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Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Pinky's Pitfalls of Small Community Living.

It's actually 'animal' treatment not 'anal'. (Just in case you were alarmed)

There are roughly 8000 people living on the mountain which is a pretty small community. For instance yesterday, Scotto booked a computer job which turned out to be located at my parents’ next door neighbours' house. 

Meanwhile, I drove up to the shop and was standing at the checkout when I felt someone breathing down my neck. 

It was my father.

“Your old man’s parked in the driveway of the house next door to us,” he said.

“I know,” I replied shrewdly. “I think he’s visiting his mistress.”

As I pulled out of the shopping centre who should I pass but Scotto, waving at me from his car and heading towards his next appointment.

I don’t think Scotto would ever get away with having an affair.

In fact I don’t think either of us could get away with anything up here.

There are eyes everywhere and you can’t help bumping in to people you know.

Since I’ve resided here on the mountain, I’ve patronised the doctor, dentist, physiotherapist, pet shop, IGA, newsagent, hairdresser, library, mechanic, post office, bank, worked at one of the schools and frequented a number of pubs and restaurants.

I think I’ve been pretty damn good for this community’s economy really, especially my contribution to the dentist.

I suspect the dentist has black-listed me as ‘mildly histrionic’ due the Spanish inquisition I give him every time I visit regarding exactly what he will be doing and how much pain I’ll be in. He has ordered me NOT to look up my next procedure on the Internet under ANY circumstances and not to ask him any more silly Wikipedia based questions.

I'm positive my doctor has filed me away on his ‘irrational patient’ list due to my absolute refusal to have blood tests and my outrageous conspiracy theories regarding Big Pharma. 

I annoyed the librarian when I couldn’t work the photocopier and the mechanic was mortified that he had to test drive my canary yellow car with PINKY number plates around the mountain.

The lady at the post office knows me as the woman who asked her if she sold ‘normal’ stamps.

“Yes,” she raised one eyebrow. “We have the abnormal ones too if you’re interested.”

You know what I meant though don’t you? There was no need to make fun of me.

We took Celine, the Mini-Fox Terrier to the mountain vet today in order to replenish her menopausal hormone- replacement therapy and I was determined not to besmirch the Poinker name again.

Of course we had to take Pablo the Chihuahua along as well because the two dogs can’t be separated due to the Chihuahua’s clingy, obsessive infatuation with the Fox Terrier.

The second we pulled up outside the vet, the Mexican rat started up with his incessant, high-pitched Bar-ra-ra-ra-ra-ing. Everyone in the main street was staring.

It was embarrassing. Especially when the vet nurse requested we take him outside.

This is a dog even vet nurses can’t stand.

Celine put on the most melodramatic turn during the nail clipping episode and frankly the experience left me quite shaken. She attempted to bite the vet and struggled like a cat in a sack. It took three adults to hold the 3 kg dog down whilst Pablo growled viciously at the furore from a distance.

As we were leaving, I tremulously turned to the vet and said, “Thank you very much for your generosity.”
Scotto burst out into fit of maniacal giggles (I think he was delirious after what we’d just been through).

I quickly corrected myself with, “I mean, thank you for your ‘gentleness’ not generosity…” But it was too late.

I caught the expression on her face. I bet she writes something on our records about crazy owners and disturbed pets.

After the vet, we took the recalcitrant mutts for a first ever walk around the streets of the mountain where the Chihuahua proceeded to ba-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra at every fudging leaf that fluttered over his round-domed, behemoth of a head.

This is the first time we’ve taken them out on the mountain. I see other dog owners taking their lovely dogs out and sigh wistfully wishing my dogs could be normal.

Why can’t I ever have a normal pet? One that you can take to cafes and fancy bistros and Ye Olde English pubs, those places that have signs saying “Dogs Welcome… Children Not Allowed”? Where dogs sit peaceably at their owner’s feet and wag their tail when you smile at them.

No. I have to have a nervous, highly strung, neurotic, git of a dog and an insufferable, pugnacious, Mexican dictator who despises 99% of people with an intense passion.

Mind you when we arrived back at home they were both emotionally exhausted. 

Celine retired to the ‘good’ couch for a bit of retrospective, alone time and Pablo the Chihuahua snuggled up to his father and wouldn’t budge for hours.

Do you think I should take them to a dog psychotherapist for counselling or do you think it’s just a hereditary thing?