By quentin cockburn esq.

Dear reader I have a dog, he is a most genial fellow his name is George.  Strictly speaking the pet is not really mine, he was chosen by my children as an adorable ‘must be had puppy’.  I looked at the paws, and said, ‘this dog will be a giant’!  No-one listened, and now this big, gangly and effusive dog is mine.  The puppy stage has passed and George and I are best of friends, compatriots almost, as we enjoy doing all the thing that the children, and their mother disdain.  George likes walking, I like it too.  George likes riding, (well I ride, he runs) and George enjoys eating as much as I do, though I don’t share his relish for dead sheep, faecal material and coagulate goo, perhaps part animal, mineral or vegetable that he find on the side of the road.  George is an an enthusiast, and most appreciative.  Yet even I disdain his kisses, all slobbering and tongue slavering.  And his breath, part faecal matter, and a triumph of his sturdy immune system is not something I would willingly share with him.  But sharing most things is what it’s about.  Its a bonhomie, borne by genial mutual regard, with the occasional harsh word thrown in.  I believe it’s called discipline.

In Bendigo George accompanies me to the service station to get the papers.  In Melbourne George walks with me to the bakery and the newsagents.  I make sure to take the circuitous route, because George has this predilection for pissing on the fruiterers carefully and aesthetically laid boxes of ripened fruit.  He also likes to piss on the flash new pissoir the council has constructed on the corner, not really a pissoir, as that’s unsightly un-gentrified and common, but more a techno tardis for genteel turd, with a blue light, which antiseptically greets the new comer, and proclaims, like most of Fitzroy now, this site is clean, sterilised, devoid of bacteria or culture.  Most people are delighted to see George, and he returns their enthusiasm with a slobber, a wagging and a bark.  Sometimes he will greet the newcomer with unrestrained joy, and jump up gracing the individual with grubby paw prints.  What better way to demonstrate his affection.

But recently, as Fitzroy becomes more gentrified, and Bendigo more suburbanised I’ve noticed a change.  We all know what people say about owners and their dogs, they share the same personalities.  It would be self indulgent to proclaim George’s geniality as a consequence of is most affable owner, but recent events may confirm this observation.

Take, for instance, the lady in Scotchmer Street with the two Alsatians.  Upon meeting George they decided to rip his throat out, and as they, leashed, muzzled and delirious in their frustration, pinned George down, all awhile George retuning their anger with licks and wagging, their owner, a late middle aged lady screamed, “Cant you control that dog of yours!!”.  Or in Bendigo when the three Doberman, Pit Bull Mastiff crosses snarled and gnashed and threatened to kill kind George, the owners screamed, “Control that dog of yours”.  It’s an everyday occurrence nowadays, mad insular people, both presumedly Age or Herald Sun readers with hideously aggressive dogs, and their yearning, upon seeing George, free guileless and happy, to have him caged, muzzled, and stilled.  He has been castrated, but to take the every other bit of fun outta him, the joy of the everyday and the inconsequential seems unjust.  But, you see, these other dog owners don’t walk for fun, and their dog is a way of projecting their insecure lives into the street.  Streets are unsafe, and positively anarchic, especially when people are out there, unrestrained by their absence of insecurity and . . . actively enjoying themselves!