Bruno and the Doberman and Lunch

It was a gorgeous Sunday morning, the sun was shining, the sky was blue. So, we took Bruno for a run along the Yarra River, as you do. It was a lovely morning.

Off-lead, green grass to run on. There were lots of people down there with dogs, it being a lovely day. Oh, when I say lots of people, you know four, or five, dogs and their owners.

The first thing Bruno does, is he runs over and takes a tennis ball from a Doberman. 

Jesus, I think, as I run over.

Remember, Bruno is obsessed with tennis balls.

Luckily, the Doberman turned out to be a really lovely Doberman. I mean, you have to admire Bruno's pluck and courage, but that could have gone seriously wrong. 

You don't have to worry too much in an off-lead area, of course, generally aggressive dogs aren't let off their lead, that doesn't guarantee idiot dog owners and their dogs.

"Oh, sorry about that," I say. "I'll get the ball back for you."

"Don't worry, she just found it down here," says the Doberman's owner.

"Oh, I'm sorry, he is obsessed with tennis balls," I say.

"So, is she," she says deadpan, so much so that I couldn't, actually, read if she was okay with it, or not?

"I'll get it back..."

"It's, okay, don't worry." Again, not sure if she meant that, or the opposite, so Bruno and I skipped off undeterred. What can you do?

After that we headed to a Vietnamese restaurant we like sitting outside in the sun with Bruno laying at our feet exhausted from running around.

People came and people went, lots of people were walking past. It was lovely sitting there. Sparkly sun. Blue sky.

Then two girls came and sat at the table next to us, one of them had a really annoying laugh. She continually laughed loudly and uproariously, a laugh that had a kind of yodel to it. It was really detestable, such a 'look at me, look at me' kind of laugh.

I'd be putting in a call to my hit squad. Oh yes, The Christians, do you like how I use that ironically? Well, not so ironically, if you think about evangelical x'tians. If I was a billionaire, or a evil mastermind (actually, I want to give myself a title that isn’t evil, but can't think of one presently? An anti hero type like Tom Ripley), I’d have a hit squad, tall dark-haired boys dressed in black who'd be summoned at the first sign of my displeasure. 

“Yes, hello, I have two to dispatch. Richmond, come quickly.”

But then, as I chuckled to myself about the girl's imminent demise, at the hands of Hugo and Felix and Leo and Max, an old couple came along. He was very dotted i's and crossed t's type of guy. You know, collar button buttoned up and all. She was an old show girl, by the look of her, her now grey hair still trying to give that 'just-fucked' vibe, all swishy and lose.

"Do you mind if we sit here?" he said more as a command than a request. And they sat on the table with them, and the laughing stopped.

Poetic justice can be as cruel as it is beautiful.