"Why / how are you single?!"

I'm a 30 year old middle class white male. Take away the unseen mental health issues and, really, I have nothing for society to pin me down on – except that I'm single.

I mean long-term single. Last time I was in a serious relationship John Howard was PM. I've yet to enjoy regular sex in a liberated Australia.

We are a misunderstood group, us happy singles. Yes, “happy singles”! So many people don’t seem to realise the two words can even go together. Society doesn’t just pin us down, but beats us repeatedly across the face with expectations that we take every opportunity to get out there and find a partner – just find somebody!

A work colleague today asked if I was going out tonight. When I said no, he asked, “But you’re single right?”

Well yeah, but also I can’t be fucked going out tonight to make awkward small talk (we’ve covered this, yeah?) and try to pick up. I have better things to do. And I don’t even know what they are yet, but they don’t involve leaving the house. 

So I’d like to wish all my single friends a happy Valentines Day.

The rest of you can get fucked – indeed many of you will, so don’t take it to heart.

Don’t get me wrong, I do want to be in a serious relationship again – sooner rather than later preferably. But I’ve learnt a lot in my five years of singledom, which has been peppered with all kinds of – if not regular – dates and dalliances. Most importantly, I learnt I had to want to be in a relationship rather than need to be in one. That took a while. I spent many years seeing it as some kind of panacea to my mental health issues, which was harmful to potential relationships and prevented me helping myself for too long.

That whole “You have to love yourself before you can love someone else” thing always seemed like pithy, clichéd bullshit to me. Why couldn’t I love someone else while hating myself? It makes perfect sense if I see most people as better than me, right?! Well sure, but it’ll destroy a relationship.

I’ve focused the last couple of years on exploring my own happiness (not a euphemism) and passions. And, despite increasing concern of friends looking to set me up, I really have never been happier. Truly. After all, during my six-year relationship I was horribly anxious and depressed (not because of her!).

Relationships and love amazing, wonderful, energising things. But I refuse to be desperate for it – it’s not conducive to happiness, it’s unattractive and it’s counter-productive, and each of these things feed into each other.

If I had a dollar for every time someone has expressed bemusement at my ongoing sabbatical I could buy roses (at Valentines prices) for ALL the women today – I’m not blowing smoke up my own arse, but I am a catch ladies.

It’s a well intentioned, heartfelt and flattering sentiment, and yes I do appreciate friends keeping an eye out for a potential mate, but I do get a little tired of them being far more stressed about it than I am. It’s a little presumptuous and dismissive of my mindset, not to mention the fact someone can find happiness in a different way to you.

Marriage is held up as this ultimate goal of life, yet so many people are unhappy. And yes, I would like to get married – sorry, no, I would like to be with someone I want to marry. But it often just plays into another one of these all-consuming social expectations of what relationships are.

If and when I get married, I won’t buy into this “better half” bullshit. The most functional couple I know are two fully independent individuals choosing to spend the most important aspects of their life together. Outside observers have expressed curiosity to me that it is "a bit odd", and bemusement that they would spend regular nights out apart, even travel separately. Well apart from what the fuck business is it of yours anyway, why should a couple be tethered and tied. If you want to do the same thing, fantastic; if you don’t and drag each other around you just fuel frustration. Maintaining individual identity and passions is so important in my opinion; otherwise you lose what attracted you to each other in the first place.

I won’t succumb to the expectations of others when I know what makes me happy - I've spent the best part of 30 years figuring it out and it ain't been easy, so I deserve a little self-determination, thanks.

If I have a problem in this area aside from my sometimes crippling introversion, it is that I know exactly what I'm after. I've felt it – fleetingly – before. I’ve felt that amazing feeling of somebody who just understands you in an absurd way and challenges you and inspires you. It’s a blessing and a curse. I struggle to commit myself to any relationship that doesn’t meet that benchmark.

But I’m happy with my life as it is at the moment. Happier than a lot of people who today are sending flowers, going out for romantic dinners and writing on each others Facebook walls; not as happy as some of the genuine couples doing things their way – the ones I admire, and, I admit, do get a little bit jealous of sometimes.

What matters is I have lots to keep me occupied, interested in and excited by life at the moment, including a wide group of great – close friends who are male and female, single and attached, who are my inspiration, my support, my entertainment, my reason to live. They can’t give me everything a relationship would, but they come pretty close.

Happy Valentines Day to them. 

Meeting Tweeple People - Attending my first "Wonk drinks"

“I did something a little out-there and weird on Fridaynight,” I admitted to a friend on Sunday during a round of golf. “I met up witha bunch of people from Twitter for drinks.”

“That is weird,” he agreed.

“What the fuck?” Iretorted … silently (body language is 55% of communication).

It’s not weird. I only said it was to be self-deprecating anddemonstrate my insecurity and lead you into reaffirming validation that I’ddone something cool. You oblivious arsehole!*

Rewind a week or two. I’ve heard about ‘Wonk Drinks’. I don’treally know what it means but I know some interesting people I follow onTwitter, some who are even kind enough to regularly interact with me, mayattend. I think it’s based around politics. I think, given I’m all aboutpushing my comfort zone and getting out there (sometimes) perhaps I should liketo go along. So I tweet this thought, hoping someone will encourage me to go(validation). This happens. Hooray, I will ‘know’ TWO people attending.

The saying goes that Twitter is where you meet people youwant to have a drink with, and Facebook is the place you know people you want tothrow a drink at. I am finally going to properly test this theory. Welltechnically I have, and the first part passes because I’m going to a drinksevent; I am yet to throw a drink at a Facebook friend but just give me the chance…

People at work on Friday ask my weekend plans; I say nothingof the wonks the same way nobody used to talk about online dating. Plus beingbased around politics adds another level of social judgement.

I look up thedefinition of ‘wonk’. I am immediately intimidated. What have I gotten in for.Better do some reading. I don’t.

Friday 5pm rolls around and I consider my strategy. Meetingpeople is scary. A socially awkward introvert by nature, this will not bewithin my comfort zone. Hell that’s partly why I use Twitter to engage withpeople, so why am I even doing this?!

Meeting people is dangerous. The initial liberating,unshackled obscurity of not really knowing your followers, which allowsrelatively unrestrained truth – one of the great joys of Twitter – would likelybe reined in a little further. Necessarily constructed and scarcely informed illusionsof who these people are in my mind will be shattered by reality.  If these are terrible people I will leave andstart a new Twitter account in the morning. But I am still excited to go, or atleast excited to have been. And Ishould go, it’s good for me to push my boundaries.

So my strategy. Well it starts at 6pm and I figure I havetwo options – safely  early or safelylate. There is no ‘safely on time’. Early means a good half hour ahead of time,with a book to read and hoping the first attendees realise what I’m there forand take me under their wing. Assuming they are nice people, it’s an easy in.It also gives time to warm up (drink down). But I don’t know the pub set up orwhere they’ll congregate.

Late means ensuring I arrive after my known ‘tweeps’ –possibly leaving at least one of them out to dry for my own security – to ensureI have a  conversational entry point. Ihate small talk and can never think of anything to say and will likely standacross the room against the wall with a beer in one hand, pretending to use thephone with the other, figuring out how to get amongst the group in the leastembarrassing way. So really I should challenge myself and arrive on time, but Ireally don’t wanna look like a dick.

On the tram at I check the #melbwonkdrinks hash tag for anyactivity, particularly from my tweeps. It’s on. One of my friends is there, theother on the way in, just ahead of me I think. As the tram pulls up at PigdonStreet I look up and am surprised to find it has arrived at Pigdon Street, andrush towards the rear door where a man is disembarking. He looks over hisshoulder at me and I try to look like I’m not stalking him.

He looks familiar. Could he be Ross? I’ve only seen an old thumbnailpic of this guy and I don’t wanna look like a dick so I leave my earphones inand we stand in the middle of the road waiting to cross east from the tramstop. I think he’s wondering what I’m wondering. We walk towards the pub. Okay,this is probably him so … I walk ahead to save the awkwardness, especially ifwe wind up tweeting at each other.

I cross to the north side of the road and look back to seehim on his phone. A minute later my Twitter friend Ross has tweeted at me andour mutual friend Steph that he thinks he and I were standing next to eachother at the lights, both too embarrassed to ask. I look up and wait for him tocome to my side of the road and meet my first Tweep in real life.

Not weird at all!

And! Now I am entering with a friend; I have a wing man! Weenter and Steph recognises us. Wow, thank God.

We have a lovely chat that barely touches on politics earlyon. Then I meet others; some I follow, some I don’t – none follow me. Not thatthis matters, for here we are real people! And rarely do we all avoid Twitterfor so long at the same time! Many are not really what I imagined, because whatI imagined wasn’t real – especially for those without facial images online. Iwonder what those who did know of me are thinking now, compared to how I comeacross online. I should ask, but I don’t really think to.

Some of these people truly know their shit. I will notdebate these people. I will offer opinions and listen intently to a range offascinating conversations, and possibly look like a fence-sitter but I amtaking it all in, mulling it over. I could just listen while sipping on my pintall night. Such an interesting collection of “strangers”; how else does thishappen these days but for something like Twitter?

Meeting people is easy. 

Maybe not normal orusual, but it’s pretty natural,people socialising with other people around a common interest. You might evencall it healthy. Sure beats sitting alone at home glued to Masterchef.

*He’s not an arsehole, this is dramatic effect.

Book review - "A Decision to Discriminate: Aboriginal Disempowerment in the Northern Territory"

Over the Australia Day long weekend I read and reviewed A Decision to Discriminate: Aboriginal Disempowerment in the Northern Territory, for Right Now.

The book which discusses the consultation process undertaken by the Federal Government in Aboriginal communities ahead of introducing it's Stronger Futures legislation and paints pretty appalling and disenchanting picture.

It won't be an election issue, but while our politicians engage in petty stunts for media attention, everyone is ignoring some of the most disadvantaged and disempowered people in our country.

  
"A Decision to Discriminate: Aboriginal Disempowerment in the Northern Territory"


Almost 70 years ago Albert Camus wrote that “goodwill can cause almost as much damage as ill-will if it is not enlightened” -  a sentiment it seems that could well apply to the Australian government’s approach to Indigenous affairs.

Reading A Decision to Discriminate: Aboriginal Disempowerment in the Northern Territory, published by Concerned Australians, leaves you with the troubling impression that the Gillard Government’s Stronger Futures legislation – which followed on from the Howard Government’s Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER) and drifted quietly through Parliament in early 2012 – was at worst a continuation of arrogant and destructive disempowerment, and at best an act of wilful naivety in what is deemed by government and media to be an issue of minimal importance.

Read more...

Anxious and Catholic cathartics

Into the bin old Catholic burdens!

They are just symbols. Inanimate sculptures of metal, pieces of fabric, with no inherent meaning other than that which I choose to allow them. No magical powers. Yet a source of heavy burden for many years, a burden assigned by the mind - influenced by the world outside it - and reflected back with greater intensity as neurons fire and anxiety pulses through the brain.

For years now, they've been packed away, close but virtually non-existent. I couldn't throw them away. I don't know why, it just felt ... wrong. Out of sight to spare my mind. Left sitting in a dark place devoid of meaning.

This is the one aspect of my 15 or so years of chronic OCD that I never thought I would publicly disclose, or at least not for a long time. Honesty is fine, but some things people just don't get. It was the most absurd and personally embarrassing. But, the hell with it.

On the wall just inside the door to my bedroom at my parents house, just above the light switch and in direct line of sight, less than a metre away as you opened the door, was a crucifix. I think I received it as a First Communion gift.

I was raised a good catholic boy. God fearing. I was more superstitious than religious now I think of it, so perhaps it was inevitable that I would reject it when I realised it didn't satisfy my soul. I feared the unknown power of God, hell and religion more than anything else ever. It was so abstract and so overwhelming it was one thing my obsessively rationalising mind could not combat when anxieties kicked in. The 'what ifs' were endless. And, at times, terrifying.

I couldn't look at that crucifix much of the time for fear of thinking a 'bad thought' and feeling like I'd prayed for it. So at any time I feared I might slip into prayer (basically any time I thought about it) my thoughts went into lock down, heavy control, so I didn't inadvertently ask the almighty for something bad. Something like the Mr Stay Puft scene in Ghostbusters. Over time I developed measures of avoiding these outcomes, though each time my mind found a loop hole and they are too many and absurd to describe here. I had internal debates about what constituted praying. When did a thought become a prayer.

Religion was the bane of my life. It was made more torturous by the fact I 'knew' no one else had these concerns. Still, I couldn't rest easy or allow free thought until I was absolutely, beyond any doubt convinced four, eight or sixteen times over that I had nothing to worry about. Welcome to the world of OCD.

Thought suppression is not just essentially impossible, but counter-productive. Looking at that crucifix made me think of prayer, which brought anxious thoughts of things I didn't want to pray for, which made me try to not think those thoughts, which, of course, made it impossible to get those things out of my mind, which made me *want* to think them just for the relief, which created more tension as I desperately suppressed those thoughts more tightly, thinking in explicit, super-conscious, 'front of mind' words to avoid my worst fears potentially coming to fruition.

I got frustrated and desperately angry with myself. Often I would hit myself in the head with the heel of my hand to teach myself a lesson.

Once I threw Jesus across the room and broke his arm. I later placed him back up on the wall, a bread bag wire holding his arm on the cross, and wondered what mum and dad thought when they saw it.

As an aside, this history of religion-related OCD might also explain for my friends who were with me in Munich where I drunkenly and joyously yelled abuse at God and the Church as we stumbled home from Oktoberfest one night. It wasn't hatred so much, or even grandstanding, but a primal uninhibited release harking back all those years. Why that night, I don't know - I was happy and free of worry perhaps. It wasn't cool, but it was harmless. And it feels good to break the shackles of your oppression.

I started trying to get out of going to mass in my mid-late teens because it was such a tortorous experience. It wasn't until a few years later that I became disillusioned with the Church, and later realised I didn't really believe in it. Not believing in it was no reason not to feel the anxiety though. That went on a few more years along, or in interchange, with other fears. I still couldn't prove beyond obsessive doubt that I had nothing to worry about.

So, when I moved out, for some reason I took pieces of religious memorabilia with me. They never saw daylight, just sat in a cigar box I souvenired from my Dan Murphy's days on a shelf. A sense of foreboding unease prevented me throwing them away. I couldn't think of it, it had a bad feeling to it.

Until this weekend past. Cleaning out all the crap from my crowding bedroom I found an old communion plaque, a card from my confirmation and a scapular I wore religiously in year 8. Discarding them out was not easy, per se. I didn't want them, but there was an instinctive discomfort with throwing them out. And not because I'm a hoarder. Other than band t-shirts most other things can go when past their usefulness.

Overriding that though, was the fact they no longer reflect my identity in any way, and it was empowering to toss them. What would my parents think? It doesn't matter.

These were reminders, not of joyous times, but of pain. By throwing them in the bin, where they still sit in my room as a sustained show of strength, I'm not running from those memories but prioritising my energy and focus on things that reflect who I am. It was liberating. I felt my 15 year old self smile. I'll never forget. But I have no space for oppressive symbolism.

I don't want to be a cynical Grinch anymore

I'm tired of being cynical. View my Twitter feed this morning and that may seem at odds with where my head's been at, but gimme a break, my head's full of phlegm.

Cynicism is draining. I hate when I get caught up in it. It's egotistical. It's lazy. It's easy. It's pathetic. It's miserable. It's a waste of energy and passion. It's tedious and people don't like it unless they absolutely agree. I'm quite cynical about it.

My cynicism now traditionally spikes around December, or immediately following media coverage of an NRA statement.

The primary cause - nine years working amongst the Christmas madness, three at a bottle shop where people take things very seriously on Christmas Eve. All those shitty, impatient customers and their Christmas sneer.

December is dominated by shopping and it's a jungle of materialistic animals, every man and woman for his and herself. I don't want any fucking presents, any small anonymous gifts left on my desk at work. Let's just be social. I'll even make an effort despite this fucking cold I picked up at work.

Sorry, another momentary lapse. Six years distance from those memories has actually starved my Grinch of a significant amount of bitter oxygen. Also, I spend as little time as possible shopping - either heading out once I know what I want, or at the last minute when I'm resigned to settling for crap.

This year we have a Christmas tree! First time since I left the parental home six years ago. Well we had a 'Christmas branch' one year, in a vase of stones, decorated with silver tinsel, but from my point of view that was as much a 'fuck you' to the traditional tree as it was a delightful decorative piece. I'd have kept doing it if I'd been able to find another such perfect branch, and my housemate hadn't taken the vase, stones and tinsel.

This year's is a real one though. Well, it's fake, but it's a step back towards my childhood Christmas experiences. The happy ones. We even have a Nativity Scene, if only because Mum "inoffensively" insisted. But I don't mind it for pleasant, nostalgic value. Santa isn't real either.


Meanwhile there's so much nasty cynicism from people on Twitter at the moment, who see to build notoriety and popularity by mistaking nastiness for wit. Okay, they're funny sometimes, but I don't want so much of that negativity in my world. I just want to see people more more open and accepting, because it'd make it a damn sight easier for me to be.


Last week I was a groomsman at a wedding for two of my closest friends, one of whom I've known for more than 20 years and was unspeakably stoked to share her special day with.

They think a little differently to me. Out on location a day before, the weather was causing havoc with arrangements, we ran through a rehearsal that was not quite what I'd have done and there was much frantic organising taking place, which continued into the next morning. I wanted to tell them to relax and enjoy the day for what it would be, you can't control these things no matter how much you plan. I should have taken my own advice.

It was perfect. It was their wedding, and 'them' to a tee, and amazing, and - most importantly - truly genuine. I even caught the tiniest salty discharge trying to escape the corner of my eye.

I tried a few times to express to them how amazing I thought it was and how much it meant to be part of it, knowing people sometimes to struggle to know how seriously to take me.

And then on TV last night two quotes summed up what I was thinking. Some guy on the ABC said that "tolerance is not the opposite of intolerance, hospitality is" and Father Bob said on  The Project that people are "so busy whinging you can't hear the beautiful things". Touche. Or see or feel them.

There will always be shit people in the world. Indeed, one must be grateful for it, as it makes it that much easier to be better than most. I want to bitch less, get caught up less in other people's unproductive negativity, but you'd be sorely mistaken if you think that means a reduction in passion, so there will continue to be angry rants with hopefully at least a dash of constructive thoughtfulness.


Back to Christmas. This is the most festive I've felt in years and why should I fight that. There's heaps to enjoy about Christmas. For me, being grateful for friends who continue to stand by my side and some awesome new ones I've made this year, as well as a family I don't actively appreciate enough. Time off and the general opportunity to spend time away from the desk and with special people. Not even gun-toting menaces with cold, dead hearts half a world away, or impatient, rude, selfish shoppers can distract me from that for more than few moments.

I'll do my Christmas shopping and I'll take it slow, and smile at people and let them go ahead of me if they must - unless they're being a total arse, in which case perhaps I'll just cough on them ... I can't fight my nature too much. I might even notice someone else takin' it slow and free and easy. just digging it for what it is - crazy activity in our strange world. And that will make me happy.

Then I'll go have a beer with friends and talk about all sorts of random stuff. And I'll have fun, as long as this fucking cold eases off.

Thirty is the new who cares

Never too old to 'meme'

Thirty is the new 'who gives a toss how old you are'. An indifference I expect will - naturally and counter-intuitively - increase with time. The happiest people in the world don't care about their age. Most of them are 'old'. Writing about getting old at 30 must seem as foolish to anyone older than me as it would seem normal to most people younger.

"Are you feeling older and wiser today?" my workmates asked on Tuesday - the day I dropped the "2" prefix forever.

"Yeah," I replied. "Same as every other day."

I don't feel anywhere near as old as I probably seem to those kids that drunkenly stumble around the bars around the corner from my house. Not that I care. I was the same. They'll get it one day. Maybe.

My 18-year-old self would have been shocked to find out 12 years on I'd be renting in a share house, with no wife, no girlfriend, in a barely-satisfying job.

Aging worried me more when I was 16 than it does now. I was dumb. Why spend today worrying about how you might feel tomorrow? How else is there to live other than moving through life?

People complain about getting old, but no one wants to miss out on the privilege.

I didn't get it, but you're not supposed to, otherwise what would be the point?

I could never have dreamed of my life at 30 - the people, the opportunities, more actively getting out and seeing things, looking at small gigs and realising that not everyone buys into the myth of adulthood that's sold to us early on, not everyone lives by the numbers. It can still be fun and that doesn't mean balking at the responsibilities and serious stuff. It just means being happy. I don't have to be married right now (or ever); I don't have to have kids, though it would be a shame given how awesome an uncle I am; I don't have to be bidding on houses in places I can afford but don't want to live; I don't have to start tuning in to classic hits radio.

My twenties were tough. And fantastic. And memorable. Defining. I've picked up so much and left behind a restrictive, miserable, instructed way of thinking about myself and the world. I realised that it's weird to be normal and it's normal to be weird. Normal for you is who you are, what you desire, how you express yourself. Guaranteed it will seem weird to other people but that's just a great filter of figuring out who is worth talking to.

I've never been older, I've never been happier.

Thirty is a good round number, so it's a worthwhile time, sit back for a moment and think about how things are going, write a blog post perhaps.

Life is moving fast, as ever. There's more to do than can be done. But you will never have so much life left again.

Mostly, turning 30 has made me think about my priorities and how to achieve what I really want from my life, particularly the next few years.

Saturn's Return has fascinated me for a few years, because I wanted it to be truth. I wanted upheaval in my life, and better if it came because of some external, universal force that didn't require me waking up to myself. I wrote one of my first blog posts about it, on the occasion of my 28th birthday.

I was excited about this period when “a person crosses over a major threshold and into the next stage of life”.

“The first Saturn Return is famous because it represents the first test of character and the structures a person has built their life upon. According to traditions, should these structures be unsound, or if a person is living out of touch with his or her true values, the Saturn Return will be a time of upheaval and limitations as Saturn forces him or her to jettison old concepts and worn out patterns of living. It is not uncommon for relationships and jobs to end during this time of life restructuring and reevaluation.”
  
And on turning 30:

"During this time astrologers note that goals are consolidated and people tend to gain a better vision of where they are going in life. There are added responsibilities and a person may reap the rewards from his or her hard work. Many major life milestones seem to happen around the ages of 29 and 30. This is why astrologers believe that the thirtieth birthday is such a major rite of passage because it marks the true beginning of adulthood, self-evaluation, independence, ambition, and self-actualization.”
 

Maybe I just wanted it to be true, I had the right mindset to make it self-fulfilling. Maybe it was coincidence that that girl passed through my life right at that time and shook everything up. Whether astrological, psychological or random chance, the last two years of my life have been the most amazing, most transformative, of my life. Or perhaps I'm just more aware of myself now.

"You're shit - do stuff!": Friendly advice in early 2010

Two years ago I desperately wanted a relationship, partially as a distraction from myself to make me happy. Instead I did it myself. I had some guidance and good friends, friends who saw the gap between my life and my potential and were willing to say "You're shit, do stuff!". And I did, I am, I will. I got to work on being happy with myself so I could get going pursuing the things that made me happy. I'm keeping an eye out for that special someone, whoever she is, but I don't need her anymore - to the resistant dismay of some friends. There is so much else in my life that drives me and makes me happy anyway. I will never rely on just one person for companionship, inspiration, advice, conversation, wisdom, fun, telling-it-like-it-is, love and everything else my friends provide. I am tired of spooning my pillows though.

The notion of being a grown up is bullshit. It suggests being done growing. No one never knows much at all, and we know taking life too seriously is hazardous for your health. The day I stop growing as a person is the day I say goodbye, be it 30 or 80.

Today is always today. Yesterday is a memory. Tomorrow will never arrive. This is the start of what I expect to be the best decade of my first four. But maybe it won't be. Maybe I won't see it out. I'll just enjoy living it for better and worse. I'm not going to base my life around a job I don't like and work towards a day I might not reach, only to get there and wonder where the time went?

I'm the least stressed member of my family and I'm the one living the least conventional life (and the one with the - diagnosed at least - anxiety disorder...).

Every day is a highly unlikely gift, so don't make it a cliche - you're not one, once you realise it. Even if that sentence is.

Fond farewell to a man's best friend

Goodbye Lucy, my manic ball of scruff.

Lucy in 2002, age 6, looking innocent

They say dogs resemble their owners. I wonder if you picked up certain unfortunate traits from me, at least me as a youth, things like a palpable anxiety at times (no doubt also due to being zipped over, miraculously unharmed, by a car in the very early days), a fierce temper and being just a little bit, healthily, crazy.

Sixteen and a half years ago, Mum and Dad just sprung it on me one ordinary June Saturday that we were to get a dog. A lesson for all kids there - pester long enough and you can win. Dad had, years earlier, promised me a dog for my eighth birthday, undoubtedly hoping I'd forget. We had an old Labrador for a short while - the most timid animal I've ever met, very unlike you Lucy - but she became too much stress for Mum I think so we gave her to a family friend where she was well looked after. Perhaps if I'd been more aware of things I would not have half-jokingly pestered Dad for the five or six between turning  eight and this June day in 1996. Still, it was a shock. Why had they suddenly come to this decision? Was there bribery involved...?

I don't know why I chose a small dog, I've always liked big ones. Maybe the pressure of the situation. I don't know what stood out about you, I vaguely remember a certain energy. It would make sense if you were the terror of the litter, even at six weeks.

It was so unexpected that Nick and Dave freaked out when they saw what looked like an over-sized rat running around the kitchen upon returning home from a weekend in Queensland. I remember when you used to sleep in Dave's The Late Show cap. He loved that cap. I love that you claimed it. Man, I wish I could find that photo!

I was naive in a lot of ways. I wanted the dog but not the responsibility. But I was now old enough to take on responsibility. I sure as hell didn't know what I was in for. None of us did. You included, I'm sure.

For years I wanted a dog, but as soon as we got you home I became depressed. It wasn't you, it was me. All I could think about for days was that I was going to get attached to you and someday you would die. That was the sentiment in my irrational head and locked-up heart. In the first days you were a constant reminder of an unavoidable sadness I couldn't handle. Maybe it was the sudden change in my life. I never much liked change.

But change is inevitable, and irrationality passes. And who could maintain such detached thinking with such bursts of unbound energy racing around the place.

I'm not gonna lie, you brought more than your fair share of trouble. We had a complex friendship you and me, but that just made it more real. I think I was the only one that actually talked to you sometimes, but don't tell anyone.

Lucy, 11 November 2012, aged 16

I always knew exactly where you stood. Your temperament needed work as much as my energy and motivation did. It didn't make things easy. I didn't train you well at all, but on the flipside, I'm glad we didn't train the personality out of you. You were moody a bit more than is generally acceptable for a dog, and we had to make sure the kids were careful with you - which was sad - but you were genuine. When you came to me, jumped all over me in your unruly, enthusiastic way, I knew it was because you wanted to - maybe because I had a schmacko - not out of mere obedience.

I should have socialised you more. I was not a great owner, but I hope I was as good a friend for you as you were for me, especially in those early years when I didn't have many of the human variety.

As I spent two weeks unable to settle on a name, Nick and Dave - inspired by a film they'd just seen - enthusiastically suggested Kaiser. It would have been somewhat fitting. Dave lovingly called you "Psycho". Unbound sometimes meant aggressively undisciplined, but in all you were a loving, loved, bundle of fun and joy.

It's fair to say I have some regrets, though I don't know how you feel about it all. about lots of things. You didn't want to be trained, and I made mediocre teenage efforts to train you. You had temperament issues, I had motivational ones. In some ways, we made a good pairing, but I think I let you down. I definitely let Mum and Dad down. I'd do things differently, I don't know how you felt about it all.

I'm sorry I had to leave you behind when I moved out. I probably didn't wash you often enough, especially after moving out, but I'm not sure you're too fussed about that one. I was thrilled that we continued to have that special owner/pet bond, as if you know you were "my" dog. Though I don't like the term "owner" between friends.

I'm sorry for the conflicted feelings I felt as you aged. The guilt of leaving you behind, when having a dog around was a stress Mum didn't need and had her own health to worry about. When signs of age appeared - when you stopped racing to the side of the house barking as my car pulled up because you couldn't hear so well, and when you stopped running to the front door as I entered jumping all over me because you didn't have the energy - I felt some relief of this guilt, which was horrible and created new conflicted feelings and guilt in me.

The last week was tough. Seeing you stop eating and fade so fast, no longer responding to your name, I wasn't even sure if I was being a comfort or annoyance. I don't know if you even knew who I really was anymore so far were you gone. You were not the little loveable menace of years past. But you were still Lucy.

The hardest part was that I didn't know what the best thing for you was. I prepared myself to make that difficult decision - on advice - but the vet encouraged persistence. You seemed to have made up your mind though.

I'm sad I wasn't the one there with you on Friday when you fell asleep for the last time, to look you in the eye and comfort you like all those other times the bad man gave you needles (he really is a nice fellow, I should say). I'm sorry one of the last moments we shared involved me forcing tablets down your throat.

I hate saying I felt some relief when we all decided it was time, but I did, for various reasons. It was nothing like my anxious fears when you first arrived. We were all ready. It's horrible. Or is it? Is it coping? Is it the way when a life comes to a prolonged, (almost) natural end?

But now you are actually gone and it's been a long time - before you were born - since I've lost anyone/anything dear to me. Looking at photos of you makes me much much sadder than I felt when I knew your time was up. Do I miss you more than I loved you? Fuck, I hope not, that's horrible. It's reality sinking in. I look at these photos and want to scruff you up again, chase you round the back yard, yell "cat!" and see you bolt out the back to try in vain to intimidate the darn things. I look  at that photo, of the dog that's been some years gone, and still I have to remind myself. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone. I think I had a tear yesterday. I'm not sure, wind was blowing in my eyes. But I am sad.

I'm coming round tomorrow. It might sink in then, seeing your bowl and bed - or not seeing them. I'm going to sit next to where Dad buried you, have a beer and thank you for being the crazy, untameable, troublesome, fun life you were. I'm glad I picked you.


Miss you buddy. You were one of a kind. It was far from perfect, but I hope we gave you a happy life.

A friend gave me some words from Ben Hur Lampman (I'd never heard of him, but he seems to be switched on): "The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master".

I'm not sure I was ever your master, but you know you always have a comfortable spot there.

Rest well, or just give 'em hell, wherever you are.