Open Writing

I watched my son racing down the beach, his adoring husky bounding effortlessly and joyously alongside him, each of them lost in the moment and completely happy simply to be with each other. Every dog, I thought to myself, should have a boy. What is so touching about their love for each other is that they both appreciate it right now, as they are living it, valuing what they have while it is still vital. Some people search their whole lives for such an intense, unconditional love and never find it. Others find it but only truly appreciate it once it is gone.

Being sixteen, my son is tentatively starting to seek out an additional, different sort of love – the rollercoaster minefield of romantic and sexual love. This is a much more complicated arena that he is entering. I observe from the sidelines with bemusement, for have we not all been there ourselves? No-one can teach you this stuff. We all have to learn by trial and error.

There was a discernible difference at the Sydney Motor Show this year. My son is a bit of a car buff and, as a dutiful mother, I have spent hours with him over the years attending this annual event. We used to stroll from stand to stand, sitting in every vehicle which was available for this purpose, turning the steering wheels and pressing knobs and switches, oohing and aahing at the leather and chrome or tut tutting at the vinyl and plastic - he, all the while dreaming, in vain I suspect, that he too will one day be allowed into the exclusive Lamborghini enclosure as a potential purchaser.

This year, however, we blithely strolled past most of the steel and chrome models and then proceeded to spend an inordinate amount of time in front of the Aston Martin stand where there were some curvaceous, lycra-clad models – the James Bond Girls. I noticed my husband sneaking a sideways glance. He, of course, is married but this does not preclude him from window shopping. “Hey, Dad,” whispered our son, “don’t you think that you might be batting way out of your league?” My son did not seem to think that the same might possibly apply to him as he mentally added one of the lycra models to his dream list of aspirations. Oh to have the hopes and unshattered confidence of inexperienced youth.

The husky does his best to assist my son in his romantic endeavours. Usually it is sufficient for this strikingly handsome creature to make an appearance and the swooning girls come over cooing, “Oh isn’t he gorgeous. May I pat him? What’s his name?” I’ve told my son that it is at this point that he needs to hand over his business card with phone details on it but instead he just flushes bright red and studies the ground.

The dog seems to be getting frustrated with my son too because yesterday he revved things up a notch. Seeing two bobby dazzlers walking towards them, the husky decided to impress them with his hunting prowess. He dived into the bushes and came out dragging a rancid, dead possum which he ceremoniously dumped across the footpath right in front of the oncoming young ladies. This bloated possum was on his back and had his legs splayed open in a most undignified manner with his full rigor mortis on display.
“Eew gross!” squealed the girls as they crossed the road and ran away.

“Thanks for nothing, mate,” admonished my son. “I realise that you think I’m a bit slow and that you fancy yourself as the ultimate chick magnet but I do know one thing for sure. When it comes to females of the two-legged variety you’re doomed to certain failure if the first thing you show them is a set of genitalia.”

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