The chocolate lab puppy is bringing the street together.
By day it sits behind its fence and whines. And pines. All day it cries at being left alone.
My heart is quietly breaking for the poor little pooch. For at least the first minute I am feeling sorry for it, wishing I could share an ice-cream with it, or something revolting like that. It does not take long, however, for my innate dog-hating streak to come to the fore.
It’s never going to give me any peace, I begin to think of the demonic puppy. She is intent on destroying my day.
The neighbours, however, must be mad about dogs. Crackers, I reckon. They’re constantly trudging over to play with Lily. A few have adopted her out of the goodness of their hearts, or perhaps they cannot tolerate the whine, which quickly becomes as annoying as the reversing truck noise. They tuck her under their arms and carry her back to their own yards to throw plastic toys around.
It’s all very cosy.
Babies have less community value, I am sure. Toddlers with blonde riglets and skipping ropes do not get as much attention as Lily is courting.
So, what is it about dogs that turns grown men into apple strudel?
My mate Michelle is mad about her canines, a love I have certainly never shared. She calls her chihuahua, Baloo, the Love of her Life. I recall one horrible night Michelle camped in my bed and Baloo had to come to. It almost killed me, all the scratching and licking. It still pains me to think of that fitful night and the trouble I had washing the sheets.
She reckons Baloo can read her moods. He licks away her tears and give her cuddles on the rainy days.
Eww, I think.
And her new dog, Romy, is not much better. The Sh*t Dog, I call it. And it is definitely not a well-behaved little girl. I keep telling her that the menace would be better off living at the Pound than pissing all through her house, but apparently there is some sort of loving attachment there.
Frankly, I struggle with the loving dogs thing.
My brother’s border collie, Sasha, she is a very cool dog. I even enjoy throwing a stick at her and watching her dump it hundreds of metres up the beach. I get another stick and repeat.
It’s a game I tire of long before she does.
This aversion of mine does bother me. Often I wonder if I missed the dog-loving chromosome. Maybe I was bitten by a beast as a child. I do blame my parents for taking the cat route when I was young, although I have no love for cats either.
The problem is more serious when I scratch the surface. Perhaps I am still single because all of my boyfriends are turned off by my anti-dog stance. The lads’ dreams of weekends at the beach throwing sticks to wet dogs are dashed when I reveal my true colours. Sometimes I can see the moment they stop looking at me as a potential mate and start seeing me as a callous, heartless hater of man’s-best-friend.
I am considering taking on a puppy when I move to Charleville. A strong burly dog would go well with the broad-brimmed hat and boots. I could even teach it to jump in the back of the ute. Oh, and there is the romantic streak of mine, just hanging out a few streets away from Reality.
If my puppy had the Lily-effect I would have the new neighbours eating out of my palm in no time.
Although, according to my brother, if I get a dog from the Pound I cannot take it back in a year when I am done with it and ready to go overseas again. And the thing would probably have a whine just like Lily’s.
My brother suggested a goldfish may be a better option. How condescending! True, but condescending.
Still, I reckon I can learn to love a pooch. I have to, surely, if I am ever to pin down a bloke.
And perhaps the bark is worse than the bite.