It is half time. I am wrapped in a rug watching the Richmond v Essendon night footy game. I am drinking a long neck bottle of Dad's home brew. A ten kilo puppy sleeps by my feet. My wife cycles 12 kilometres silently beside me, reading a murder mystery as she goes. On the table in front of me, all my 1970s footy cards have been sorted into teams by the boys, working together civilly. But best of all, we have not had to mop up any puppy urine since about 8 o'clock this morning. Hallelujah.