Memorable moments: From Party Animal to Grumpy Old Man

Mackie, my beautiful Jack Russell, underwent a profound shift in his relationship with the younger generation as he aged.

When he was in his prime, he loved kids with all his heart. I have vivid memories of taking him to my friend Andreas's house for his young son Lucas’s birthday party. Mackie was the undisputed life and soul of the event. The kids had endless fun throwing a tennis ball for him, and Mackie had the time of his life chasing it down and bringing it back, completely tireless.

Then, around the ripe old age of sixteen, a switch flipped. Mackie officially retired from his role as party entertainer and decided he was completely over youngsters—whether they were energetic human children or overeager puppies.

At the park, if a young whippersnapper of a dog bounced up to say hello, Mackie would let out a low growl and occasionally even snap to enforce his personal space. He took the exact same stance with children. This posed a bit of a diplomatic challenge, because even in his twilight years, Mackie looked utterly adorable, and kids would naturally wander over wanting to pet him. I constantly had to intervene and explain that the cute little dog had grown very grumpy in his old age.

My daily routine involved walking Mackie and sometimes tethering him outside the local shop for five minutes while I popped in for a few items.

One afternoon, standing near the back of the store, I glanced toward the front entrance to check on him. To my horror, I saw a small child stepping toward Mackie, arm already outstretched to give him a pat.

It instantly became one of those ultra-slow-motion action movie sequences. In my head, a deep "NOOOOO!" echoed as I lunged toward the doorway, desperate to prevent a nipping incident before it was too late.

Thankfully, Mackie merely let out a stern, warning growl rather than a bite, and the child pulled back safely. But that was the end of his solo waiting privileges outside the shop.

Grumpy or not, I adored Mackie in every single one of his moods. After all, when you are pushing close to a hundred in human years, you’ve earned the absolute right to assert your seniority and tell the young whippersnappers to get off your lawn.

Memorable moments: The Waverton slide

I took my beloved Mack for a walk to Waverton Park late one night. As was our ritual, I let him off the lead the moment we hit the grass, letting him bound into the darkness. But the weather turned quickly; a sudden rain began to slick the paths, and we started to make a run for home.

Before I could clip his lead back on, Mack caught a scent or a spark of excitement and bolted toward the road. My heart stopped. A car was approaching, its headlights cutting through the drizzle, just as Mack stepped into its path.

All I could think was, "No, Mack."

Without a second of calculation, I charged into the road. My plan was to scoop him up and carry him to safety, but the wet bitumen had other ideas. My feet went out from under me, and I fell headlong onto the road, sliding directly into the path of the oncoming car. Mack, nimble as ever, skipped out of the way to safety.

The car came to a bone-shaking, screeching halt just inches from where I lay.

The driver was absolutely enraged—and rightfully so. He jumped out of the car, his voice shaking with adrenaline. "Are you crazy!" he screamed. "How can you throw your life away like that for a dog!"

I picked myself up, dripping and bruised, and looked across at Mack. He was standing on the pavement, tail wagging, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just attempted a clumsy martyrdom on his behalf.

In that moment, the driver's logic meant nothing to me. I wasn't thinking about my own safety; I was thinking about how much I loved that dog. I imagined the impossible task of going home to tell Liza, Mack’s co-owner, that he was gone. She was so beyond besotted with him that the news would have been world-ending.

I apologized profusely to the driver, standing there in the rain as he vented his shock. Then, Mack and I turned and walked on into the night. I was wet, sore, and had been thoroughly told off, but as I looked at that dog trotting beside me, I knew I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Memorable moments: The scent of enlightenment

I had just returned from a Sunday spiritual retreat—a day steeped in meditation, mindfulness, and the kind of profound silence that makes you feel as though you’re floating six inches off the ground. By the time I arrived home, my calm was absolute. I was in an enlightened, Zen-like state, a "dispassionate witness" to the world.

Mack greeted me, though with notably less joyful abandon than usual. This was in the era before Liza, and I’d been forced to leave him with my housemate, Craig—a man with whom Mack didn’t exactly "gel."

Still wrapped in my blanket of peace, I remembered the laundry I’d left in the machine before the retreat. I went to retrieve it, carried it upstairs, and meticulously hung it on the clothes horse on my balcony. It was only then that a distinctly non-spiritual aroma began to pierce my meditative bubble.

I looked down. My shoes were covered. I looked at the floor. My bedroom was a minefield. The stairs, the lounge, the kitchen—it was everywhere.

The source, I realized, was the laundry room. Mack, perhaps voicing his profound displeasure at being left behind, had made a significant "deposit" right in front of the machine. In my enlightened haze, I had walked straight through it and proceeded to stamp my new, smelly reality into every square inch of the house.

"Shit!" I said—a mantra somewhat different from the ones I’d practiced that morning.

My school of meditation was all about "The Witness." Observe the breath. Observe the sensation. Do not react. So, as I spent the next hour and a half on my hands and knees with a mop and a bucket, I repeated my new focus: "Witness and don’t react."

It was the ultimate spiritual practice. I stood over the bucket, a dispassionate observer of the Pine O'Cleen, trying to remain grounded while the physical evidence of Mack’s indignation met my scrubbing brush.

I can’t say I passed the test with flying colors—there may have been some un-Zen-like muttering under my breath—but I was certainly less agitated than I would have been without the retreat. Mack had taught me a valuable lesson: enlightenment is all well and good, but in the real world, you still have to watch where you step.

Memorable moments: Lord Muck of the Manor

A short while after Ally and I separated, an old friend moved into the spare room. He was a steady presence, paid his rent on time, and I appreciated the extra income. But as it turned out, he wasn’t just paying rent; he was also conducting a six-month sociological study on the power dynamics of my household.

One afternoon, he handed me a book. The title was blunt: "What to Do When Your Dog is the Alpha Male in Your Relationship."

I flipped it over and saw a quote by Martha Scott that felt like a personal attack: "Don’t make the mistake of treating your dogs like humans, or they’ll treat you like dogs."

I was, to put it mildly, a little affronted. Why on earth would he buy me such a thing? Mack and I were perfect equals! We shared a life, a vibe, and a mutual respect. I tossed the book onto my shelf in a huff, refusing to give it the satisfaction of a single turned page.

A few weeks later, I finished brushing my teeth and walked into my bedroom, ready for a peaceful night’s sleep. I stopped dead in the doorway. There was Mack, positioned exactly where my head was supposed to go. He wasn't just lying there; he was perched atop my pillow like "Lord Muck," surveying the room with a haughty, regal air that suggested I was merely a guest in his executive suite.

He didn't move. He didn't wag. He just looked at me as if to say, "I believe your spot is at the foot of the bed tonight, human."

I stood there staring at his "proportional" ego and realized the truth. I slowly backed out of the room, walked over to the bookshelf, and pulled down the manual. It turns out that when you treat a Zen Master like a king for long enough, he eventually decides he needs a throne—and in my house, that throne was a standard-sized pillow.

Memorable moments: The dog-flap dilemma

Every morning, I would head out early to my job as an English teacher, leaving Mack comfortably ensconced in the warmth of my bed. Our daily hand-over ritual was clockwork: around 9:00 AM, Liza would arrive, knock on the door, and belt out her signature summons: "Mack, Mack, Mack, Macketty Mack Mack!"

Usually, this triggered a joyful, high-speed sprint as Mack thundered down the stairs and burst through the dog flap for a blissful reunion. But one morning, the wind conspired against the routine and blew my bedroom door shut.

When Liza arrived and gave the call, Mack found himself a prisoner. He went from "Zen Master" to "Houdini in a panic" instantly, barking with a frantic intensity that could be heard down the street. Liza, hearing the desperation, immediately assumed the worst. Mack was injured. Mack was dying. Mack had somehow succumbed to the "sucker" appendix genes of the Myburgh line.

In a state of total maternal panic, she tried my mobile, but I was in the middle of a lesson with my phone switched off. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Liza decided the only way into the fortress was through the dog flap.

Now, Liza is not a large woman, but she isn't exactly "canine-proportioned" either. She dropped to her hands and knees and committed to the entry. She managed to get her head and shoulders through the portal before the laws of physics intervened. She was stuck—wedged firmly in the doorframe, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.

It was at this exact moment that my housemate arrived home. He walked up the path to find a pair of legs and a bottom waving in the air, while the rest of Liza was inside the house, still gamely yelling, "Mack! Mack! Mack!" into the hallway. All the while, the "victim" continued his operatic barking from the safety of the upstairs bedroom.

It takes a special kind of person to prioritize a barking dog over the basic laws of physics and personal decorum. Liza didn't just want to save Mack; she was willing to become a permanent part of the house’s infrastructure to do it. My housemate’s arrival was the only thing that saved her from a very long morning of "Macketty Mack-ing" into the carpet. After that, we decided that a spare key was a much more "proportional" solution than Liza attempting to shrink herself to the size of a spaniel.

Memorable moments: The prayer gong paradox

Mack was, in many ways, a spiritual dog—a natural Zen master of the "now." He was a creature of the light; if a single sunbeam pierced the shadows of my room, he would find it and claim it instantly. He even had a dedicated meditation practice. In my early days, I used to meditate lying on the floor with my feet up on the bed, and Mack would immediately come and settle his weight onto my chest and tummy, resting his head on my shoulder to soak up the chilled-out vibrations.

When a group of friends invited me to a formal weekend meditation retreat, I asked if I could bring my four-legged guru along. They were hesitant—retreats are usually strictly human affairs—but because Mack was so famously placid, they made an exception.

We arrived, and Mack played his part perfectly. He slipped quietly under my chair, a silent shadow of canine composure. We went through the formal preparations, grounding ourselves and sinking into a deep, collective calm. The room was heavy with silence and spiritual intent.

Then, Brendan picked up the striker and hit the prayer gong.

Now, there is one thing—and one thing alone—that makes Mack go absolutely ballistic, and that is a doorbell. To his ears, the resonant, metallic claaaang of the sacred gong wasn't a call to enlightenment; it was a high-priority intruder alert.

Mack didn't just wake up; he launched himself from under the chair like a furry missile. He began to bark uncontrollably, a frantic, rhythmic explosion of noise that shattered the "oneness" of the room into a million jagged pieces. The "semblance of calm" didn't just evaporate; it was hunted down and mauled.

I had to scramble to my feet, grab his collar, and drag my "Zen Master" out of the hall while apologizing profusely to a room full of people who had just been violently ejected from their third eye.

It was deeply embarrassing. I realized that day that while Mack was indeed a creature of the light, he was also a creature of the front porch. He proved that even in the deepest state of meditation, there is no sound quite as powerful as the one that tells a dog there might be a postman at the door.

Memorable moments: The forensic envelope

Not long after Liza came into our lives—and into Mack’s—I returned home to find a mysterious envelope taped to my front door. It wasn’t a bill or a friendly "hello" card; it felt strangely weighted.

I opened it up, and two small pieces of plastic fell out into my palm. I turned them over, squinting at them, trying to identify which household object had met a violent end. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from Liza:

"I found these in Mack’s poo. I’m most concerned. What has he been eating?"

I stood there on the porch, staring at the plastic evidence of Mack’s internal transit system. It was a baptism by fire into our new co-parenting arrangement. Most people might start a relationship by sharing a bottle of wine or a nice meal; Liza and I started ours with a shared, high-stakes investigation into what, exactly, Mack had decided was an appetizer.

It was a clear signal that Liza wasn't just a casual observer in Mack’s life—she was a woman who didn't mind getting her hands dirty (literally) to ensure his well-being. Looking at those two pieces of plastic, I realized that if Mack could survive his own questionable diet, and I could survive the horror of receiving his "output" in an envelope, the three of us were going to get along just fine.

Memorable moments: The silky souvenir

Mack had ears that were, quite simply, a sensory delight. They were so incredibly silky that I used to spend ages just stroking them, marveling at the texture. One day, in a moment of dry, tongue-in-cheek humor, I turned to his co-owner, Liza, and made a suggestion.

"You know," I said, "when Mack eventually goes, I think I want to have his ears removed. I’ll turn them into a keyring so I can keep that silkiness with me forever."

I expected a laugh or a mock-shudder. Instead, Liza looked at me with a face of total, unwavering seriousness.

"Oh, good," she said. "I’ve been meaning to bring this up. I’m going to keep the rest of him and have him taxidermied. I want to put him right in the middle of my living room."

I stared at her in genuine horror. My "keyring" joke suddenly felt very small compared to the vision of a stuffed Mack standing guard over the coffee table. "Are you... are you being serious?" I stammered.

She held the gaze for a heartbeat longer, then a mischievous smile finally broke across her face. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling.

I never did get that keyring, and thankfully, Mack never ended up as a statue in the lounge. But that moment of wide-eyed horror remains one of my favorite memories of the absurdity that comes with loving a dog as much as we loved him.

Memorable moments: The ecstatic return

Every year, I’d travel back to South Africa for several weeks to visit family. During these trips, my dog, Mack, would stay with Liza, who shared "custody" of him with me. It was a perfect arrangement, but the separation always felt like a lifetime.

The absolute highlight of my return to Australia was the moment I walked through the door to be reunited with him. It was a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos.

There was frantic panting, heavy slobbering, and a series of high-pitched, desperate whines. There was uncontrolled jumping, a fair amount of spinning, and enough vigorous bum-shaking to power a small village. It was a display of emotional vulnerability that would have made a Zen master weep.

And honestly, once I calmed down and stopped licking his face, Mack seemed pretty excited to see me, too.

Memorable moments: The fool and the four-legged master

For years, I’ve dedicated myself to a spiritual practice of mindfulness. My goal is simple: to walk in nature, stay grounded in my senses, and eventually become a sort of Zen master of the "Now."

A few years ago, I took my dog, Mack, for our usual route. Mack was in his element—trotting, sniffing every bush with surgical precision, and living entirely in the moment. I started with the best of intentions, but somewhere between the first tree and the third park bench, I got sucked into the vortex of my own head. I was drafting work emails, calculating my to-do list, and reliving old arguments.

Suddenly, I "woke up." I realized I’d been mentally absent for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t seen a single flower or felt the breeze; I had been a ghost in my own body.

I looked down at Mack, who was currently savoring the complex olfactory profile of a blade of grass, his tail wagging in pure, unadulterated presence. I was instantly reminded of The Fool from the Tarot deck—the wanderer stepping off a cliff while his dog yaps at his heels.

I realized then that I wasn’t the Zen master in this relationship. I was the Fool.

The real master was at the other end of the leash—and unlike me, he didn't need a book on mindfulness to enjoy the smell of a good bush.

Memorable moments: The person Mack thinks I am

In 2013, I found myself diving into the digital depths of a Kindle book dedicated to the "Importance of Purpose." It was a heavy, earnest volume designed to help you find your motivation, make a meaningful contribution to the world, and generally become the best possible version of a human being. It was packed with complex exercises and soul-searching prompts, and I was fully committed to the work.

That evening, I was lying on my bed, digital highlighter at the ready, when I looked over at Mack.

He was lying right next to me, his head resting on the duvet. He didn't have a Kindle, he hadn't read a single page of self-help literature, and he certainly wasn't worried about his "contribution to the world." He just looked across at me with an expression of such total, unconditioned love and adoration that it stopped me mid-sentence.

In that gaze, there were no expectations, no performance reviews, and no five-year plans. To Mack, I wasn't an English teacher or a man struggling with his "alpha" status; I was the center of his universe—a flawless, heroic figure capable of infinite kindness (and the occasional steak scrap).

I looked at the complex exercises on the screen and then back at the dog. A sudden, quiet clarity washed over me.

I realized then that I didn't need a three-hundred-page manual to find my "why." My purpose was sitting right there, wagging its tail. I thought to myself, Maybe it’s actually very simple: I just want to be the person my dog thinks I am.

If I could live up to the version of me that existed in Mack’s eyes—the one who was always worth the wait, always worthy of love, and always the "best human" in the room—then all the other exercises would be redundant.

My Bad Day

I wrote this (true) story for one of my English classes to introduce 3rd conditionals...

A couple of months ago, I had a really bad day.  I was at work teaching when I got a phone call from my housemate, Craig, to say that my dog, Mack, had run away.

Craig had been walking to the station when he realized he had forgotten his mobile phone so he rushed back to the house to get it.  Because he was in a hurry, he left the front gate open by mistake and Mack then ran outside.   Craig ran after Mack.  Mack thought he was being chased and got scared and ran away faster. Craig could not catch him.

I went home as soon as I could to look for Mack.  I drove around in my car around the neighborhood calling his name loudly but he didn't come.  I was terrified I would never see Mack again.  I thought maybe he would get run over - or people would find him and keep him as their pet.

Then after three hours of stress, my phone rang.  It was a lady called Liza who told me she had found a dog called Mack.  Was he my dog?  I was so happy I danced around in the street.  Then I drove to the Liza’s house to get Mack - she lived close by in North Sydney.  I was so relieved and happy to see Mack again.   Mack was happy to see me to and licked my face to say hello.

Liza said that Mack had run onto a busy road and a car nearly hit him.  She was walking past with her mother and saved Mack.  They picked Mack up and took him back to her house.

Liza said she had and her mum had totally fallen in love with Mack.  She said he was the cutest and most friendly little dog she had ever met.  She asked if she could come to my house during the day and take Mack for walks while I was at work.  I said yes, definitely, because Mack often gets very lonely during the day while I am at work.

So now Liza comes and takes Mack for walks everyday and often she takes Mack back to her house and looks after him for the day.  If I want to go to a party in the evening, she looks after Mack for the night.  She has said that if I ever want to go away for the weekend, she will look after Mack too.  Mack is so happy because he loves Liza and he is no longer alone during the day.

So all in all, my bad day turned into a good day!   If Craig hadn’t left the gate open, Mack wouldn’t have run away.  If Mack hadn’t run away, he wouldn’t  have met Liza.   If Liza hadn’t met Mack, Mack would be alone during the day.  If Mack was still alone during the day, I would worry about him.