Footy Rain Man and New Age Dog Talk

So I was standing in a local park having what I assumed was going to be the strangest conversation of the day.

My faithful (I have my suspicions) hound and I had just run into a longtime dog-walking acquaintance, who was exercising her own canine companions. Or, two of them at least. Her third terrier, the oldest of the group, sat in her arms, looking like a not particularly comely species of mangy rodent (to clarify: the dog looked that way; the owner's arms appeared perfectly normal and non-ratty).

Now, the aetiology of this poor nipper's condition is not important here. For one thing, the old fella was, I was assured, on the mend. And, more importantly, his (rather unbelievably) improved state of health was, according to his owner's account, due entirely to alternative veterinary medicine. Yes, you read correctly. These things exist. On some deeply disavowed level I knew this, in the same way that I know there are people out there who actually like Tony Abbott (since we're on the subject of mangy rodents). I didn't really know how widespread and complex this New Age pet ownership was, but as this chat progressed, I found out. There's Hound Homeopathy, Rover Reiki, and probably dozens of other non-traditional veterinary practices that do not readily lend themselves to my facile attempts at domesticated animal-related wordplay.  There is an entire parallel pet ownership universe out there, populated by dog and mog-loving mung bean types who are, on some (probably unwitting) level, disciples of Ivan Illich and Michel "Birth of the Vet Clinic" Foucault. 


My acquaintance is a lovely and kind woman, and at a couple of points in the chat she would preface an upcoming claim about auras or reincarnation or Shar Pei Chakras (okay, that's the last one, I promise) with the line "I don't know what your beliefs are, but ...." I listened attentively and politely, made vague noises that could be construed as I'm open minded to your beliefs, when in fact I think that at  some point in your life you appear to have gone completely batshit. 


It was about at this point that our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of quite a verbose man on a BMX bicycle. He was a rather pear-shaped gentleman, with pasty skin, and though he appeared to be around 30 years old, he looked--and I think always would look--as if his mother dressed him. He looked, in short, like the sort of man who at some point in his life gave serious thought to the possibility of developing real-life light sabres or dilithium crystals. He pedalled right up to us, and without pausing for a gap in conversation or  an appropriate facial cue, informed us that "The 1989 Footscray Bulldogs had the third best defence in the VFL. Only two other teams gave up fewer points than the Dogs. Now, had did they manage to finish in seventh place, then? Well, obviously, their offensive capabilities left something to be desired. The best defence in the world is going to be no help at all winning games if you can't put any points on the board." This was spat out, pretty much needless to say, with the level of non-mellifluousness with which one of Dustin Hoffman's more famous characters sang the praises of Judge Wapner. This was then reprised, with intricate variations, like a sort of Bach Fugue for Sporting Statistics and Severe Autism, non-stop for the next five minutes or seven hours or so.


It is a strange feeling, having to listen so intently and insincerely, especially to people who are not members of your own family. Stranger still is finding yourself silently choking on the question, "Can I please go back to talking about alternative pet medicine?" It was one of my more unusual days out, though, with just a slight advance in speed, and the addition of a Myki reader and some garish upholstery, it could have been a garden variety tram journey.