The dog was doing this.
And this.
As you can see, she wasn't attached to my person by a lead. This was because we were the only living things in the park apart from the ducks.
And, as it happened, Crispin.
Crispin is a ranger. He has a stud in his left ear and drives a white van with the words "Eyes on the street" painted on the side.
Some people would think that if you drove around in a van with "Eyes on the street" painted on the side, you'd be a bit of a dickhead. But not me.
What I thought was: Why are you harrassing a golden retriever who wants to lick you to death? Why have I never seen you keeping an eye on MY street aka Hoon Hill?
Let me tell you something about our house on the hill: If the Lady of Shalott had enjoyed watching hoons in hotted-up Holdens and bogans in black utes instead of Sir Lancelot in his feathered helmet on his way to Camelot, our house is where she would've lived.
It has very big windows which afford excellent views of knights and hoons alike.
Sadly, unlike Sir Lancelot, the local love gods don't sing "Tirra lirra" down by the river. They play really loud doof-doof music instead and shout "Faaaaark" out of the windows when they become airborne at 100kmh.
I was going to tell Crispin all this but in the end I was too busy giving him my name and address.
And listening to his Lone Ranger-style lecture on the dangers of unrestrained family pets in deserted parks.
And wondering where Tonto was when you really needed him (with my luck, probably shouting, "Faaaark, Kemo Sabe" out of the window of a black ute somewhere down my street).
