Keeping up with the older set

Most of my new friends here are quite bit older than me, in some cases many decades older. I guess that's what comes with mixing in booky, crafty, textile art circles and living in this particular neighbourhood in this particular city. These women are as sharp as tacks, involved in everything, voracious readers and take some keeping up with.

But there is one grand dame I have given up trying to keep up with. Her real name is Tammy but Australians like to give things nicknames so in following local custom we now call her "The Tamster". (My son, the chief dogwalker, is known as The Tamstermeister.) Her owner scored her from the dog rescue place so isn't exactly sure of her age, but she is at least thirteen human years old.  Nobody believes us when we say how old she is.  This summer was so long and hot that she ended up having to have two haircuts (she usually only has one a year) which made her look even younger. 

Before we met her Tammy hadn't been for regular walks for quite some time.  At first we took her for shortish walks around the neighbourhood, then longer and longer ones.  Now she has decided that what she really wanted is runs.  Now I love walking, but running, not so much.  That is a job I leave for the now quite tall people I used to call TheShortFolk.

But the most fun we have with The Tamster is when we take her in the car to the beach.  Last time we went was a beautiful evening and she sprinted down the beach then leapt around in circles like a great big puppy.  In the car on the way home she kept slobbering on my neck as I was trying to drive which is apparently how she says thank you.

She has so much energy and such a zest for life that it is like she is taking some kind of youth serum.  When I'm her age I hope I'm just like her.  Only I hope I can resist any urges to roll in piles of rotting seaweed.  And maybe not so slobbery.  And definitely not so hairy.

Black dog

I love a good walk. When I have too much on my tiny mind, a good walk helps me to sort it all out.  In the past ten years I've had quite a few instances where I've had to deal with shabby shite hitting my fan.  (Show me the grey-haired grown-up who hasn't?)  I'm one of the lucky ones who finds that my most effective coping mechanisms are simply a good walk and a good talk (well OK, there was my Single Malt habit).

Shortly after we moved here yet another bit of shabby shite hit our fan.  My plans for getting an O-job, starting a business and buying a house are on hold until we get this latest health issue sorted.  This time around I haven't found things quite so easy to cope with because like a daft egg I stopped walking as much as I should and I'm here without you lot to talk to (plus those of you in Christchurch are now all dealing with your own rubbish situations).

Well, I love lists and I love a bit of irony.  I made a TO DO list called "Sort yourself out lady lest you should get a black dog".  One of the things on the list was to go around and meet our neighbours.  I did and I met some lovely people, including an elderly lady with ..... a black dog she is unable to take for walks anymore.  Well, my children love dogs and are desperate to get one but sadly they a) live in a no pets rental home and b) know very little about looking after dogs and c) have a mean mother who says they can only ever get a dog if it is either bald or matches our sofa (green).  So now we are fortunate enough to regularly enjoy the company of a gorgeous, big, black, hairy, beautifully-behaved and very grateful dog called Tammy.  We walk around the neighbourhood with her then take her home again. 

And as luck would have it, Tammy is also a very good listener.  Sadly her side of the conversation isn't up to the usual standard I'm used to from you lot (her jokes are rubbish), but we'll keep working on it.