The man and the dog...

Even Maxine has a dog!!

My last blog listed the wonderful escape I treat myself to on the odd occasion.

Yet, like everything in life it is not all sparkle and light. There is always the dark underside to these special times and experiences.

For me I always notice the light and shade, and Melbourne, like every city, has both.

One minute I am marvelling at the wonderful trees in Collins Street (Paris-end of course), which have survived the drought, and then feeling anxious as the possums scurry around the Treasury Gardens in the dark. I remember when these creatures were so safe in the city at night, and I fear it is no longer so. There are far more people around the streets at night than during my youth when we were on speaking terms with the street cleaner in the Bourke Street Mall, and were able to coax a smile from the young police on duty on the stairs of Parliament House.

I now shiver with fear as I walk the streets at night. There are so many drunk young women falling off their heels or carrying them slung from hands. The young men look similarly dishevelled and not in that 'sharp' fashionista-style; more like a buck's party run amok. Any sign of happiness is fleeting with the sudden shift towards verbal abuse and crass language. The young people look ready to throw punches at the least provocation - male and female alike!


Then, there are the ones off their faces on so-called 'party drugs'. If they are party drugs, from where does that aggression and anger emanate? It is a horrid place at night. There is no joy just desperation and alienation. There is a difference to the late-night walking we used to do in the seventies after the dance clubs closed. We were more likely to be singing and teaching perfect strangers how to do the nutbush or the hustle in the few late night eateries, than prancing around shouting obscentities and looking for fights. I fear for the gentle creatures of our city parks. If humans are not safe, how can these defenceless creatures be so?

Ah, and then there is the man and his dog.

Earlier in the day as I walked to Parliament station during peak hour trying to wind my way past the commuters streaming into the CBD, as I tried to tackle the stairs down to the station against this human tide.

There he was, at the top of Spring Street, hunched against the wall (of my old dentist's building... yes for those in the know; the 'tooth fairy'). He is youngish (hard to discern as he is obviously 'down on his luck'. He is quiet. His concession to comfort is an old blanket; for his dog. The dog sits alonside his master curled towards his body for warmth. As the fog hasn't risen the man and dog shelter together. Even the dog's water bowl looks as if it will not be used today, as the mist is so thick and the drizzle beginning to drench every surface. So few people seem to see them as they hurry past on their way to work.

They notice the buskers playing their instruments on the curbside opposite the station exit and some even find a few seconds to pause, smile then continue to work. Yet, they do not even risk locking eyes with the man and dog. I feel terrible. Here is a man with a story. Something has brought him here. What happened that brought him to the Melbourne streets. I give silent thanks for his dog. I'm sure this companion means at night he would be turned away from shelters. He chooses his dog over minimal shelter. I could almost cry.

Here I am pretending to be on holiday in my discounted motel, with only two day's public transport fare money in my pocket.

What a hypocrit.

I want to give to the man but if I do I cannot get to my job interview or home again tomorrow.

I feel like shit.

I feel the tears welling at the corners of my eyes.

Head held high, I like the commuters put thoughts of the man and dog out of my conscious mind as I disappear into the safety of the station underpass where they are out of sight.

The day is great. The sun is shining and the rain no longer looming. Even at the University in Hawthorn there are autumn leaves on the few trees remaining on the Campus grounds. The train back to the city is again an experience of extremes.

I adore the old buildings and Victorian architecture of Glenferrie Road. Even the station is one of those Melbourne inner suburban stations bejewelled with wrought iron lacework. Yet on the platform itself a small group of drunken young people, again hurling abuse at each other and the passengers embarking.

One decidely unpleasant young man is shirtless ( yep in winter, as the mercury is sitting under ten degrees celsius). He is drunk. He drops a bottle on the platform then kicks the glass shards onto the tracks. He swears and takes a swig from another open bottle that had previously been in the hands of a mate. There is a slight altercation over who owns the 'grog'.

Then as if to smell the scent of prey, the two men and their female accomplice, turn, see their targets, and shout abuse at a group of students, with obvious non- Anglo-saxen appearance. Where are the Metro security staff? No-where to be seen, and the station is busy with the night classes dispersing their students in all directions. I feel afraid, not for myslef but for the students.

Luckily the train pulls in, we all board and the drunken yobbos remain drinking on the platform whilst hurling abuse at the closing doors, as the train gathers speed leaving the platform.

I can relax for a few stations until I reach Parliament. As I climb the stairs, I remember the man and his dog. And they are still there. Only this time the dog is on it's feet barking and snarling at a young man passing by with his dog on a leash. It is one of those aggressive looking cross-breads that I am sure should be muzzled. This powerful canine is straining at the leash to attack the man's dog.

(Why do men seem to feel the need to own such dogs? Are they that insecure of their own masculinity that they have to hide beside their attack-dogs?)

I am so relieved when the owner of the chunky fighter dog finally takes control and drags the snarling beast away. The Spring Street man's dog is protecting his owner. He is standing with his back to his owner, prepared to retaliate to protect their 'safe' space. What a change from the docile black bitzer that I had seen this morning. The dog was visibly shaken as his owner tucks him back onto his blanket and sits himself alongside again.

There are a few dollars in the man's hat now. Please, please can you go somewhere safer? I do not want them there all night. I want their to be some place that they can call home, no matter where. Somewhere with running water and at least a toilet. How can this be my home City?

I know we have homeless people. The agencies say they turn away many (including families with small children) every night of the week for lack of accommodation. How has 'the lucky country' become like this. Where are the communities that used to embrace the 'down on their luck' and the 'ill'?

What am I actually doing in my life for these people?

Absolutely nothing!

I can try to put the man and his dog out of my mind by telling myself that he has chosen to spend the night on the street because he chooses to have his dog, rather than sleep in the homeless men shelters. But hey, if it were me, wouldn't I rather take my chances on the street with my faithful companion, than risk dozing and being robbed inside a shelter by another desperate human?

Despite the business people volunteering to sleep rough for one night at the docklands stadium, nothing will be enough to eradicate the homelessness. It has to be a major social offensive, with EVERYBODY involved.

Politicians, religious organisations, welfare agencies, corporate leaders, workers and all people better off. We must all unite and do something. We are all lesser people whilst such disenfranchisement is allowed to flourish under our noses in our home towns.

Any ideas how I can feel empowered to do something that will be effective and useful?

What can I do for the man and his dog?

Rest assured I will not forget them in a hurry.