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.
It’s difficult to grasp what these guys got up to when you
see they used to catch whales with a 20-foot boat with nothing between them
and the whale but a small spear and a notch large enough for a thigh muscle.
There are many great places to find such as Christ Church
which still has bullet holes from long-gone ruckuses.
But the joy of Russell is the stuff not in the programmes or
guides which give it a truly Pacific feel – the old cab (still in
service), rusty corrugated roves under palm trees, grass-swamped tractors
with boat still attached, a wandering fox terrier, the passing of the Spirit of
New Zealand (got lucky that day) and rugged coastlines.
There are signs for beaches all along the route and stopping
can wield some tremendous prizes as you play a sand, rock or iron beach game of
roulette with side roads.
