It takes all sorts ... even man dogs: Kevin Page

You can cross paths with many people when walking a dog. Photo / 123rf

Every now and then I like to bash out a few words regarding the many and varied people Mrs P and I come across in our daily travels along life’s highway.

Naturally – me being the chatty bloke I am – I tend to say gidday to a lot of people.

The vast majority could be classed similarly as nice folk who simply wouldn’t hurt a fly and enjoy a bit of banter.

Sadly, I also come across some arseholes.

You’ll forgive my bluntness and the use of the word, but I can assure you it’s the best word to describe them.

Everyone knows what it means and everyone knows who they are.

Obviously, we try not to have a lot to do with them, but sometimes it can be fun just carrying on with whatever it is that bugs them just to see their reaction. More on that later.

Finally, you’ve got your quirky characters.

These are the people I enjoy interacting with.

They are in the main completely harmless. Passionate about whatever and generally very friendly and eager to impart their take on one thing or another.

Over the years I’ve written about some of the quirky characters I’ve had some interaction with or even just come across.

Like the woman I met balancing a huge vase on her head wandering down the main highway a couple of years back.

After a quick inquiry and an offer of a bit of space in the back of my vehicle, I discovered she had spent her early years in Africa and was totally comfortable with the practice.

Then there were the two interesting characters I met in one day – I kid you not.

Middle of winter and one was wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, dreadlocks and a smile as he wandered through town.

And, before you make the assumption, no he wasn’t unwell. Completely with it as far as I can remember.

Just an advocate for a simple style of attire regardless of the climate.

That particular day was very bright, crisp and sunny. However, it was absolutely freezing.

Regardless, he seemed to be enjoying the attention and was at pains to explain how the body reacted and his belief traditional layers of clothing were unnecessary.

Perhaps surprisingly, few of those hurrying past removed their jackets, beanies and/or gloves to give it a try. Myself included.

Later that afternoon I came out of a dairy to find a horse on the footpath right outside.

On board was a bloke in full Native American, headdress and all. It has to be said after some initial inquiries it became quite obvious he was in need of help.

Anyway.

Just the other day Mrs P and I met someone who I feel deserves a mention among the many I am typing here.

I should point out he was definitely not a quirky character in the traditional sense. He was simply a nice kid. Working the checkout in a supermarket.

Now, I’m sure you’ve all experienced some of these kids in these jobs.

Trying to make a buck – which is to be commended – but obviously hating it and generally just getting more and more cheesed off with the customers.

So much so that by the end of their shift they’ve given up speaking to anyone other than dishing out a few grunts here or there. Sound familiar?

Well, credit where credit is due, this kid deserves an honourable mention. I’m sure there are many others out there, but I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet.

Anyway, this kid couldn’t have been more friendly.

He engaged in conversation. He was friendly. He asked polite questions.

Somehow, in the brief time we spent together, he managed to tell us what he wanted to do with his life. He wished us well on our travels.

As I say, just a real nice kid. Mrs P and I both agreed he would go far.

I’m pretty sure Mrs P has made a note of his name for a time in the future when our granddaughters are seeking suitable husbands.

So, he was the nice person we met the other day. Then there was the a-hole.

I’ll give you a bit of background as to how we came across this bloke.

Where we are at the moment is a bit like the English countryside. There’s a lot of hedges and streams running through little villages.

It was alongside one of these streams we decided to take George The Three-Legged Dog for a walk/hop.

Now, the walk wasn’t long. Maybe half a kilometre out and back the same way.

It ran down the back of some fancy houses that had these big, thick hedges of some appropriate plant to separate their manicured lawns from the track.

So, we’re wandering along and we stop to look in the stream.

George, who is maybe 5 yards ahead off lead as allowed, is literally standing there waiting for us when a creature comes charging out from under the hedge on all fours and growls and barks at him.

Mrs P and I are somewhat taken aback, it has to be said.

George on the other hand is absolutely terrified and falls over briefly – he’s only got three legs remember – before regaining his balance and turning to face his attacker, growling and barking in response as he does.

It’s at this point I step in between the two would-be protagonists, put George’s full lead back on and turn to the other dog.

Except it’s not another dog. It’s a man. A short little fellow with a massive chip on his shoulder and a potentially lucrative career in dog growling and barking impressions if his attempt to become the world’s biggest a-hole should fall over.

To be honest, I doubt it will.

“Keep your dog under control,” he yelled at us as I stood there with George, now as confused as we were.

Now I won’t bore you with all the toing and froing of our subsequent discussion, but it’s fair to say I did rather bluntly suggest him crawling through a gap in his hedge and rushing my elderly dog on all fours was the cause of the problem.

I may have even suggested I’d be happy to help him into the stream if he needed to cool off.

His response was ludicrous as well as totally unreasonable – apparently, they’ve had dog problems in the area (he didn’t elaborate) and while it is a dog-friendly walking area, not everyone in the community agrees with that.

So he barks and growls to warn them off.

At this point I feel Mrs P mentally tugging at my arm to pull me away, so we left the dork to his own devices.

I’m assuming he went and peed on the nearest fence post or buried a half-eaten bone.

I don’t know exactly what Man Dogs do when they’re not being Man Dogs.

But I do know what irritated owners of 12-year-old, three-legged, terrified elderly pooches do.

When we walked back on the return I didn’t bother to pick up the calling card George left for him by the gap in the hedge he’d charged out of 20 minutes earlier.