Artarmon Reserve

Saw perhaps both the best and worst thing ever simultaneously down at Artarmon Reserve this last weekend.
We were playing cricket (a big win, in case you were wondering). The day was hot and a nice westerly was blowing across the broad expanse of oval, ruffling the leaves of the gum trees encircling the large reserve and hiding the unsightly freeway. Dogs and their owners were out in force, attracted by the walking track circling the oval and the sounds of leather on willow, an inimitably Australian way to spend a summery afternoon. Along came a poodle; sand-​coloured, grinning. It trotted up to the steps of the pavilion, where members of the mighty Dreggs XI were strung out along the concrete steps like lesser Christmas lights. It approached the tap, and the big metal dog bowl beneath. It looked up at us and smiled. Then it sat in the bowl. Still smiling, squirming happily, delighted at this game and its newly cool bottom. Eventually it got up and walked off, had second thoughts and, realising it was thirsty, trotted back over and and drank heartily from the same bowl it had been sitting in not moments before.
Bravo, dog. Bravo.