A Man & His Dog

This is a story about a man and his dog.  Said man, namely this writer’s son and heir, adopted a little dog that was found wandering the street in Ballarat.  It didn’t take long to discover that the cute canine was the victim of a broken relationship and was about to be taken to the pound to await a very uncertain future.  And because it was almost love at first sight between son and heir and the little pooch, the former decided he would take on the responsibility of caring for the dog.  Having grown up with lots of dogs, he knew how to care for his own.  Conveniently forgotten were the visits to the vets, the anxiety when one or other vanished, trips to the pound to thankfully reclaim all but the one who disappeared into a time warp somewhere.  Forgotten too was the heartache when they each in turn fell off this mortal coil.  All that was remembered was the companionship and joy of owning a pet.

Things ran reasonably smoothly until the little escapologist found his way out of a presumably secure yard. Thankfully he’d been found and taken to – yep you guessed it – the pound.  A few hundred dollars later, the fluff ball, now named Barry, was back in residence and fitting in (almost) with son and heir’s lifestyle, with one exception – the dog didn’t respond to the name Barry.  When called by his original name – Max, he came running. This presented another problem that we’ll come to later.

Soon son and heir found a new unit that suited him much better, but

didn’t allow pets. Yes you guessed it! Mother to the rescue. I agreed to take the little fella (dog, not son) on the proviso that my very substantial yard was secured from escapes and he was neutered (again, dog not son). This was supposed to take place before Christmas and holidays.  Oh you are clever people, you have guessed right again – it didn’t happen and much of my holiday was spent watching or chasing this little lothario who, feeling the need for female company continued to find escape holes.  After considerable pleading the task of fixing the fence took place, not without some effort and argument. However, to add insult to injury whilst working hard clipping the wire netting in order to keep Max on our side, son and heir looked up only to gaze into the eyes of his dog on the other side of the fence.

My point was made.

Since then neutering has been performed and Max has now settled into his new home and is a delight.  Oh, the other problem that arose?  My dog is named Mack, so now when I call one, I’m met by both and Barry doesn’t work with either of them.