With great power comes great responsibility to be kind and not cover the kitchen with your coat of creamy thick fur no matter how glorious it is.
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Walker the Maremma sheepdog meets both obligations with nobility and patience, despite the ear-chewing provocations and irritating dance moves of the common crowd.
Walker has been staying with us this week while his human family, which includes three young boys under 12, are away fishing in South Australia.
Not for him the throwing of hooks and nylon lines into the foamy sea or running up and down the beach screaming or digging for crabs and generally pestering the aquatic life of the Southern Ocean.
Maremmas don’t do these sorts of things.
For 2000 years they have sat quietly through freezing winters and burning summers on the hillsides of the Abruzzo region in Italy guarding sheep.
They can’t be bothered doing tricks like running around in ever-decreasing circles listening for the whistles or strangled commands of farmers.
They already know what their job is.
Their coats are thick enough to keep their body temperature constant.
Of course, at the approach of an Australian summer, some of it has to be shed in wispy floating clouds of white.
But here again, Walker shows his impeccable manners.
He refuses to come indoors even when the door is held wide open.
He came in once.
He sniffed the air, turned around and went back outside to smile at the bush.
Those spindly four-legged wooden things in there take up far too much space.
You could bash your head on them.
“My place is on the hillside, in the great spaces among my extended family.”
Maremmas like to lie down and watch for wolves or foxes and perhaps throw out an occasional deep-throated bark.
That’s enough to put most things off.
Unless, of course, you’re a Jack Russell who’s never had anything bigger than a shoe or a stuffed toy dinosaur to play with.
Dezzy the clown acrobat reckons all his dreams have come true as he dances around Walker’s giant head, nipping his ears and licking his mouth.
Here is a brother so big I can run rings around and underneath him for hours on end with no-one getting bored or angry.
But eventually, the little people do have to pay a tariff or two.
When Walker raises a paw the size of a tea plate, the dancing gnat backs away and in return offers a minute or two of peace.
Sometimes Walker flips the little clown onto his back and pins him like a flailing beetle.
If the silly Jack comes back for more, Walker lets out a single leaf-shaking bark and that’s enough to stop the tiny dancer in his tracks.
What’s interesting about all this is there is no animosity or ugly tough-guy behaviour.
Walker knows he’s got the biggest paws, the widest jaws and the deepest bark, so he doesn’t need to show it all off all the time.
I’ve only seen Walker get really fierce once.
When Dezzy tried to steal his bone, the big fellow stood up and growled, bared his teeth and pounced on the little pest.
There was no flying fur or blood.
Just a yelp and a skitter off down the path.
Lesson number one: walks and pats and balls can be shared, but not bones.
Sometimes I wish people who swagger in the trappings of power took a few lessons from Walker.
Be quiet and don’t boast about it.
If you carry a big stick, wear a velvet glove.
But above all – be kind.
John Lewis is a former journalist at The News.