the lucky country
River Street Ballina is a tranquil boulevard with the older generation strolling along the warmer sunlit side hoping for a vacant table at one of the coffee shops that have proliferated along here lately – and they sometimes have with them their pet pooches: poodles, shitzus, curly haired miniature terriers – small dogs for small apartments owned by folks with a rapidly shrinking futures. The funeral industry in this town is very busy and tightly held. We don’t last that long.
Alan is one of us and is walking his unshorn poodle along River Street today and as he passed an unshaven, muscular young man sitting on a bench was surprised to be confronted by the man’s snarling unleashed pit-bull terrier which seemed to have taken an instant and murderous dislike to his small poodle.
I was reminded of Avalon. Not that I ever was a poodle.
But I walked past. Somethings are best left to be resolved by others. Though I heard the exchanges.
‘Your dog needs to be on a lead,’ suggested Alan
‘Just walk on, mate.’
‘This is a public place.’
‘Just fucken walk on, mate!’
‘Your dog seriously needs to be on a lead.’
‘FUCK OFF mate!’
And all of that out of nowhere.
Our lucky country.
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