Walking The Dog

Bruno and I get a coffee cnr Bell Street and Brunswick Street at the hole in the wall coffee shop. There is girl presumably waiting for her coffee with a staffy that she seems to be telling to stay calm, repeatedly, so I have a tight grip on Bruno, who would just naturally head over and sniff noses, if allowed. I get my coffee and my small jug of milk and turn for my table when Bruno unexpectedly takes off across the sitting area and the small jug of milk empties its contents all over my watch, which has a froth snow man on top of it, and up my arm like it was intentionally coated. Grrrr! At which point the chick with the staffy gets her coffee and leaves. 

Now you leave, I think. 

So, then I can just let go of Bruno’s lead and clean myself up and he just stands next to me. As I would have let go of his lead to negotiate getting the coffee and the milk to the table, if little-miss-lousy-dog-training hadn’t been present.

I realise that I like taking Bruno for walks in the morning on my days off, and the days I am fighting with my boyfriend, which today and yesterday were one and the same thing, as it is kind of therapeutic. Music on, sun shining. (Otherwise, it is always with Sam in the afternoon)

It is like we are venturing out on our own, making our own decisions, and way in life, seeing what we can see in the world, with coffee stops today and yesterday to delay the time getting home.

Bruno just naturally turns into the big pet warehouse towards the end of our walks, because he knows that is where he gets treats. I get him to drink out of the communal water bowl and then he lies down on the cool concrete and looks me in the eye with, okay, I’m done attitude.

That chick is back at the coffee shop seats on the cnr. Yesterday when Bruno and I were avoiding going home, we stopped for a coffee on the otherwise vacant chairs outside. As soon as I’d got my macchiato with a jug of warm milk on the side, she came and sat on the adjacent chairs and yapped into her phone, destroying the peace and solitude. 

She didn’t buy anything from the café and I was tempted to say to her, “Since you are sitting here not having purchased anything from this establishment, do you think could you please go somewhere else and live out your life’s drama.” But I didn’t. I wanted to.

She still doesn’t look as though she has bought anything today. I guess there could be an argument made for the big park type table being a public seating space, which she is sitting on today. Yesterday, she was sitting at the tables and chairs the coffee shop puts out.

I wondered why she has picked this particular establishment? Why come here and not, at least, buy a coffee. I don’t know? She doesn’t look happy, in her track pants that look like leggings, her tie-dyed oversized t-shirt that, well, she might as well be wearing horizontal stripes, and her blond hair pulled up on top of her head which could only be describe as a hay bale explosion. She didn’t sound happy yesterday from what I could hear of her conversation before I put the music back on on my headphones and drowned her out.

Further up the street, cnr of Condell, by the new flats, I see an old guy with a stick, who waits perfectly still, with fear in his eyes, for Bruno and I to walk past before he continues to hobble down the street. I look back, as his bandy legs struggle to take him across the side street and onto the footpath on the other side. He is so unsteady on his feet, I fear for him.

Imagine being that frail that you couldn’t really walk down the street just as a matter of course. If I couldn’t just walk down the street at will, if I could no longer do the things I now take for granted, I’m not sure how much I’d want to be here.

Why couldn’t you use ‘tired of life’ for a reason to avail yourself of euthanasia services, it always puzzled me? Why would some people, want to continue with life when they no longer have the basic ability to walk down the street without the fear of falling over, or failing in some other way? Imagine not being able to leave your house without supervision? 

I mean, who is it that has inflicted their own ideas on the rest of us to deny us such a right? Yes, who is it that took that away just to justify their own beliefs? Do you want to guess who that was? I shook my head at the thought of those sanctimonious types.

Imagine not being able to wipe your own arse? And being denied deliverance from such a degenerative state just because someone else believes in the ramblings of 2000 year old illiterate goat herders, I ask you.

Bruno steps into, what is on him, knee deep puddles in the gutter, and nearly disappears. He walks through the entire length coming out with muddy residue up his legs, and I forget instantly about the fat chick and the frail guy.

“Oh Bruno,” I say out loud.