Looking after Nushi

 Shushann had to go out for the day so I dropped by her home in Coogee at lunchtime to give Nushi some company. We went for a lovely walk to the park where I met lots of other lovely dogs and their owners.

How cute is this little guy!

Memoral moments: The duvet reveal

One evening, I decided to take Mack for a walk. For once, I also brought along Milly—my housemates Matt and Sharmista’s year-old pug-spaniel cross. We headed toward Waverton Park, a good three-kilometer trek that took us across Brennan Park and through several busy suburban streets.

When we arrived, the park was shrouded in darkness. There were no lights, but in a moment of misplaced confidence, I let both Mack and Milly off their leads. I walked for a few more minutes, soaking in the night air, before a cold realization hit me: Milly was no longer visible.

I began to panic. I called out "Milly! Milly!" into the blackness. I paced up and down the park, my anxiety spiraling. I even enlisted the help of other walkers, who joined the search with flashlights and sympathetic faces. But after an hour of scouring the shadows, there was still no sign of her.

With a heavy, thudding heart, I began the long walk back to King Street. The guilt was overwhelming. How was I going to break it to them? I had lost their dog in the dark, three kilometers from home. As I crossed the multiple roads back to our house, I rehearsed my apology over and over, bracing for their devastation.

I reached the house and found the front door open. I walked in and saw Matt and Sharmista on the couch, wrapped in a duvet and watching TV. I took a deep breath, my voice trembling, ready to deliver the terrible news.

Suddenly, a small head popped out from the folds of the duvet. Two big, dark eyes blinked at me. It was Milly.

The relief was so intense I nearly collapsed. How a one-year-old pug-spaniel managed to navigate three kilometers of dark parks and busy roads entirely on her own, I will never know. Matt and Sharmista looked up at me with a smile, completely unaware that anything untoward had happened.

I never had the heart to tell them that their dog had spent the last hour dicing with death on the streets of Sydney. I just took a deep breath, sat down, and marveled at the secret, navigational genius of a dog who clearly knew the way home better than I did.

Memorable moments: The bed-wetting bandit

A few years back, my housemates Matt and Sharmista asked if they could get a puppy. In a moment of spectacular lapse in judgment, I said yes. It is a decision I ended up regretting with every fiber of my being.

Enter Milly: a pug-spaniel cross who looked deceivingly sweet but was, in reality, a portable source of immense psychological stress.

Our relationship got off to a literal "crash" start. During her first week, Matt asked if I’d mind her for a moment. I left her downstairs to take a quick shower, only to be interrupted by a haunting howl and a sickening thud. Milly had attempted to scale the stairs, slipped through the gaps between the steps, and plummeted onto the hardwood floor below. I rushed her to the vet, my heart hammering against my ribs, convinced I’d presided over a tragedy. Thankfully, she was fine, but my nervous system was not.

A few weeks later, she escalated her campaign by sneaking into my room and peeing on my bed. Not just once, but several times. I was far from impressed, and Mack—the undisputed Lord of the Manor—found her high-spirited antics utterly "pesky."

The chaos of the household, combined with other factors, eventually led my doctor to prescribe me some Xanax for anxiety. One afternoon, I made the fatal mistake of leaving my bedroom door ajar. I returned to find a scene that looked like a canine rockstar's final hotel room: Milly was sprawled on my bed, surrounded by an open bottle and pills scattered across the linens.

For the second time in a matter of months, I was racing a "horror of a dog" to the vet to have her stomach pumped.

I have never felt a sense of relief quite like the day Matt, Sharmista, and their pharmacological-adventurer of a dog finally moved out. Mack and I watched them go, finally reclaiming our quiet sanctuary.

And just like that, peace returned.

Mack resumed his rightful throne, I resumed my sanity, and somewhere out there, Milly continued her experimental research into pharmaceuticals—now, thankfully, under someone else’s supervision.

Memorable moments: The posh poodle predicament

When I was an early teen, I went on holiday to Plettenberg Bay with my school friend, Greg Perkes. We stayed with his grandparents, who were the living embodiment of "posh"—all silver tea services, refined accents, and an atmosphere so polite you felt you needed a permit just to sneeze.

We were sitting in the lounge, balancing delicate china plates on our knees and exchanging pleasantries. My arm was hanging casually by the side of my chair when, suddenly, I felt something latch onto my forearm. It was followed by a very specific, very rhythmic sensation between my fingers.

One of the family’s prize poodles had decided I was the love of its life.

In any other house, someone would have shouted or shooed the dog away. But in this house, the commitment to "decorum" was absolute. Greg’s grandparents continued to discuss the weather and the tea with unwavering focus, staring directly ahead as if my arm wasn't currently being courted by a small, curly-haired romantic.

I was trapped. I didn't want to rip my arm away and shatter the fragile polite silence, so I just sat there—nodding, sipping tea, and trying to look "refined" while a dog made a very honest woman out of my left limb.

It took an eternity to delicately extricate myself without making a scene.

I went in expecting a lesson in high-society manners; I left realizing that "posh" is just a fancy word for being able to ignore a poodle’s mid-afternoon climax while asking if I’d like another lump of sugar.

My favourite doggie

Now that Mackie and Jason have gone, Nushi is my number one doggie in the world.  Here are some precious photos and video taken by Shushann. Their relationship is so beautiful. Two way unadulterated unconditional love!

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Xenia birthday lunch at Frenchy's

We love Frenchy's cafe in Mosman. It has very much become our regular haunt. Xenia had her 55th birthday while she was in Tasmania but we celebrated it now that she was back.  Afterwards, I went for a wonderful walk to Taronga Zoo.

Wearing Shushann's glasses for fun. Very clear !!

Dog memorial in Glebe

I visited the Glebe Dog Memorial, located beneath the railway bridge near Jubilee Park, and found it quietly moving. The memorial consists of a wall where local residents have attached photographs, dog tags, plaques and short notes remembering dogs that were part of their families. It isn’t an official monument but a community-created space that has grown organically over time, reflecting how common and important dogs are in people’s lives. Seeing dozens of individual tributes in one place makes clear how strong the human–dog bond is, and how people feel the need to mark that loss publicly.  The memorial made me think of Mackie, Tina, Meg, Scamp and Cindy.  What a blessing to have so many beautiful dogs in my life.

Tina's 91st birthday in Carcoar

A lovely long weekend in Carcoar celebrating Tina's 91st birthday.  I drove up and came home with Dom (Tina's son) and his partner (Nacha) and we stayed with Ruth, Tina's daughter.

The ride to Carcoar

Delicious Lebanese Dinner

Coffee at The Gallery

Lovely old photo of the Stones

Tina's new home

Tina's birthday

Gypsy

Carcoar Village