The suburb where I live is quiet and leafy and beautiful, only a quick walk to a long stretch of river, dotted with rowing boats, frequented by cyclists and power-walkers. To the other side, we have a huge park, shaded by trees and replete with tennis courts and play equipment. Both would be a joy to stroll, a gorgeous promenade for a boy and his hound.
But instead, every morning as the sun rises, my anxious, rescue greyhound, Basil, refuses to walk to either of those options. Instead, as per ancient ritual, in a tradition stretching all the way back to six months ago, we tread the same stretch of suburban street behind our house. Twice a day, with undimmed excitement and enthusiasm, we sniff the same mailboxes, trot up the exact same sidestreets to piss on the same tree, choose the exact same conservative politician’s house outside which to poo. We simply must go and look at the street where an old lady once gave us a treat. We must stand still and quivering in the alley where a cat once darted away from us. It is imperative that we sniff the drain where a dead mouse decomposed four months ago. I adore my dog but it’s driving me quietly insane.
Recently we had Basil’s behaviourist come around to update his training regime. Since we adopted him, he’s slowly come out of his shell, revealing a very sweet and loving dog obsessed with routine. If you don’t take him out for his evening wee directly after you clean your teeth, he descends into an existential void, ears flattened, eyes wild, suddenly questioning the meaning of everything, frozen and bereft, crying into the night.
Much like his father (me), he is somewhat dramatic, never choosing to encounter a single circumstance with equanimity or evenness or even dignity. Much like his father, he has been diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, which has caused some troubling new behaviour, including growling at me and my partner’s aunt. Our trainer talked about how overwhelming the world must be for a dog that’s been raised in such a weird and controlling environment like greyhound racing. She explained how all his behaviour pointed to uncontrolled anxiety and trauma, about how stressed he was by everything around him. “Keep his world small,” she advised us.
So, instead of trying to get him to cross the road to the river (trams too scary) or go up to the park (traffic light too scary) or take him to family dinners (people too scary), we’re stuck in his small world of unbroken routine, of the same 45-minute walk up and down the same suburban street, a slow sniffary of disgusting scents, the tedium of routine mapped out on the same stretch of houses and shrubbery and letterboxes.
On his slow trot, there are all sorts of thrills we can look forward to. We have to stop at each of the four (FOUR) retirement homes around us, in case there’s a nice old woman who will say hello to Basil. Basil likes old ladies because they are gentle and slow and never seem to mind that he only enjoys about two seconds of affection before getting freaked out (Basil sounds like most of my exes). There’s an old man who often sits on his balcony connected to a breathing apparatus, who yells out compliments from up high to us. “A handsome dog!” he yells. “Best dogs in the world, greyhounds,” he shouts.
While I understand and sympathise with the necessity of this small world for Basil, I’ve recently found it’s unutterably depressing for me. I moved to Melbourne during the pandemic, crossing borders in one of the rare gaps between lockdowns. In this city, I learned all about the realities of a small world – my life shrank to my apartment, the streets around it, the horror of my Zoom window. Who does Basil think he is, pushing me back into that lifestyle – Dan Andrews? I’m finally out on the town again, seeing musicals and concerts and gigs, drinking delicious cocktails, getting tired and bailing on things before midnight, just like the before times. It feels like breathing again.
But Basil’s sisyphean trot around the neighbourhood gives me flashbacks to that old lockdown ennui. Sometimes, the knowledge that all I have to look forward to is a long day of working from home and then a tour of the same 40 houses that I see every day (yes I’ve counted them because I’m that bored) makes me want to chew my leg off. I feel stuck. There’s something about Basil’s singleminded commitment to treading the same worn paths that foreshadows the drudgery of our everyday lives, the endlessness of working, cooking, cleaning, watching my little shows until I die.
I think the question of what kind of life we want to lead has subconsciously been on everyone’s minds recently. Much like the quiet quitting phenomenon, being locked in our own small worlds for so long has made people irritated, fractious, ready for change, no longer happy to accept drudgery.
But then, of course, I go to a single social function – I go to WorldPride or an exhibition opening or to the pub after work – and I remember that much like Basil, I am neurotic and anxious and have the social battery of an original era Game Boy (I have around two hours of continuous use). I throw myself into the fabulous whirlwind of being alive and I love it and I appreciate it and it fills my cup – and then I absolutely must leave.
I must go home and rest and not talk to anyone for a few days or have my horizons expanded or feel any new emotions. I’ve realised that there’s nothing wrong with Basil’s small world – not if there are things you value and cherish in that tiny sphere, and by keeping them there, you are nourishing them, appreciating them. There’s also nothing wrong with wanting more, with wanting the thrill of new experiences and that humbling sensation of feeling like the tiniest ant in the expansive universe. In fact in many ways, I’m more like Basil than I thought – we’re both long and thin and ultimately need the comfort of a tiny world. The only difference is that I like to leave mine every so often and he smells like sardines.
The ideal situation right now is going out, experiencing new things – and then having my tiny world, my well-trodden paths, my stinky long son to return to. I get to come home and make a big pot of soup and read a book and take a gentle walk around a sleepy suburb with my silly happy dog, and like Basil, take a moment to stop and smell the wee and enjoy everything I have.
Patrick Lenton is a writer and author living in Melbourne. His most recent book is called Sexy Tales of Paleontology. He tweets at @patricklenton
