Last Wednesday evening, Don and I caught up with Heather for a post-Christmas/post-New Year/post-Festivus/post-Mom drink.

It was damned and revoltingly hot and still and opressive on the stroll back from Newtown to Glebe (had to work off those beers), but enlivened by the following (please note that I am eschewing inverted commas in this tale):

My phone rings

totally oz female voice says: this is Mrs Armstrong

me: I’m sorry, who is it?

mrs a: It’s Mrs Armstrong

me: I think you have the wrong number

mrs a: No, it’s Mrs Armstrong and I have your dog here in my yard, you should come and get it

me: I really think you have the wrong number, I don’t have a dog

mrs a: Well, your phone number is on the collar

me: Honestly, I don’t have a dog

mrs a: It’s a little white shaved poodle

me: Really, it is not my dog, I don’t have a dog

mrs a: Well, I will call the number again and if it is you, you had better come around and get your dog.

mrs a hangs up.

I chuckle with Don about about the weirdness of it all.

However I check my messages, and sure enough, I have a voicemail from Mrs Armstrong at 86 some street in a suburb I have never heard of. The message says much the same as the phone conversation – ie. get my dog pronto. At this point I think I will just go and just claim the dog if she is persistent, Don would love a white poodle – he’s a big fan of any white fluffy small dog.

After I listen to the message, the phone rings again.

mrs a: Is this the girl I spoke to before? This is Mrs Armstrong, you really need to come and get your dog

me: Yes it is, I’ve just listened to your message, where was it that you live?

mrs a: Hfusarytksjhfkas (at least, that was what it sounded like)

me: I’m sorry, I’m having trouble hearing you, where was that again?

mrs a: Hfusarytksjhfkas

me: I don’t think I know where that is and I really don’t have a dog.

mrs a (getting more terse): Well your number is on his collar, he’s a little white poodle with a jewelled collar and the number is [reads my number]

me: Yes that is my number, but truthfully, I don’t have a dog, I haven’t ever owned a dog, it sounds like the kind of dog I would like, but it is not mine. Where is it that you are? I’m in Glebe. [silence] In Sydney.

mrs a: Sydney!!!

me: Yes, I’m in Sydney. I don’t know the place you say you live, where is that exactly?

mrs a: It’s in Perth

It was around this point in the conversation that Mrs Armstrong finally and grudgingly admitted that perhaps it might not actually be my dog, still I think she harboured suspicions about the telephone number (which I could not explain, because I have had that number for a couple of years).

I suggested that she might want to call the RSPCA and wished her good luck in her quest.

Really, I wanted to fly to Perth to rescue the poor wee doggy from the cranky Mrs A, who apparently has no first name (or perhaps that is just the convention in WA?).