A big dog and a big scar - encounters on public transport

For all it can be uncomfortable, unreliable and occasionally downright scary, some days travelling on public transport is pure entertainment. 

It was the halt and the lame on the 5.30 tram to South Melbourne last Tuesday afternoon. A crowd of us scrambled on at the temporary tram stop at Little Collins, and the ‘disabled and elderly’ seats just inside the door were grabbed by me with my still dodgy and bandaged knee, and a much younger woman with an elaborate sling and an impressive, obviously fresh scar running from the top of her left shoulder to somewhere above her left breast.

It was hard not to look. She wore an asymmetrical white top that covered her good shoulder and left her war wound open to the fresh air and the covert glances of strangers.

Two stops along, a seriously old and fragile looking man got on, wobbly on his walking stick. I stood to give him my seat, whereupon he glanced irritably at me and said, ‘Why can’t the young girl give me hers?’

‘She’s injured,’ I point out, and he nods brusquely and maneuvers his way through the thick press of bodies by the door so he can squeeze into my vacant spot.

‘Oh but what about you?’ a kind young man sitting on the next seat along says. ‘You’re injured too,’ and insists on my taking his place. This isn’t as easy as it sounds, given that we are packed on so tight we’re all jammed hard up against each other, but we manage it eventually, without causing further trauma to either the frail old man or me.

We’re all nicely settled, when a bloke who has, up until this point been on a long, loud mobile phone conversation says to the shoulder girl, ‘Great scar!’

‘Thanks,’ she responds with an uncertain smile. 

‘I’m about to have an operation on my shoulder,’ he volunteers, ‘but I’m hoping they’ll be doing key hole surgery,’ and he launches into his medical history, asking the woman about details of hers. I wonder if I should rescue her by weighing in with tales of my own recent adventures under the knife, but I’m getting off. ‘Good luck with it,’ I settle on saying as I leave, and she flashes me a tired smile.

On the Upfield train next day, afternoon peak hour again, two young boys get on at Melbourne Central. They look about 11 and are raggedly dressed, with loads of tatts and complicated, scary-looking earrings. They have with them the kind of dog that makes me weak at the knees.

Several types of dog have this effect on me. Muscled, shorthaired, medium to large breeds are my favourite. Other women go mushy over a baby; for me it’s dogs.

‘Oh he’s magnificent,’ I breathe. ‘What is he? A pit bull cross? 

The kids’ eyes light up when they realize that I am not afraid of their animal, on the contrary, I’m smitten.

‘Boxer cross,’ says the fair-haired one proudly, his face suddenly wreathed in smiles, and we proceed to have the kind of conversation that dog-lovers all over the world have as the handsome creature responds to my caresses with licks. I tell them about dogs I have loved, including our pit bull-Staffy cross, and they tell me about their pet’s little idiosyncrasies. ‘He’s got a really small head; the vet reckons that’s why he’s so dumb,’ the boy chuckles fondly.

‘So many people are scared of him,’ says the darker kid, and I suppose that’s not surprising given all the recent bad publicity these big, tough looking dogs have received. But I look at him, all thumping tail and soft, besotted eyes looking into mine and all I see is a big teddy bear.

‘You look after him now,’ I say as I get off at Brunswick, and limp home, pondering that although I miss my long walks to work and back more than I can say, travelling on public transport does have its compensations.

Comments

[Robyn]

I do love your blog, Clare. You make the most ordinary events seem special!