The weekend rain took it all away: the tennis balls, the busted whipper-snipper, the broken bike, the pair of baby-blue crocks, the ten thousand sixty hunred and ten empty Powerade bottles. The creek looked almost naked without the crud, though I know it’ll only be a matter of days before the process of accretion begins all over again.
On the way home tonight I saw the dosser again. He looked wet and filthy and miserable. I said hello but he ignored me.
There’s a kind of halfway house or something on Newcastle Street. Walking past with Jambo, some guy on the verandah tugging away at his pre-dinner gasper, shouted, “Is that a bulldog?” I said, “Nah, it’s a terrier”. He said, “Bull terrier?”, like I might’ve been mistaken all this time. I said, “Nah, mate, it’s a cairn terrier”. There was a pause as I carried on, then I heard him shout, “Looks like a bulldog to me”. You be the judge.