Dog time in Brown’s Bay

Everyone owns a dog in Brown’s Bay. Freaking every one. A pop down to the beach before 10.30am or a walk around any neighbourhood in the Auckland North Shore suburb and they are there.

Being walked, being swam (with owners), being watered and fed (every café has a water bowl and I once saw one being fed steak chunks prepared by the chef at one of the restaurants) and as the topic of discussion.

You see, when you have a dog you are not just adopting (purchasing) a companion but a club, the dog walker club – and the shore is full of members.

I would know, I recently spent an extended weekend as part of the chosen few who call this affluent, international and my God, pretty area home.

I between views of the Hauraki Gulf, it’s big island and the chalky cliffs it is sandwiched in between, all a short passage from the city, especially in the boats every also seems to own there, it’s quite stunning.

But that’s obvious, wealthy people live in pretty places and they walk their dogs at any given time, regardless of what their errands are in the areas small but convenient shopping area, the dog comes too.

My trusty companion during my dog-sitting weekend was Axle – a huntaway-something-a-rather, which I spouted more times than I can count, because those in the club, want to know what its members are up to.

“What’s his name?” “How old?” “What breed?” “What do you feed him?”

These dog people are a unique breed (heh), because even when you answer them, they feel they need to make up their own as if they did not hear you or answer one which was not asked.

“I think he’s Doberman.” “His colour is a bit rottie” – did you ask the question just to tell me I was wrong?

I had one lady in her 60’s explain that her daughter “about your age” got a huntaway too, because she lived in South Africa and liked the security, and her old dog died before she moved and she missed him.

What is the prescribed response to that? – I came out with “Okay, have a good afternoon.”

There is the eclipsing visage of the cat person being the shut-in who shuns their fellow humans for feline company, but dog people are the opposite – you have to be social.

Even when I’m bowled up by two yapping miniatures not four-inches toe to ear who tangled up Axle’s lead, I have to be a good member, even just a casual one.

You can’t just extract the dog from the post and your legs, and his legs and the bush and move on, you have to have the talk.

“How old?” “What is he?” – then the unrequited reply – “This one’s four, he won’t get any bigger, they rule the roost here” – all from a middle-aged guy who looked like your local mechanic, even as he cooed over his two tiny monsters.

“Oh well, must be moving on,” I say.

Getting home and in the January eat it’s scorching and Axle is panting before he slurps a drink as we walk in the door and he passes out on the carpet.

Not a bad idea and I do the same.

An hour later and we both awake needing to pee so outside we go to do the business.

Yep, dog time in Brown’s Bay has it’s rewards.

There’s a satisfaction in that every moment is an adventure for the dog, so even doing bugger-all means you feel like you achieved something because your buddy has had a good time.

Doing nothing was never so much fun.