A Post Moving Mashup

from the politics of dog parks to phonetic fails and insect assassination.

Show me a less masculine dog. I’ll wait.

A lot has gone down in the last 10 days. I’ve moved into my new home and I am officially a probational Avalonian. I’m yet to receive the induction kit, but I suspect it will contain details of the secret handshake required to pass through ‘the bends’… a link to the daily surf report and a guide to sun salutations for sunrise yoga (these peeps get up even earlier than I do!) I am also hoping the kit will contain a lifetime supply of heel balm, as shoes it appears, are entirely discretionary in this neck of the woods.

Walter (the westie) also seems to have settled into his new digs, but I do have some concerns that he might not be quite as popular as he was on the lower north shore. Thankfully, he seems entirely unaware, that as a pooncy, short of stature, hypoallergenic, white pooch called Walter (who needs to be lifted in and out of the front seat of the car) and wears a sparkly gay pride collar, that he is vastly outnumbered in these parts by Staffy’s and Kelpie crosses (called Macka and Harley) who have black belts in parkour and jump in and out of ute trays that they guard like their life depends on it.

We’ve also made some tentative inroads into exploring the local off leash dog park, which feels a bit like taking your kid to the playground and hoping that the other kids will include them. Fortunately, Walter appears to be blissfully ignorant to the complete disdain shown to him by the other dogs. But to be fair, I am equally on the ‘outer’ … and spend most of my time observing the pecking order and peculiarities of the dog park eco system.

On most days we encounter the ‘Jumper’ (the giant dog with a penchant for jumping on everyone who enters the park), the ‘Trumper’ (the anything your dog can do, he can do better), the ‘Dumper’ (lays turds bigger than a grown man) and the ’Humper’ (no explanation required).

Over the last week, I have also spent an annoyingly large number of hours on the phone talking to a variety of call centre personnel who require you to recite ridiculously long account names which they inevitable mishear, necessitating one to repeat using the Nato phonetic alphabet. I have discovered that this is not my strong suit. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that I draw a complete blank when I have to spell something phonetically over the phone.

I’m like ….

• A for Angel (start strong)

• W for (pause) Wine

• B for (ummmm) Batman

• Q for (panic) Queue

• Y for You (not helpful in retrospect)

• C for Cue (confusing)

• N for Nipple (getting weird)

• O for Opossum (just give up)

• X for Xylophone

• S for Scooby Doo … or stool sample

At which point the person on the other end audibly rolls their eyes and says … “Don’t worry M’aam … I’ve located your account based on your phone number. “Cool.”

I have also cornered the Mortein market and am thinking that there is a business opportunity for insect assassination sprays that look a little less aggressive (more in keeping with my neutral, beachy colour palette). And I am sending a proposal to the triple zero hotline to request that the operators add another service to their offering “Hello, do you need Ambulance, Police, Fire brigade or Spider extraction services?” I mean seriously … have you seen the size of the huntsman up here?

Anyhoo … I’m off to unpack a few more boxes and roll Walter in the dirt before heading back to the dog park.

Ang x