old friend. “It’s all right mate. We’ll go home soon. Ben just has to give you something to make the pain go away.” He must have wondered why I was so sad.
As Spud went limp and fell from my arms I wanted to scream out to Ben, "No! I've changed my mind. I don't want him to die!" But it was too late.
How final, how unfixable, death is. Whether it is a dog, or a person, or a species, or a planet. This wonder-full planet; this life of diversity, challenge and joy; these peoples of such courage: are we beyond the point of no return?
Is it too late?
Chapter Five: Tipping Point
Hundred decibel sulphur-crested cockatoos were screeching in the treetops, complaining in the soft breeze. Sunlight bounced off the ripples in the surface of the Murray River. At the water’s edge the current swirled back on itself, the curve of the bank forming a pocket where water flowed contrary to the river, swollen by late summer rains. In this oily maelstrom tiny eddies became small whirlpools that fought against the broad river for a time before they lost their energy and the dimples flattened out, joining the river’s insistent flow.
Annie had not intended to go anywhere this long weekend. Then she had found herself packing; a change of clothes, a spare book, some tins of baked beans. When she hesitated over packing Spud’s bed she finally understood what she was doing. She needed to get away from the presence that was haunting her.
When school finished on Friday afternoon she climbed into a car that was already packed, and began driving. This time she headed inland. With so little time, only three days, she would not be able to reach a beach that would not remind her of Spud, chasing seagulls and standing knee-deep in the waves. So she headed north, trying to ignore the voices that told her she was using too much petrol, and found herself on the banks of the Murray.
Down-river, away from the camping area, the river banks were greener. As she walked into isolation the birds were patterning the air above her with their calls. Choughs piped to each other, hopping about, scavenging in the undergrowth. There was a burst of mad squawking as galahs swerved through the bush, hooning their way from one place to another. Small bush birds whistled and chimed, plovers called to each other and she could hear the karking of ravens, gentle in the distance.
Annie stopped at a small beach on a bend in the river. Gnarled river red gums leaned over the water, shading a muddy beach that was slick with silt from the unexpected floods. Leaves stirred in the breeze, dangling, dancing, murmuring.
A sudden mooing startled her. Behind her were stray cows, come down to the river to drink. Belligerent mothers watched her with suspicion as their calves stared at her with curiosity.
She looked about her, checking that Spud wasn’t going to chase the cows. Then she climbed the bank, away from the cows, wiping at the tears that blinded her, fighting the grief that had crushed her chest and choked her.
Back at camp, Annie buried herself in a book. It was always a good way to keep from obsessing over thoughts that did not help. As the sun moved lower in the sky she stirred some vegetables together over the flame of her c
amp stove, mixing a tin of beans through for flavour and protein, then ate her simple meal as the sun set.
When she had cleaned up, Annie sat on the banks of the Murray, watching the half-moon rising above the treetops. It was a quiet evening; the breeze had dropped, leaving the campsite calm in the moonlight. Frogs had taken over from the birds, croaking their many-pitched chorus, the trilling of the small frogs set against the base-line of the booming bullfrogs. On the other side of the river she could hear an owl calling, seeking a mate, “Boobook! Boobook!”
The sounds made her feel as though she might have been at home. Then a generator sputtered into life to her left (Campers who needed to watch TV!) and the similarity to home became uncanny.
“Geez, Davo’s genny’s getting a bit loud, isn’t it?” she said. Only Spud wasn’t there to hear.
“It’s so final, death, isn’t it? Once you’re dead there’s no second chance. You can’t come back.”
And the thought that had nagged at her since Spud’s death refused to go away. The Earth will die if you don’t do something! Don’t let it happen! Do something!
“But what?” Annie asked the riverbanks and frogs.
There were organisations all over the world dedicated to protecting the environment, many of them powerful and capable of changing government decisions; yet global warming continued. Extreme weather events, coral bleaching, pollution and destruction. The environment continued to suffer.
“People have to change.” But why would they? The media that had infiltrated western life urged them to consume. It was good for their self-esteem, kept the economy healthy and they really needed the latest gadget to replace that last one that was soo yesterday!
“How do you change people?”
In the peace of the bush Annie usually slept well. Tonight was different. Her bed was comfortable but her mind was not. Tender moonlight dappled the roof of her tent with shifting leaves as frogs croaked their lullaby. But thoughts of Spud and fear for the future chased through her brain. Sleep came in restless snatches.
Strange glimpses of dreams danced out of Annie’s reach when the sun rose. The only image that persisted was one that made her smile at the roof of her tent, glowing pink with the dawn.
She could see herself clearly. She was walking down a city street, the crowds moving aside to let her pass, many of the people laughing or scornfully pointing her out. The sandwich boards that Annie carried in this vision said, “Repent! The end is nigh!” quite clearly on the front. The back, quite firmly, insisted, “Change your ways – or face damnation!”
Lying in the tent, sleepy from her restless night, Annie chuckled at the shifting ceiling. She idly wondered whether the picture of herself was a dream or a vision. The idea that she might be a mad prophet was appealing. The looks on the faces of the crowds reminded her of her friends, who would sometimes glaze over when she waxed too passionate, expressing her views about the state of the environment and the need for effective action.
“And the mad part is probably right,” she decided, before she crawled from her sleeping bag and out into the chorus of birdsong that greeted the new day.
Annie tried to believe that she was useful in the classroom, but as the days plodded on a voice kept crying, “What are you doing to save the world?” More insistent every day, she was increasingly outraged. The luxury she lived in was bought at the expense of the destruction of the planet.
“This is crazy!”
The home around her was modest, but the television ran on power that was creating greenhouse gases; the technology she used was based on minerals and industry that exploited and polluted; the food in the cupboards was encased in unnecessary packaging while in the middle of the Pacific Ocean an ever-increasing raft of plastic waste was choking the seas, murdering wildlife. And the voices did not respect her grief as she mourned her lost companion.
You’re using too much toilet paper, killing trees.
Reading the newspaper for professional reasons? That’s just an excuse! Everyday papers use ridiculous amounts of paper and energy, just for something that gets thrown away. Wasteful. Evil.
The internet’s no better. Add together all the energy that people use every day for entertainment (and at work where computers are left running all day). Then there’s the massive servers that operate 24/7. And what about the physical resources, energy, precious metals and plastic, not to mention energy and pollution caused by manufacture of devices that are obsolete six months after they are produced. Well, we all have to have a new one, don’t we? It’s insane.
You’re better off without a dog, anyway. The environmental impact of a pet dog is greater than that of a car, you know!
Like most of the Western world, Annie knew that she lived a lifestyle of great privilege. She need never go hungry in her generation of increasing life-spans. Any-one who worked could surround themselves with the common-place luxuries of television and computer, coffee-machine and dishwasher. But instead of gratitude she felt guilt.
Then, on a day like any other, Annie watched the news as she ate her evening meal. She growled and made noises of disbelief as the latest political stoush was described, complete with footage from parliament as leaders insulted each other, more concerned with political point-scoring than making decisions that would benefit the nation. The overseas news was of clashes between protesters and police in Egypt, missiles being fired over the border between Gaza and Israel, and murder in America. Annie tried not to be overwhelmed by despair – surely this was the same news she had seen a year ago, or the year before that!
Then came the report titled “Time Bomb”.
The presenter was serious and professional as she introduced the segment. “A new report is warning that methane leaking from the arctic permafrost is far greater than previously thought. Scientists say it stores twice the amount of carbon than is currently in the atmosphere. As environment reporter Sarah Clarke reports, if that’s released it has dire implications for the planet.”
“It covers a quarter of the northern hemisphere,” said Sarah as a camera shot panned over muddy Arctic ice fields, “but scientists now believe the permafrost, or the ground cover of ice, is warming faster than they thought.”
The view, which had changed to a scientist digging in thawing mud, now switched to Kevin Schaefer, standing at a podium backed by a soothing blue background.
“Observations indicate the permafrost has already begun to thaw, and the temperature of the permafrost has begun to rise.” A chart appeared briefly in the background, headed “The Permafrost Carbon Feedback”, and listing three main points: “amplifies surface warming; irreversible; emissions for centuries”.
The environment reporter continued. “Addressing the United Nations Climate Change Conference 2012, these scientists are spelling out the implications. If the thaw of the deep layer of frozen soil accelerates, it could release huge amounts of carbon dioxide and methane that have been held in the sub-soil for thousands of years.”
The view returned to the suited scientist, “Thawing permafrost can impact global climate, and the reason is . . .” Annie felt a rising panic as Mr Schaefer reeled off the statistics that were meaningless to her. He concluded, “That’s roughly twice the amount of carbon that’s currently in the atmosphere.”
A series of shots now began which showed polar villages surrounded by mud and streams of thaw water. The images were of destruction, houses damaged or sliding downhill as their foundations melted away beneath them. Sarah Clarke continued, “These regions across Alaska are already feeling the heat. As the ice cover melts, homes are at risk, as well as rail lines and infrastructure.”
Kevin Schaefer began talking about a specific location, ending by informing the viewer, “The village literally fell into the ocean.”
The reporter took over. “As the UN debates ways to limit the global temperature increase to two degrees Celsius, it’s keen to remind nations that until now the
hazards of warming permafrost haven’t been factored into the equation.”
A different scientist now appeared. Keith Alverson did not speak as confidently as his colleague. The sound bite was brief, but somehow made more chilling by its presenter. This was obviously a scientist, not a public speaker. “Neither the scientific community, nor UNEP and its gap report, nor the IPCC, have fully accounted for the potential positive feedback of enhanced greenhouse gases from permafrost melting. So this is a challenge . . .”
Her food forgotten, Annie stared at the screen. These were new findings, something that had not been considered in the current predictions about global warming. “It’s worse than they thought,” she moaned.
The news article ended with the graphic picture of an Alaskan house sliding into the melting ice and the reporter’s serious voice. “It’s a challenge, with scientists warning that emissions from permafrost could eventually account for up to forty per cent of the planet’s total greenhouse gases.”
Nausea stole Annie’s appetite.
Annie dreamed.
She was in her home, but when she walked out the door the ground was scorched and still burning in places. Smoke obscured her vision. When she reached a road (past a car, forever burning) she saw blighted fields, crops dying in the heat. On the road people surged, refugees. They reached out to Annie, their palms covered with sores, weeping pus.
“There is no food. How shall we live?”
She ran from the grasping horde, tripping and landing in a plain of bones. Thylacine and dodo, polar bear and orang-utan. In the distance the horizon shimmered, a nuclear mushroom cloud that forced Annie to close her eyes.
Barking. Over there! Annie struggled towards the sound, wading through rotting corpses. A current passed through the gruesome lake and she realized she was being swept towards a rapidly approaching horizon. She cried out when a distant black dog disappeared over the edge into chaos.