I remember a time my parents befriended neighbours they thought were compatible because they both had children of a similar age.
When you’re 12, there’s nothing remotely comforting about running around with groups of kids you don’t know, let alone those who are two years younger or older than you.
If you’re urged to set up a Monopoly board for a 10-year-old, you’re babysitting. If the “new friend” is 14, you’re the one being babysat.
At that age, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why they wouldn’t just leave me at home when they went in search of higher circles. Me and the dog, a record player, and a 15-inch black and white television. Bliss.
For some reason, my parents thought I’d burn the house down, be kidnapped, or sleepwalk off a ledge.
It’s true, our house did have a toaster. It had side levers which retracted. You put the bread onto the lever and shut it towards the heat, cooked one side, then the other.
It wasn’t rocket science. I did it every day, and wasn’t going to change my methods because I was home alone. The pop-up version of toasters hadn’t arrived yet, or maybe we couldn’t afford them. I’m not sure, but either way I wouldn’t yet be required to use a sharp object to wedge the crumpet out of the top of an electrical appliance.
My father left the keys to the Kingswood in the glove box, the house key was under the mat, and money sat overnight beside the empty milk bottles a couple of times a week.
Neighbours either side would poke their head out of the curtains if the dog so little as whimpered – not because they cared for their safety, rather because they were nosey. Chances of kidnapping were remote.
The gorge was about 4km away, although when you’re 12 it seemed a lot closer. We walked there a lot. I wasn’t prone to sleepwalking, but if the movies could be believed, it’s done at a much slower pace than wake walking. I wasn’t going to be falling off any ledges.
Which brings me to the moral of today’s story.
When taking Wags for a walk, I don’t want to be the parent who shoves him into the face of every other dog on the regular route.
“Say hello to the other dog. Be nice and say hello.” They’re well-meaning dog owners, doing what the trainers told them to do in order to “socialise” their animal.
You need to understand though, that my furry friend isn’t actually a dog. He’s a fluffy, four-legged person. He doesn’t want to talk to your dog and I’m not inclined to force him for the sake of being politically correct.
If he lets me know that he wants to continue with the charade, snort some phlegm, inhale some butt odour, or even run rings around an imaginary playground, I’ll let him.
If that was ever to happen, I’d happily make small talk with his new companion’s owner. We’ll discuss our breed, their ailments, their habits and their diet. We’ll do what it takes to provide our furry offspring the time it takes for the novelty to wear off.
I’ve promised Wags that I won’t be forcing him to socialise with the pug from down the road that happens to be owned by a high court barrister.
Sure, Wags, such a friendship may lead to the opportunity to sip the juices of a higher vintage of Tasmanian pinot, picked slightly late from carefully-nurtured 100-year-old vines.
But this is your walk, my friend. And I won’t sacrifice your distaste for the pug to be lured into self-interest. I’m just not that kind of guy.
Anyway, Wags, do you know where Wanda went?
Oh, that’s right. She’s down the road for a baby shower at the barrister’s place.
Come on, mate. It’s just you and me on the couch. We’ll watch that new show about farm dogs and dream about tree change.
It’s on high definition – way better than a repeat of the moon landing in greyscale.
