IT’S not embarrassing to me, but I do feel the poor dog gets ungainly looks when they find out his name is Wags.
We named him not knowing the Wiggles. Our children’s upbringing was more of the Romper Room, Mr Squiggle and Play School persuasion, before the time a band called the Cockroaches decided there was money to be made in children’s entertainment.
Regardless, I was walking Wags – the guilt of copyright infringement waivering over my head, not his – on Australia Day.
It was one of the more interesting “W-A-L-K”s we’d been on. Again, for me – not necessarily for him.
One of the houses we passed was playing Midnight Oil from its backyard while the waft of barbecued sausages made both our noses curl in an upward trajectory.
Anyone who lives in Logan will know, upon reflection, that Australia Day was a little wet. We started our “W-A-L-K” during a break in the weather, and no sooner than we were 10 feet from the front door, the drizzle kicked in.
Yet, like most Australia Days, it was steamy enough for us both to soldier on. Wags had found his first corner post, and I’ve got a rain jacket permanently moored on an old hat rack in the corner of the garage.
Wags often asks in his own way whether it’s okay to proceed, but he seems to do that when there’s little doubt he should.
On occasions such as these when I might be inclined to change my mind by asking for the covers to be brought out onto the pitch, Wags dives nose first into the nearest bush as if to say: “What are you going to do now, old man? You either take me back and towel me down now, or you allow me to empty my breakfast on somebody else’s lawn front lawn while you get a little water in your shoe.”
Besides, one of the neighbours from about a block away had just passed us in the street. If he can deal with poor conditions, I’m not backing out of a challenge.
It’s Australia Day, remember. We are born and bred on the thrust of a contest.
“Happy Australia Day,” he says as he pulls his dog away from the daisies I’d freshly planted at the corner of my yard. “You’ve done a wonderful job with your garden.”
No, wait. It’s miserable out here and I’m hyped for a contest. Diesel and Dust is reverberating across the nearest alleyways, and the snags are making me hungry.
Niceties are not what I need right now.
Then, as we make our way another couple of blocks, another house – one I like to say owns shares in the tattoo parlour – is singing along to “We are Australian”.
This time I wait to hear the next song. “Solid Rock”.
Wags is confused. That I’ve stopped, because it’s still raining. And that I’ve started singing a few of the words to these iconic songs.
It all got me thinking. What it means to be Australian. You see, the tattoo parlour investment pool is a little like the United Nations of ink. The cultures of at least four continents are represented, and here they are singing a beer-infused rendition of songs calling for indigenous land rights and unity.
I found myself getting a little emotional. If the dog wasn’t confused before, he’s now wondering why his elderly owner is crying on the corner of his neighbourhood street, sniffing snags and singing along with a bunch of tattooed multicultural mates.
Not my mates, but mates of each other. Therein lies some of the fulfillment.
Not a lot makes me cry, and I’ll usually only cry alone.
On this occasion, they weren’t tears of sadness or happiness or pain. They were tears of pride, grateful that I’d been allowed to grow up in a country which appreciates progress, and which is learning to celebrate diversity.
I think of a future generation which doesn’t think at all like me, which doesn’t draw on past experiences when it comes to acceptance of race or religion. Again, I am filled with joy represented by goose bumps on all four of my limbs.
If only one of those snags had landed in Wags’ mouth, we’d have both been feeling the same way.
