Fantastic Artwork

in the Garbage ?

a gob of spit in

the gutter

I am often asked, "Where do you find the artists you ​show and support?" I'm ever thinking of Stan Parker, a ​character in the Patrick White novel, The Tree of Man, ​who found God in a gob of spit in the gutter.

So today, let me tell you how I found the works of three ​New Zealand artists and, having found their work, got to ​meet them and then showed their work here in Australia.

Val Sutherland

I was in New Zealand and catching up with a few galleries ​and artists, when I bought a copy of Art in New Zealand, ​a quarterly periodical which, to my way of thinking, had ​far too much text and very little visual material.

On this occasion, I found that to be the case. But nestling ​at the bottom of a page, in an image about the size of a ​postage stamp, was a picture of a painting that caught ​my interest despite the size. I made some inquiries and ​found that the work had been shown at a gallery in ​Masterton, about an hour’s drive north of Wellington.

I called the gallery to find out if the painting was ​available, only to be informed that it had been sold, but ​the artist was in the studio that day, and I was able to ​speak to her. She told me that she would do an even ​better one for me and that it would be finished that day.

a garbage tin in ​the corner

So the next day, I took a train to Masterton. The gallery ​was front-of-house to a studio where artists were able to ​drop in and do their work. The painting was there for me, ​and I was happy with it.

The gallery manager told me to have a look at the gallery ​space as the end-of-year exhibition was still on the walls. ​A quick look told me that there was nothing that caught ​my attention. Responses for me are usually immediate.

There was a garbage tin in the corner of the gallery, and I ​noticed an old shoe box in it that was filled with little ​ceramic hand-built dolls. Sensational. The arms and the ​legs were tied to the torso by thread. And they were ​meticulously hand-painted.

Why were these fantastic works in the garbage tin? When ​nobody had bought her work from the exhibition, I found ​that the artist, Val Sutherland, just assumed that they ​were no good and into the garbage tin they went.

Home Sweet Home

I scooped them up, bought them, and arranged to meet ​the artist who lived in town. And so began a friendship ​that lasted ten or so years until Val passed away very ​suddenly from cancer.

In those years, I organised exhibitions of her work in the ​Wollongong City Art Gallery and the Campbelltown Art ​Gallery. Val's work was shown at the National Gallery of ​Australia in the Home Sweet Home: Works from the Peter ​Fay Collection. So, a journey from a garbage tin in ​Masterton to the walls of the National Gallery of Australia ​in Canberra.

Martin Thompson

I was seeking shelter from the storm in a bus stop shelter ​in Wellington, New Zealand. It was very dark in the late ​afternoon when, from the depths of the shelter, came a ​blood-curdling cry. I assumed that someone was being ​attacked and waited for events to play out.

Then I saw what looked like a homeless man crouching ​over a sketch pad; he wielded a small knife and was ​cutting out the tiny squares in a piece of graph paper. It ​looked immediately interesting, and, in an instant, a ​would-be murderer became an artist. (See Martin’s Art in ​the Header - See also Martin’s work currently at the Brett ​McDowell Gallery, Dunedin, New Zealand)

On the page, I could see brilliant patterns that were made ​as a result of some number series that he was turning ​into marks on the graph paper. Among his possessions ​were hundreds of such drawings in multicoloured inks. ​And all done in places like this gloomy bus shelter.

a studio in ​Wellington

I engaged Martin in conversation and learned that he ​sometimes worked out of a studio in Wellington. It so ​happened that I had an appointment at that studio the ​following day, and I told him that I would meet him there ​in the morning. I indicated to him that I would be keen to ​buy some of his work if he was happy to part with them.

So the next day, there he was. I selected three drawings, ​and through that Studio (Vincent's), I bought many of his ​works. Marty was soon being looked after by Stuart ​Shepherd, who went on to arrange for Marty to exhibit in ​New York, and I showed his work at the National Gallery ​of Australia. He went on to have many exhibitions in New ​Zealand until his death a few years ago.

So that was a journey from a bus shelter in Wellington to ​the National Gallery of Australia and on to New York.

Robert Rapson

In my wanderings around Wellington, New Zealand, from ​time to time, I would see hand-built ceramic boats in ​shop windows or in empty office spaces with windows ​onto the street. Sometimes, there would be one or two, ​and other times, quite a flotilla. They had a real presence ​and a sense of movement.

The boats had been hand-painted and were meticulously ​decorated. I asked a few questions, and I found the maker ​of these works. Robert Rapson. He did the work in his ​apartment, and that was his full-time activity. I told him ​how taken I was with his work, and, back in Sydney, I ​contacted him as I had arranged an exhibition in a Sydney ​gallery (Gallery 9).

Many exhibitions here in Australia followed, and Robert ​quickly had a dedicated band of followers. He, too, now ​has gallery representation in New Zealand.

The New York Times

I have been raving about this book, The Best Minds ​by Jonathan Rosen there is a fantastic review ​currently running in The New York Times.

8) “There's no such thing as schizophrenia; ​there's only mental telepathy.”

(Sylvia Frumein.)

I thought I would quote from the chapter headings where ​Rosen adds a quote from another source that footnotes, ​as it were, the concerns of that chapter. They are ​masterful and will give you a sense of the book's flavour... ​scope, and focus. Enjoy.

There are 44 chapters, so I have made some selections.

9) “The only people for me are the mad ​ones.”

(Jack Kerouac, On the Road.)

10) “Reason is the ultimate language of ​madness.”

(Michel Foucault.)

1) “It is an illusion that we were ever alive”

(Wallace Stevens, The Rock.)

2) “But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here

Ev'rybody's gonna jump for joy.”

(Bob Dylan, Quinn the Eskimo.)

3) “It is a joy to be hidden, but disaster not to ​be found.”

(D. W. Winnicott.)

4) “We all have a face that we hide away ​forever.”

(Billy Joel The Stranger.)

11) “Listen while I talk on

against time.

It will not be

for long.”

(William Carlos Williams, Asphodel, That Greeny Flower.)

12) “Oh,do not ask,"What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.”

(TS Eliot The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.)

13) “France was once the name of a country: ​be careful lest it become the name of a ​neurosis.”

(Jean-Paul S Satre.)

5) “We all got up to dance

Oh, but we never got the chance.”

(Don McLean American Pie.)

14) “The brain - is wider than the Sky - ”

(Emily Dickinson.)

15) “So I went back out into the world, ​shoved the violence and the delusions into a ​closet, and leaned against that closet door ​just as hard as I could.”

(Elyn Saks, The Center Cannot Hold.)

6) “Do I dare

Disturb the universe?”

(T. S. Eliot The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.)

7) “The great enemy of truth is very often ​not the lie, but the myth.”

(J. F. Kennedy.)

16) “Reality is the beginning, not the end.”

(Wallace Stevens "An Ordinary Evening in New Haven")

I'll leave it at that, but I'm confident

that you'll find this collection of

quotes just as intriguing and

thought-provoking as I do.

It’s Election Time in

Tasmania

The decision by the state government ​to prioritise a new AFL stadium at the ​Hobart Waterfront over addressing the ​very real issues of housing, health ​facilities, and the environment in ​Tasmania has sparked criticism.

While some argue that the stadium could bring ​economic benefits, others believe resources ​should be allocated to more pressing social ​needs. Ultimately, it highlights the challenge of ​balancing competing priorities and the ​importance of our input in decision-making.

REMEMBER TO VOTE

Let The Children Fly

The Right Answer

In the blog I wrote the other day, I mentioned a book that ​I had just started reading, The Best Minds by Jonathan ​Rosen, and, but 100 pages into the book, I knew it was a ​very important work and that I had no hesitation in ​recommending it.

Well, I’m just past halfway now; those initial observations ​have become actualised, and it’s quite a thrilling read. It ​has opened up ways of looking at education. And it has ​caused me to look back on some of the experiences I have ​had in the classroom.

Schizophrenia

The book is a study of a friendship that began in primary ​school and followed through high school, university and ​later life. The author's friend developed schizophrenia; ​having applied to go to the Yale School of Law, he was ​hospitalised and released with the option of becoming a ​check-out-chick at Macy's or, with the blessing of the Yale ​Law faculty, invited into the law school. He chose the law.

The key to opening my thoughts about education came in ​just one sentence. "The professor tried to coax from them ​that it wasn't the right answer but the answer that was ​right that made justice possible."

Blue Mountains

After leaving the King's School, I had intended to work ​full-time growing and selling flowers from my garden in ​the Blue Mountains when I received a call from the ​Principal of a new school. This school was started by a ​group of parents dissatisfied with many aspects of their ​children's education in established private schools.

They felt that real educational opportunities were not ​being pursued... issues concerning uniforms and haircuts ​seemed to be front and centre. So they followed up on ​their dream, bought the land, started to build and hired ​staff.

I was approached and asked to come back to teaching, not ​as a member of the English Dept., but as a teacher whose ​remit would be both to staff and students, and I was to ​fashion my timetable to suit the needs and requests of ​both.

I was excited by this challenge and knew that most of my ​work would be in the Junior School. Starting with the ​Kindergarten. Luck was in my corner, for in that Junior ​School, I was working with a group of teachers who I ​collectively knew to be the best, most dedicated, and ​brilliant teachers I had ever worked with.

Brilliant Teachers

They had devised a curriculum that let the children fly, ​not by age but by ability. I was able to team teach and ​also to withdraw children in small clusters or individually ​for language enrichment and challenges suited to their ​interests. I felt I was both teacher and student, student ​and teacher.

Music and Art were both front and centre and there, too, ​were exceptional teachers. But after five or six years, ​there was a change of staff gradually taking place, and ​the replacement teachers did not have the fire in their ​bellies that those foundation staff had had.

Other Issues

So, other issues started rising to the surface: uniforms, ​haircuts, playground duty, bus duty, litter problems... ​Whole staff meetings were devoted to these concerns. One ​day, that brilliant art teacher rose in a staff meeting, ​announced that he couldn't take it any longer, and walked ​out the door.

After ten years, I also felt it was time to go. In Junior ​School, the set PROJECT took over. And stencils to colour ​in. I can still see a parent coming down the driveway ​carrying a model of the Acropolis, dumping it on her ​child's desk, and telling the Teacher/Headmaster that that ​was the third model of the Acropolis she had made.

Just Another 6/10

No more. The fact that she had been born and raised in ​the shadows of the actual thing did not lend any more ​authority to her work. Just another 6/10, tick, and the ​notation ‘...could do better.’

It was a case of looking for the right answer when the ​right answer was looking them in the face. I knew it was ​time for me to leave when the Headmaster of the Junior ​School was more worried that I had failed to hand in my ​football selection tips than any issue concerning my ​classroom work.

The flowers in the garden never looked lovelier. The weeds ​in the garden never looked so inconsequential.

Moving on was the right answer...

Picture it

Picture it: me in the 4th Grade... All bright-eyed and ​bushy-tailed... I wanted to be the best boy in the class (of ​about 40, would you believe)... and to do nothing that ​would displease Brother Xavier (the name has been ​changed so as not to speak ill of the dead).

The day-to-day class work was a series of tasks to rote, ​learn tables, master English grammar, learn lists of ​collective nouns, synonyms and antonyms, spelling, ​handwriting, and a godly dose of religious instruction and ​recitation of the catechism.

(e.g., Question. Who made the world? Answer. God made ​the world.)

homework

And from out of nowhere, Brother issued the instruction ​that for homework that night, we were to do a drawing of ​a Walt Disney cartoon character. NO TRACING.

deep trouble

Returning to school the next day with my drawing of ​Pluto, it became immediately obvious that I was in deep ​trouble when I saw my classmates' drawings.

To a lad, they had traced their efforts, for the tracing ​marks were obvious. But I had followed Brother's orders, ​and I felt that I could come to no harm.

caned

Fool... After inspecting the traced Donald Ducks, Mickey ​Mouses and a smattering of Plutos, my effort was deemed ​a failure; I was called to the front of the class, caned, and ​told to do it again at home.

That night, with judicious use of the greased paper, I ​managed a perfect Pluto. The next day, Brother praised ​my drawing, telling me, "You see, if you try, you can ​really do it."

Life lesson well learnt that day:

Honesty is NOT always the best policy...

“That Play”

Power Struggle

Just recently, our play reading group agreed they wanted ​to have a go at reading a Shakespearian play. We had ​done pretty well with earlier readings: Angels in America, ​Away, Cosi, The Importance of Being Earnest, A Doll’s ​House, and Summer of the Seventeenth Doll, amongst ​others.

So, I chose Macbeth and allocated the parts. Macbeth was ​a natural choice for me as I had already directed a ​production at the King’s School. Macbeth is talked about ​as a play that brings bad luck and ill fortune to anyone ​directly referring to it by name. It is thus referred to as ​THAT PLAY.

The Curse

The curse was visited on me when the girl cast as Lady ​Macbeth (from the girls' school next door) pulled out ​during a rehearsal, informing me that the Lord had told ​her that she was not to represent evil on stage.

This turned out to be a blessing as the boy I chose to ​replace her gave a thrilling performance. I thank the Lord ​for His Divine Intervention. How incomprehensible are His ​Judgements...

Casting-Couch

(Back to the present and our play reading group.)

I broke Macbeth up using the Acts so that everyone in the ​group got to read a major part—no casting-couch ​approach. As the wonderful Royal Shakespeare Company ​production with Judi Dench was on YouTube, I suggested ​they get a feel for how a production might read and ​sound.

I did a bit of research before the reading. A reading of ​The Year of Lear: Shakespeare in 1606 proved to be a ​wonderful source of the background of the times when ​Shakespeare was writing three of his masterpieces: Lear, ​Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra.

Then and Now

The book was written by James Shapiro, and it has been a ​long time since I read a text that was scholarly without ​frightening the horses. Anyone with only a brief ​knowledge of Shakespearean plays would love this book. ​And there are so many parallels between then and now as ​far as the social history of the times is concerned.

Shakespeare had to contend with the Plague, as we have ​had to deal with Covid. And then there was the brutal ​power struggle with religious and political overtones. ​Think of a direct link with our very own Rudd-Gillard-​Rudd-Abbot-Turnbull-Morrison. And then throw a Trump ​onto the world stage. You cannot avoid thinking of ‘the ​now’ as you read about ‘the then’.

The Best Minds

On the strength of The Year of Lear, I will be reading ​Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare? Also, by James ​Shapiro. This brings me to a wonderful book I read last ​year: Stalking Shakespeare: A Memoir of Madness, Murder, ​and My Search for the Poet Beneath the Paint by Lee ​Durkee. I thoroughly recommend it.

And now, getting away from matters literary ...I have just ​started reading The Best Minds by Jonathan Rosen. I’ve ​only read 100 pages (400 to go), and I already know that ​this book is a masterpiece. It takes its title from the ​opening lines of Allen Ginsberg's Howl: I saw the best ​minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, ​hysterical, naked...

Let me give you a couple of lines from the book that, ​when I read them, I knew that I had to share this title ​with you, even though I still have 400 pages left to read.

John Lennon

“When John Lennon was shot and killed, Pete Hamill ​described the stunned doctors and nurses in the hospital. ​“Behind them, in a refrigerator, lay the sixties. Oddly, the ​sixties had pulled the trigger.”

You won't be disappointed by any of the books I have ​mentioned. So, let’s list them again:

Contested Will by James Shapiro.

The Year of Lear by James Shapiro.

Stalking Shakespeare by Lee Durkee.

The Best Minds by Jonathan Rosen.

Venice Biennale

movers-and-shakers

It's touted as the biggest event on the world's arts ​calendar, and every two years, thousands of art lovers, ​would-be players, movers-and-shakers, spivs, crooks and ​carpetbaggers, amongst others, all flock to that beautiful ​city.

Everyone is desperate to obtain a ticket that will admit ​one to some pre-pre-pre function before the gates are ​flung open to admit the great unwashed. Tickets for the ​first day of the Vernissage (literally means 'Varnishing' ​and it was originally a period of a few days before the ​opening of a major art exhibition, where the artists were ​able to put the final touches to their work before the ​public was admitted) are like hen's teeth, and, once ​obtained, you guard them like your life.

Vernissage

On the four or five occasions that I have been in Venice ​for the Vernissage, I have, by hook or by crook, had a ​ticket for the Vernissage. But one particular year, I was ​without a ticket. My dear friend Annie Lewis made a few ​phone calls and got me a ticket. Was I the long-lost ​grandchild of Pablo Picasso, or maybe the richest man in ​the world, or even a Lord of the Realm... I didn't ask any ​questions, and when Annie handed over my ticket, I saw ​that I was a Mr Kerry Packer. Oh well, no names, no ​packdrill.

So the day dawned for Day One of the Vernissage. It was, ​at 9 am, so hot, and with a huge crowd milling at the ​gate, one had a sense of sufferers in one of Dante's Rings ​of Hell. (I am sure that if the good poet were writing his ​magnum opus these days, there would be an extra special ​ring for 'art patrons'. Maybe lined with the works of... ​that one would have to gaze on for eternity).

all things Austrian

As I said, it was so hot that one sought a pavilion with ​some sort of air-conditioning. It was hard enough to find ​a toilet on the grounds, let alone an air conditioner. But ​the Austrians had erected a very upmarket annexe to their ​pavilion, and, yes, it was air-conditioned. So suddenly, the ​whole world, or that part of the whole world that was in ​Venice, had developed a passion for all things Austrian, ​especially their contemporary art.

shirtfronted

So that was where I found myself, or where, disguised as ​Mr Kerry Packer, I found myself loving Austrian Art. And ​in the throng, I had no difficulty noticing Mrs Kerry ​Packer. The original. A Great Barrier Reef of Paspaley ​pearls around her neck. (Annie Lewis had sourced my ​identity from her good friend Mrs Packer.)

Everything was going nicely: polite nods, air kisses, cards ​being exchanged, networking, checking out the fashions. ​You know the drill. Suddenly, I was being shirtfronted by ​an irate journalist from the London Guardian. He shouted, ​"You're not Kerry Packer. I know what he looks like. How ​could I forget the face of the most detestable man in ​Australia?"

What could I possibly say? My cover had been well and ​truly blown. And there was no way that Mrs P was going ​to rush to my aid. And so I took immediate action and ​decided that suddenly I liked the art of any of the other ​100+ countries exhibiting at that year's Biennale (even the ​Australian Pavilion!) and exited, trying desperately to hide ​with my hand, the offending name emblazoned over my ​chest. I decided that anonymity might be the best way to ​go for the rest of the day.

an invite to THE party

"Did you get an invite to THE party?" Entrance tickets to ​THE party were so sought after in Venice. And on this ​particular occasion, I was the plus 1 for Mrs Lewis at the ​party hosted by one of the many super-rich Americans ​who have Palazzi in Venice.

There were pre-pre-dinner drinks here, pre-dinner drinks ​there, and finally, dinner at the Palazzo. I was seated at ​the table with Mr. Robert Storr and a lovely Swiss curator. ​Mr Harry Seidler was also at our table. (Mrs Seidler was ​seated away from us but not out of earshot.)

There was much noise in the room, so conversations were ​difficult. But the food was good, and I was happy just to ​add the odd word into the mix. Harry was keen to chat to ​the Swiss girl in German for most of the evening, and ​every now and again, he would address me in English.

High praise indeed

When it came time to head home, Harry said his goodbyes ​and, turning to me, praised me for my English language ​skills. High praise indeed. Did Harry think I had come ​from Mars?

And maybe next time I visit Venice on this blog, I will ​mention the Australian artist who was a forerunner to ​what we saw last week with Mr Barnaby Joyce and his ​dangerous mixture of alcohol and 'prescription' drugs.

Stay tuned...

A Visit to The Mobile

Beauty Parlor

Phryne

Phryne is about nine years old; she came to us out of the ​blue; a friend was going to return her after a trial run. So ​we brought her home, and that was that. We already had ​a puppy on the way, but we fell in love with her ​immediately, so she became a part of the family.

Before...

Billy

Billy is almost two years old now; he was ordered from ​the Breeder and arrived on schedule. Billy is a gentle ​chap, but he’s prone to weight gain, so we watch the diet ​and get plenty of exercise. He’s playful, especially in the ​evening, just before sleep.

During...

After

Dapper Dog

Grooming

Thank you, Chloe, for

grooming our puppies so

regularly and so well...

Arts Project

Australia

On that first day

I will never forget the day when I first walked into the ​space that was the home of Arts Project Australia (APA) ​in Melbourne. At that time, about 1985, they were ​occupying a shop front and rear premises in Northcote. ​The shop front was the gallery space, and the artists ​worked, under very cramped conditions, in the rear ​spaces.

On that first day, I saw work that spoke so directly to me, ​and I think I left with four or five artworks. From that day ​forward, I would return to Arts Project again and again ​and build up a huge collection of the work that was being ​made there. And when appropriate, I always included ​artists from APA in shows that I curated.

A great highlight for me was when I was able to host four ​artists from APA at the National Gallery of Australia, ​where the exhibition Home Sweet Home: Works from the ​Peter Fay Collection was showing.

The artists met the Director, Dr Brian Kennedy, who ​showed a keen interest in their work and spoke to them ​with much enthusiasm. One of the artists, Stephen ​Perrette, even quizzed Dr Kennedy about the security ​arrangements in place, as he was worried that his ​drawing might be stolen, seeing, as in his eyes, there was ​only one decent work in the whole show. His.

Some years ago, the organisation found a large, light-​filled space with a proper ground-floor gallery for ​exhibiting the work and an entire first floor of open-plan ​studios. Just recently, they now have an off-site gallery ​space in Collingwood, where they share a building housing ​many art galleries.

It is certainly a long way from where they started, and the ​quality of the work has not fallen away. Many of their ​artists now show in galleries around the world. Some even ​have representation in New York and feature at the ​Outsider Art Fair each year in that same city.

Of course, everyone has particular favourites among the ​artists working at Arts Project. There are many whose ​careers I have followed and collected their work. Let me ​name but a few:

favourites

Lisa Reid, Chris Mason, Chris O'Brien, Paul ​Hodges, Leo Cussen, Bronwyn Hack and Terry ​Williams. And featured at this year's Melbourne ​Art Fair will be Anthony Romagnano.

links To the

Mafia

Pooing on my lawn

The Sydney media in the 1990s (print, TV and radio) ​were often led with stories of yet another attack by a ​fearsome Pitbull, leaving a victim either fighting for life ​or, tragically, dead.

The news item usually ended up reporting the fact that ​authorities had put the animal down and that police were ​investigating whether the animal had been safely housed.

That breed was very much public enemy No. 1. There ​were even calls for the breed of dog to be declared illegal. ​Such was public feeling. So you can imagine my concern ​when my neighbour living in the flats opposite had what ​looked to me like a Pitbull.

From my study window, I could, and did, observe that ​each morning, said Pitbull was let out from the flat, and ​he would roam the streets all day as his owner left for ​work, and the dog was, thus, left at large.

calling card

Now, I had a very neat and tidy but small front patch of ​grass with a very low front wall. I was constantly picking ​up dog poo. I looked upon it as a consequence of inner-​city living. But every day, there was a particularly large ​dump of a rich and fertile nature.

Quite by chance, one morning, I noticed that it was the ​dog opposite, the Pitbull, that was the one leaving such a ​distinctive calling card. However, I determined to make ​sure of my facts before raising the subject with my ​neighbour opposite.

He was a swarthy gent, and being Leichhardt, I thought it ​was just possible that he might have links to the Mafia. ​Being the total coward I was, I did not want to get too ​close and friendly with the said pooch.

Very soon, I was 100% sure who was responsible for this ​most unneighbourly act. But dogs will be dogs, even ​Pitbulls, and so there was no other measure that I could ​take than to approach my neighbour across the street.

Proper housing

I did just that. A timid knock early one morning to find ​the door opened by "Dave, mate. What can I do for you?" ​As he was in his pyjamas, I could see that he was not ​carrying a sawn-off Shotgun. Plus, he was a 150% dinky ​di Ozzie. And so I started to state my concerns about his ​dog. Free range... Pooing on my lawn... Illegalities... ​Proper housing of Pitbulls... Pooing on my lawn...

Dave answered this with a flick of his hand: “Oh Mate, I ​don't go with any of those laws. Roxy is as gentle as a ​lamb, and she loves the kiddies. So, no worries, mate.”

I continued with my mantra that it worried me and that ​the daily dump had to stop. I was not confident that Dave ​had taken my issues on board, so I had to think about my ​next move.

By a stroke of luck, a couple of mornings later, Roxy, on ​release, made her customary beeline for her daily ​evacuation on my front lawn. As she crossed the road, she ​was almost run down by a police car. The police car pulled ​to an abrupt halt, and I observed a police constable ​entering my front gate, baton raised and gingerly ​approaching the spot where I knew Roxy would be in ​evacuation mode.

tummy rub

So out the front door, I skedaddled to give the police the ​full crime sheet on Roxy. You can imagine my double-take ​when I saw that the policeman was giving Roxy a tummy ​rub with his truncheon.

I vented to the policeman about my concerns and asked ​what I could do. Before he could answer, his colleague ​from the police car called to say that they had an ​emergency and had to leave immediately. So I was left ​with my concerns unanswered, with Roxy looking for a ​continuance of her tummy rub and a pile of steaming ​doggie-do. I thought maybe the police would return after ​their emergency, but no.

tried & true routine

Roxy continued her tried-and-true routine; she nor any ​other dogs ever savaged the kiddies who played in the ​street opposite. Then suddenly, my lawn became poo free. ​Well, not exactly. There were still the occasional dainty ​droppings, but it was certainly free from anything ​resembling what Roxy was capable of leaving.

This caused me to focus on Dave's door, and it was soon ​apparent that there was no Roxy. And then a Lost Dog ​notice was fluttering in the breeze from the nearest ​telegraph pole.

(I had long been a collector of Lost posters They were ​quite a feature of Sydney telegraph poles, pleading for ​the hope that the missing dog, cat, budgie, ferret, galah, ​you-name-it, there were animals that had obviously ​escaped the attention of Mr Darwin. On one occasion, a ​cat with no ears and cancer, and on another, a Cockatoo ​with an overbite. My favourite was a poster announcing a ​missing Galah and a phone number—just that. No name. ​No reward. No description. Nothing.)

Mafia hitman

Back to the Lost Notice. It was for Roxy. Suddenly, friendly ​Dave in my mind became a Mafia hitman, for I imagined ​that he must be thinking that I had done away with Roxy ​after my complaints the other day. I was left with no ​other option than to approach Dave's door once again.

This time, even more meeker and milder. I professed my ​innocence in the disappearance of Roxy. Did Dave believe ​me? Don't know. But there was much joy all around when, ​a few days later, Roxy reappeared, and so too did her ​dumps.

I quickly made up my mind that if I was to continue inner ​city living, then having a 'kiddie friendly' Pitbull terrier ​living opposite was all par for the course.

cultural buff

Over the years, I became friends with Dave. He was a ​fellow reader of The New Yorker, and he was the leading ​Australian authority on the Spaghetti Western film genre. ​He taught film studies at the National Film and TV School ​and was quite the cultural buff—a bloody good bloke with ​a sweet and gentle Pitbull sans terror.

Roxy. We love you.

Come here for a tummy rub...