I'm NOT leaving without my havaiana...

...is EXACTLY what I said to my dog, Marley, when I was in the car park at the beach earlier today.

I need to be honest with everyone right now. I'm a "talk-to-myself-because-I'm-the-only-one-who-understands" type of girl. Yes, I'm the one you see at the shops discussing at length with herself about what type of lettuce to buy, whether to get more bananas or apples this week and justifying (loudly) to myself the reasons why it's OK for an adult to get kids mandarins (they have no seeds. NO. SEEDS!) 

So yes, when I stated matter-of-factly that "Marley, I'm NOT leaving this beach without my havaiana!", it wasn't so much said to my German Shepherd Kelpie cross as much as it was meant for myself.


Allow me to start from the beginning: My dog, Marley, has been a little bitch this week (no pun intended). Amongst other things, he has been barking at EVERYTHING. Playing fetch. Bark. Someone walks past the house. Bark. We have people over. Bark. We stop giving him attention. Bark. He starts to bark. Bark. Sigh, it's a vicious cycle.


So I figure that today I am going to make him burn some energy by taking him to the beach. I haven't spoken of previous beach-related outings because they have been pretty traumatic. For me of course, not for the dog. First time we went to the beach, Marley got attacked by three Great Danes. Lucky he didn't get hurt, not that he would appreciate that as he was just stoked that the cool kids wanted to play with him. I did later try to explain to him that 'playing' doesn't involve being snarled at and bitten before having three lard-asses jump you, but then I remembered not only is Marley a dog, he is also, sadly, male. I was best just saving my breath.

Marley just moments before his brush with death.
You think I exaggerate...perhaps I should SAY IT IN
CAPITALS THEN...

Our second trip to the beach was less eventful, however just as harrowing as I got sunburnt and didn't realise till I got home that I was out of Vitamin E cream and Aloe Vera. 


So you can understand my hesitation at going back for a trifecta. 


Anyway, he had been barking like a frickin' BANSHEE for the last two days so I gave in to the fear and bit the bullet. We saddled up and headed down to the beach where, quite surprisingly, there weren't many people or their dogs around. I mean, there were a few, but it was the nice, respectful dog owners who are all smiles and are happy for my dog to sniff their dog inappropriately (if only some of the parents I experience as a teacher were so laid-back with their children...but I digress). Of late I have been coming across dog owners who, well...is there a nice way to say 'have been inconsiderate ASSHOLES and don't DESERVE dogs if they're gonna be FERAL BOGANS about it'? 


No, probably not. But that's a WHOLE other blog post, don't you worry!


ANYWAY, we spend nearly an hour walking up and down the beach - only on the sand of course, because MY manly dog is TERRIFIED of the water. Quick side note: I had forgotten to mention that during the second beach outing, "Ray" had accompanied me and was determined to make a man out of Marley by nearly drowning him in the ocean gently persuading him to walk into the water.


You be the judge, reader:

Yep, quite clearly a successful endeavour.


BACK TO TODAY...Marley and I are walking towards my car in the car park and I'm feeling pretty damn happy that my dog has finally had a morning at the beach where he wasn't bullied, abused or requiring some sort of floatation device. I had Marley on his lead in one hand, my car keys in the other and my havaianas under my arm. I'm nearly at the car when I decide to stop and put my thongs on, except when I drop them onto the ground, there's only one. ONE. HAVAIANA. I turn back and look at the long stretch of beach I have just spent AN HOUR walking. And I am faced with a dilemma:


Do I SERIOUSLY have to go back and walk for another HOUR just to find A THONG??? 


*NOTE: For my overseas readers, for the love of God, no, I am NOT talking about THAT type of thong. Here in Australia we call "flip-flops" thongs. You should also know that we throw "prawns" on the barbie, not shrimp, we don't ride to work in the pouches of kangaroos and "drop bears" are REAL. Seriously.


So this is where the crazy-lady and her dog standing in the middle of a car park start to get stares, because I pull out my ol' shopping-for-fruit-and-veg trick and begin to reason and rationalise with myself:


OK, so you have dropped a thong. You really should go and look for it. They were a Christmas gift and you LOVE them. They're pink, Heidi. Pink havaianas. And not just PINK pink. They're PEARLY PINK and you LOVE. THEM. But it's SO far to walk again. And there's more people than last time and...well, let's be honest, you're just fucking lazy. You don't get Type 2 diabetes because you're an athletic, highly-motivated Type 1 diabetic...! But they're PIIIINNNK...


This went on for several minutes before I decided that the least I could do was stand on my tip-toes and squint toward the beach to see if, by some miraculous twist of fate, a pearly pink speck was glimmering in the beachy sunlight. 


Sadly, there was no glimmer.


So for the second time in just over an hour, I sucked it up, soldiered on and became determine to find a single thong on a 2 km stretch of sand. I readied myself for an extensive search, wiped the sweat off my brow and with the conviction of...someone with conviction..., I headed back towards the ramp with my dog in tow. We got to the ramp, took a deep breath, marched 3 steps forward, and...


...found my pink havaiana at the bottom of the ramp.


Fucking beach.