When Gretal was about four months old, my neighbor invited me to lunch at a friend’s farm at Gowrie
Mountain, a few miles outside of Toowoomba, where we lived at the time. At this stage of Gretal’s life, I didn’t like to leave her for too long on her own, so my friend and I decided to bring her along. Toowoomba’s weather had been rather wet for a couple of weeks, and driving up the driveway to the farm, my long and low Chrysler Hemi Pacer slithered and slid around in the mud. My friend explained to her friend about Gretal, and it was decided that Gretal could stay outside: There was no stock she could worry, and she could play to her heart’s content. Gretal had other ideas.
While we sat inside in the dry, supping on a luncheon of white wine, avocado, and fine white meat delicacies, Gretal stared at us through the floor-length windows, quite put out to have been relegated to the muddy yard. Her dignity was even more thwarted when “mine hostess” stood at her pristine window, looking out at the muddy mess that Gretal was carrying up onto the verandas and the muddy, goopy nose prints, and declared to one and all that Gretal was not only an uncontrolled dog, but also an uninteresting-looking one. I was devastated and left speechless by this cruel, unnecessary comment, whereas Gretal decided this was not a very nice person at all and left the veranda and climbed up on top of the once pristine Chrysler Hemi Pacer.
Muddy footprints trailed from verandas to car roof in a varying sequence, backwards and forwards did Gretal go, hoping for some attention — maybe to be invited inside — but to no avail. Gretal was not a happy camper.
I couldn’t cope with this muddy situation. My feelings were hurt and I was embarrassed, so I opted for a quick getaway. By this time, the once unsullied veranda, doors, and windows – along with my car — were awash with the black and fertile mud of the Darling Downs area. Gretal had opted to stay camped on the roof of the car, lest it left without her. Mine hostess and her friends were obviously joyous to see my friend and I move to leave.
Once outside, one of them commented that Gretal was an uncontrolled dog, and an insipid-looking creature. This went over like a lead balloon with me, and made me want to make a comment about her and her snooty friends. But, by this stage, I was so embarrassed by the mud trail from the car onto my hostess’s veranda and the goop that Gretal had spread all over her windows, I sort of crawled away with my tail between my legs. I determined that never would I socialize again, people just didn’t understand a Gretal dog. They didn’t know what they are missing out on … or did they?
I learned a very important lesson that day: Do not to take Gretal out on social occasions, if I wanted to make a favorable impression. But, alas, I haven’t always managed to hold firm to that guide.
As a footnote to this little tale, my neighbor never, ever invited me out to lunch with her friends again. I can’t imagine why. Still, I much preferred to share a sandwich with Gretal and enjoy her impeccable and challenging company. I was never really prone to playing the girly games of socializing and becoming engrossed in conversations about Tupperware, kids, husbands, and haberdashery. That was just not my scene. Give me a muddy paddock, a dam with murky water, a tennis ball, and a Weimaraner anyday. That, to me, is fun — and it is fun for the dog as well.
Tags: dog story, part two, pet dog, Weimaraner
