Home

Each week I would view the new listings in Armadale and surrounds, with a colleague Cliff Thornton-Smith. We took turns week about at calling the owners to confirm the appointments; the other would drive that day. Zooming from house to house, we would take a quick look and move on – covering up to thirty houses in an afternoon.

It was Cliff’s turn to drive, so I compiled the list and made the calls. In those days, Multi-Listing was strong and we had access to the houses even if no one was home. The access instructions for a home in Armadale were to ‘Enter, lock and leave’, but not to go into the backyard because ‘the Rottweiler is untested’. Before I could warn Cliff, he opened the patio door and in bounded the heavy, huge hound. Thankfully it didn’t attack us, but it did jump onto the lounge-chair and would not budge.

We tried to call the dog outside, but it was not interested. After several minutes, we were worried the owner would come home and we would be in trouble. It occurred to me that we needed a juicy beef steak to entice the mutt, so I went to the fridge to see what I could find. Mrs Hubbard’s fridge was bare, except for some milk and a punnet of strawberries. The dog, anticipating some tucker, leaped off the lounge to the fridge. I took a strawberry and called “Come on Boy”, and made haste to the patio door, the dog at my heels. I threw the ‘treat’ into the yard and the dog bounded out. As we closed the door, the dog sniffed the strawberry, ignoring it and heading back to the house, the hound pounding hard against the glass door in rabid rage! We made a quick exit, locked and left.

I knew I could never go back to that house ever again, in case the Rotti remembered!