Arthur Stangerson was a lonely old man.

He leaned back in his wooden chair beside a roaring open fire, the flames flickering a warm, dancing light around the inside of his small, rickety house. He was unshaven, his face drooping with wrinkles, his clothes plain and torn. His dog, Missy, was curled in front of the warmth, looking up at him with her head between her paws. He was living a peaceful life now. It hadn't always been that way.

From his early days he had exhibited a natural reticent tendency. He grew up on a farm in Otago and in his early teens he worked as a local farm hand, meriting a reputation for industriousness, learning and earning enough so that when he was in his mid-twenties, full of life and future aspirations, he was able to purchase his own piece of dirt out in the back blocks of rural North Otago.

He had only been operating his small business venture for a few years when king and country called for his service. War had broken out in Europe for a second time in his short life-span and he eagerly enlisted in the forces, with all anticipation and pride deserving of a young man fighting for freedom. Even if he was killed, he knew he was doing the right thing.

He was wrong.

Soon after enlisting he joined the New Zealand battalions in Egypt, to be assigned to a landing force heading for mainland Italy. He received his first taste of war when they landed at a beach along the coast, machine gun fire sounding all around, seeing in the early morning haze men ahead being ripped apart, forcing the rest of them to clamber over dismembered bodies, blood pumping everywhere, calls for help coming from all quarters. They were ordered to advance and he and a fellow comrade of whom he had made brief acquaintance stayed together, avoiding the bodies that littered the bloodied ground. His companion went ahead, anxious to mount an impending obstacle, when a bomb exploded directly in front and in a flash of blinding light he glimpsed his friend being blown apart, before himself being flung backwards into a hollow.

He next remembered finding himself on the ground, heaving up the small amount of breakfast he had eaten to see that he was treading on another body, its head severed from the neck. With at least half of his company already killed, they heard a distinct call for retreat, the enemy's fire power proving too strong, remaining men having to wade their way through the mangled, unrecognisable remains of their former comrades. Bullets continued to rain down, piercing men on either side, men collapsing with a groan. Some were carrying those still alive, dragging them by the heels, throwing them over their shoulders, only to perish themselves in explosive booms that scarred the landscape.

Their landing boats were beginning to leave, bullets smacking into the water, whizzing past their heads. Some men entered the sea before him and pulled themselves up onto a vessel seconds before a blast slashed it apart, metallic debris and limbs shooting off in every direction. Thundering into where the rivers of blood met the sea, Arthur had to swim past floating mutilated bodies, wrestle his way through a rolling ocean that had patches of diluted blood like a moat around their contorted victims.

He finally managed to pull himself up onto a escaping vessel, to glance behind and see hundreds of other men trapped in between the sea and a barrage of gun fire and explosions. He looked away.

Later, it was discovered by the army doctor that a piece of metal had embedded itself into his leg, just above the knee and it was decided to remove the object. Without the necessary equipment for the operation the doctor went ahead nonetheless, with no anesthetic save a bottle of brandy and a handkerchief stuffed into Arthur's mouth to prevent him biting off his tongue. The operation lasted over twenty minutes, complicated by inadequate tools and heavy loss of blood.

His early return home was not received as warmly as he would have expected. His family were happy he was alive, but they had obtained news that his elder brother had distinguished himself in an unprovoked display of bravery, to then be shot down by retreating German forces. Arthur also learnt upon his arrival home that his girlfriend, who had promised to faithfully await his return, had left for the North Island soon after his departure for Europe, without any intentions of returning.

The war was a crushing blow. He was never the same, his reticence transforming into depressed isolation. He experienced emotional trauma over what he had seen and sought psychological assistance. His leg never fully returned to normal, from that time on walking with a slight limp, his pain aggravated by winter cold. Years later, a nurse took pity on him and after a brief courtship they decided to marry, to be divorced soon after their nineteenth anniversary. It was surprising it had lasted so long. They had lived separate lives, she concentrating on her nursing, he quickly becoming a recluse, alienated from the world he hated so much.

He could not tolerate modern life. He detested vehicles, automation, noise, masses of people, pollution. One trip into the town of Oamaru was as much as he could handle every few years and he would not spend any more than an hour or two there, eager to return home to their small farm in the country. After their bitter divorce, he bought a small piece of land as far away from everyone else as possible, with a few sheep, some cattle and an assortment of other animals. He grew his own vegetables, repaired his old hut's roof, his only contact with fellow humans being an occasional visit from a neighbouring farmer who checked up on him, giving him the latest news, informing him of his ex-wife's eventual death from cancer and his parent's passing away. Apart from that, he kept to himself, never going into town. He had only one friend: Missy.

He had been the proud owner of many different dogs throughout his lifetime, but Missy was something special. He received her as a pup many years after retiring to the hills. She was a herding dog, a black and white border collie and his one and only mate in the world. She was obedient to the point of sacrificing herself, hard working and as compassionate as any dog he had ever had the privilege to own. They would spend whole days together, he staggering across his land, a stick keeping him upright and Missy loyally trotting beside him, tail wagging, faithfully helping him muster his few sheep. She was his confidant, he speaking to her in soft tones as they sat, overlooking the rolling pastures, watching the sun slowly set behind an embankment of cloud, the sky transforming into brilliant, bubbling colour.

As darkness descended, Missy would lead him back home. She knew every inch of his property. He looked at her now, the way she continually watched him, ears twitching at every sound, her long coat shimmering with the light from the fire. A strong wind was getting up outside, his wooden hut creaking with every whistle and slowly Missy rose to her feet. They were both much older now, both at the time when death was just waiting around the corner. Parts of her hair were turning ghostly gray, especially around the mouth. Their days of work had long finished, he selling most of his animals. He didn't know how old she was now; hours, days, months and years were of no significance to him -he lived by the rising and setting of the sun.

Standing, Missy now came over to him and jumped up onto his knees as she had done since she was a pup. She gave an affectionate lick to his chin and then snuggled up. Even being as a big as she was, this was their routine, she lovingly lying on his lap while he drifted off to sleep. But, unfortunately, not tonight.

As the howling wind was gaining strength, there was a sudden cracking sound that echoed across the valley, ending in a loud, reverberating boom. Arthur apologised to Missy and put her back beside the fire and made for the door with his stick. After putting on his boots, coat and hat, he opened the door. As always, Missy loyally tagged along.

Outside, a storm was brewing. Specks of rain were darting through the air and before long, in the cold, blustery darkness of early evening, the rain was pelting down. Missy kept close to her owner's side, appearing unfazed by the storm they were pushing through. By the time they reached the dirt road that bordered his land, he wished he hadn't come. There was nothing to see, even though he was sure the noise had come from this direction.

It was then that he heard a low, droning noise. He swiveled around to see if he could discern the direction but failed with the wind screaming in his ears. He looked down to see that Missy had seated herself, keeping low to the ground, tired, her ears upright, listening to all the sounds, her hair flapping wildly in the wind. She watched as he crossed the road and stumbled down the other side. He could see something in the darkness.

"Damn power," he cursed. He could just make out the shadowy form of a power pole lying across the paddock. But that wasn't where the noise was coming from. He turned around and then saw two beams of light cutting through the dimness and heard the roar of a petrol motor. Looking across he could see Missy's ears pointed in his direction, listening, watching. He went to walk back to the road when his leg gave way and his other leg slipped into a muddy cavity, his stick falling out of reach. He gave a little yelp of pain and saw Missy's ears prick up even higher from across the road. He knew she would come for him and was about to call her when the sound of the car increased in volume, traveling far too fast. He went to shout "Stay!" but found he was without breath, his words sucked out of his mouth.

He knew Missy, like him, didn't like cars.

When Missy got up onto her legs, her acute senses, ears, eyes and smell were all focused on her troubled owner, oblivious to the impending danger. Arthur watched helplessly as his dog began loping across the dirt road and he mustered up all his breath and wheezed a "Missy! Quick!" knowing in his heart it was too late.

The headlights momentarily illuminated his dog's running figure and then, in a thundering flash of light the vehicle slammed across the road, catching Missy's tail end and shunting her into the air, her limp, fragile body twisting and turning and then whacking into the ground with a sickening thump, skidding into the undergrowth at the side of the road.

Arthur shouted "No! Please no!" into the night, only to hear his voice yell back at him in the dust of the passing vehicle, its engine fading into the darkness.

He collapsed in the mud and crawled his way to his stick and then struggled to his feet. Staggering through the drenching rain he limped along the road and could just see a black rounded lump in the grass, hair wafting in the wind. He was in a state of shock, unable to speak or think. He reached forward and carefully took his dog in his arms, she rolling over, her head tilting up to reveal eyes slowly opening. She had the look of intense pain mixed with affection for her owner, her eyes distant and small, sad in their discomfort. She was muddy and wet and he tried to comfort her, swallowing, mumbling a few words. He couldn't say anything more, his mouth was curling up, his eyes filling with tears.

He could feel Missy's old body, lightweight, bony, quick small intakes into her winded lungs. She was still looking at him as tears began flowing down his cheeks uncontrollably. Missy was everything to him. He couldn't let her go like this. Slowly and steadily he began carrying her along the road towards town, limping, the rain soaking them, the wind driving against their path. He knew he couldn't make it, his legs folding up underneath him on every step. But he had to try.

Then, he heard the car again, coming the other way, its lights casting brilliance upon the saturated surface beneath his weaving feet. The car finally pulled up along side, splashing mud and screeching noisily to a halt. A man inside wound down his murky window, music thumping. He looked like a business man, in a suit, with a cell phone in his hand.

"D'you know where Wilson's farm is?" he said, his voice merging with the rattling motor, the pounding rain on the roof and the swaying windscreen wipers. Arthur slowly shook his head, avoiding eye contact, rain dripping off his wide brimmed hat.

"Well ... I'm sure it's here some place. Anyhow, how 'bout I give you a ride. Hell of night for a walk." Arthur refused his offer in the same way and began to walk on. "Are you sure?" the driver said," Oh, well. Have it your way."

The man wound up his window and drove on, shaking his head.

Arthur didn't even watch the car leave or watch its tail lights disappearing into the horizon. He was looking at his dog. Missy had closed her eyes. Her breathing was slowing until it was hardly discernible. He knew this was it, her life force slowly draining.

The man in the car drove with his elbow as he dialed up a number on his cell phone. As he waited for a response, he glanced in his rear vision mirror at the strange man, with his dog, fading into the darkness. "Damn crazy farmers," he said.

The man never saw that Arthur had stopped and was crouching down over his dog, lying her in the grass, stroking her, weeping. He never saw how Arthur had then knelt beside her, speaking softly, looking through rivers of tears as his best friend's head rested into the grass, her body now still, the black and white hair swaying in the wind.

The man in the car just kept on driving, peering through his wet windscreen in between swipes of the wipers, music blearing through the radio as he impatiently whistled for someone to answer his call.

Even the next day, when the sun once more shined brightly, he did not listen as a report from the local radio station informed that a farmer had discovered an old man lying at the side of the road, his dead dog in his arms. No attempts at resuscitation were made, the man pronounced dead at the scene.

The man in the car just kept on driving, talking to his wife on the phone about how beautiful a day it was.