Fat Dogs and Old Ladies

The big fat brown dog surprised me this morning by accompanying me on my morning walk. She has never done that before. Frankly, I didn't think she would be up to it. But apparently she was able to tap into some unsuspected, and unusual, source of energy far exceeding her norm.

I was happy to have her company, until it became apparent that the big fat brown dog does not know how to behave properly on walks. She chased cats and bothered other dogs who were standing innocently outside their own homes. She also wandered about in the middle of the street, unwilling to move aside for cars. As it turned out, I spent most of the walk saying "It's not my dog." 

When I got back home--or rather, when we got back home--we were haled by an elderly lady in the neighboring driveway. 

"Clean your house?" she said, holding up her broom. 

"No, thank you, Ibu. I have a maid that comes once a week." 

"Wash your dog?" 

"It's not my dog!" 

Nonetheless, I've been trying to picture her doing this chore ever since. To my knowledge, the big fat brown dog has never been 'washed' in her entire life--and I certainly wouldn't want to be the one to try to do it. The big fat brown dog doesn't even much like to be touched, much less washed, I presume. How was this tiny little old woman planning to negotiate the considerable girth and strength of the dog? I mean, without losing an arm. 

It seemed a bit sad as well that this poor little old woman was having to go about looking for house cleaning or dog washing work. Surely, she was older even than I--or else a lifetime of hardship had made her appear much older. She was also intermittently talking to herself, which is never a good sign (although, come to think of it, I do it all the time myself). 

So anyway, I and the big fat brown dog went into the house, and the next thing I knew the little old woman was standing on the porch saying "Yoo-hoo." 

We should note before proceeding, as a point in favor of the big fat brown dog's character, that she does not, for whatever reason, bother or terrorize little old women in any way, even those who are standing on the porch calling out "Yoo-hoo." 

"What is it, Ibu?" 

She holds up her broom again. 

"No, Ibu, sudah--already."

Crestfallen, she lowers her broom. The big fat brown dog waddles onto the porch and looks at me in what seems a judgmental sort of way. 

Goodness. 

"Ibu ... Would you like a cup of coffee? Will you sit down for a moment?" 

Ibu declines the coffee, but accepts the invitation to sit. As she sits, she sweeps the part of the porch that her broom can reach. We converse for a while, though with difficulty, for she is speaking a mixture of Indonesian and Balinese, and I speak no Balinese at all. Before long, she excuses herself. She has work to do. I remember, then, that there is a 10.000 Rupiah bill in the drawer of the little table next to my chair. And so I hand it to her. 

"For sweeping the porch, Ibu. Thank you. I'm sorry I don't have more for you to do." 

She smiles brightly and bows her way off the porch and out of the driveway. The big fat brown dog decides to follow her. 

Always something happening here in the little Renon homestead. Something new every day.