After my spa the weather was still fine and warm, so I decided to have my second swim of the summer.
I had the three dogs with me but because it was nearly high tide there were hardly any birds around at our swimming spot, and being a Monday, there were no kids either, so I was pretty much guaranteed a peaceful dip. What could go wrong?
At first everything went according to plan. The pooches did some desultory paddling, between snuffling around amongst the weeds on the shoreline. When I’d had enough, I retrieved the dog’s leads and called them to come. Suddenly I heard vigorous splashing and loud barking. Erupting out of the reeds came a duck, racing through the water, flapping madly, closely followed by Max and Maggie, chasing behind with single minded intent. Georgie made a half hearted attempt to follow suit, but was easily dissuaded with a judicious treat , and I was able to clip his lead on without too much trouble. The other two were a different story. It seems they have inherited the family selective deafness. I’m not sure what the story was with the duck. Either panic was making it move weirdly slowly, or it was toying with its pursuers, always just a metre or two ahead, quacking madly. My heart was in my mouth, expecting any moment to see the bird disappear in a ball of feathers, or to hear myself being chastised by passing bird lovers. I was running along the shore, dripping wet, trying to call the dogs, as the duck led them on an almost literal wild goose chase. Maggie is by far the stronger swimmer, with Max trailing gamely behind but clearly getting tired. Finally, Maggie happened to glance my way, as if she had only just realised I was there, and I was able to lure her over with a treat and get her lead on. That left only Max. She was working by the old adage that slow and steady takes the race. By now it was clear the duck was just having fun, easily putting on bursts of speed whenever it looked like he was in serious danger. Exhausted, Max finally admitted defeat. It really went against the grain to say she was a good girl and give her a treat when I eventually got hold of her. Luckily it seemed there was no one around to witness the mayhem, and I got them back without any further drama.
I packed up the house and we went back to town, planning to attend my second Zumba class if Simon was well enough. To be honest, his health is still a concern, but I wasn’t going to do any good by staying home and fussing, so I went to Zumba. Everyone who was there at the previous class I went to was back, plus one other member, another long term attendee. In fact, everyone else in the class had been loyally Zumba’ing together for at least ten years. I think this explained why everyone else knew all the steps to all the songs, as well as the words, which many were singing along to, not just the instructor. Still, it was a fun class, and if the level of audience participation was more than I was comfortable with, and the loud crashing and banging from the karate class upstairs made an odd accompaniment to the music, it’s very good and relatively painless exercise, and I will keep coming when I can. The entrance fee of $5 is another attraction; I suspect it hasn’t changed in over a decade.
When I got home, I sat down with a cold drink with the dogs around me, when I suddenly noticed something odd on Georgie’s tummy.
I knew he’d had trouble in the past with a phimosis, caused by too much hair around his penis, but it had never been a problem before while I’d been looking after him. I took the above photo and sent it to my daughter and her partner looking for guidance. The dog didn’t seem distressed at all, in fact he was napping. However the message I got back was clear – I had to fix it or the end of the poor dog’s phallus was at risk of gangrene. In a panic, I asked if I needed the help of soap or olive oil to deal with the problem. Apologies if this is making any of my male readers squirm, but remember, I’ve only ever had daughters, so this aspect of male health care is out of my comfort zone. It turns out that plain water was the only lubricant required, and I was instructed to “flip him over and jimmy it back in place”. And not to blow my own trumpet (!) but it seems I have a natural talent for this particular aspect of canine first aid. Five minutes later Georgie was as good as new.
After that experience I was ready for some calming time in nature, so I took a turn around the garden. Everything is looking lush and green after the recent rains, especially the weeds, unfortunately. These include this monster:
I’d never even heard of cleavers before, but somehow it seems to have taken over my entire garden overnight. It looks perfectly innocuous, but you can’t see its worst feature: it’s really unpleasantly sticky. I tried to pull as much out as I could see, but had to admit defeat after the first bucketful. And what do you even do with nasty weeds? Do they go in the compost? I seem to remember you’re not supposed to put them into the general rubbish bin (why?) so in the end, I panicked and mulched it in the insinkerator. In my defence, at least I didn’t try and flush it down the toilet. I think my Toto would have been most upset to have been used in such a way. So, I’ve had to admit defeat on the garden front and confess to the gardener. To be fair, he was very good about it. Yes, he was a bit condescending in saying that he could see what I was trying to do, aspiring to a meadow by simply not mowing my lawns. But, what do you know, it’s not as simple as that. So, it’s back to the drawing board, and I’m instructed to mow before any more weeds get expansionist ideas. Sigh.
What a day! I had to cheer myself up with an Australian rom com (Five blind dates, recommended) before heading early to bed. Is this what retirement is going to be like?