Dogs

Tony kicked sand off his foot and squinted at the sky like it owed him money.
“They’d walked out of the pub mostly because the air-con was broken again and Tony said the carpet smelled like an old man’s regret. So they wandered down to the beach, half-pissed and half-sunburned, leaving behind the sticky tables and wandering into a different kind of chaos: kids screaming about sunscreen, teenagers trying to flirt with skateboards, a dog eating someone’s sausage right off a disposable grill. The sand was hot enough to sterilise instruments. The water looked like Photoshop. There was a seagull moving with suspicious confidence, as if it had already stolen someone’s food. Probably had.

Tony kicked sand off his foot and squinted at the sky like it owed him money. “You know what’s mad? Every religion starts the same. Some bloke hears a voice, sees a light, or steps on a burning bush and goes, ‘Righto, time to write a book.’”

Kelly shaded her eyes, pushing hair off her face. “Burning bush was probably just hayfever and dehydration. Half the Old Testament miracles disappear if you factor in heatstroke.”

Tony snorted. “Mate, the poor bastard Moses had to lug around stone tablets. Literal stone. Bloody back injury waiting to happen. Imagine being the chosen one but needing a physio every second chapter.”

Anna arrived late, carrying an orange ice block already melting down her wrist. “Imagine his face when God said, ‘Write it down.’ On stone. Not papyrus. Stone. It’s like divine trolling.”

Mitch collapsed onto the sand like a drunk seal and rolled over. “Yeah but Mormon Smithy — that bloke didn’t muck around. He went straight to gold. GOLD. Plates. That’s ambition. That’s a prophet looking at Moses and saying, ‘Hold my beer.’”

Kelly wiped sweat from her forehead. “No one saw the gold plates though, did they? Whole religion launched off invisible DLC.”

Dave grinned. “Conveniently got ‘taken back to heaven.’ Straight up ‘dog ate my homework’ energy. And Moses’ tablets? Probably no one saw those either. Most ancient miracles are just UFO sightings with better outfits.”

Tony cackled. “Miracles are always witnessed by some guy named Jared who’s illiterate but absolutely certain he saw God juggling flaming goats.”

A frisbee slammed into the sand next to them, thrown by a group of uni students trying very hard to look like they hadn’t been rejected from Bondi Rescue auditions. “SORRY!” one yelled with the enthusiasm of a man trying to apologise his way into someone’s pants. Tony chucked it back so hard it nearly changed postcode.

Marcin sat cross-legged, drawing spirals in the sand with a stick like a tax accountant reenacting the Nazca lines. “Honestly, most religions don’t even rely on miracles. Islam basically went, ‘No miracle shows today, lads — scripture is the miracle.’ Efficient. No props. No special effects budget.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “What, no booming voice from the sky? No magic bread? No water into wine?”

“No. They’ve got Jesus in there though,” Marcin said. “He’s got a full cameo. Proper crossover episode.”

Kelly squinted. “So Christians say Jesus is God. Muslims say he’s a prophet. Jews say he’s that bloke down the road who talked too much. Hindus would just add him to the roster like a Pokémon expansion pack.”

Dave watched a toddler drop an entire ice cream on his leg and immediately scream like an Old Testament trumpet. “See? Humans invented gods for that. To explain why unfair shit happens when you’re minding your business eating dairy.”

Tony nodded. “And because every leader in history kept using religion like a loophole. ‘Oh, sorry boys, divine voice says I need a palace upgrade and three extra wives.’”

Kelly groaned. “Every ancient ruler had the same form: ‘Reason for decision: God told me.’”

Mitch wiped sand off his cheek. “Every religion’s got some lucky bastard who mysteriously receives a message that absolutely solves his personal life problems. Absolute coincidence, every time.”

Dave shrugged. “Humans never change. Give someone charisma and a half-decent story, boom — whole civilisation. Look at Hinduism. That’s mythology on steroids.”

Marcin nodded. “Yeah, Hinduism’s the OG multiverse. Marvel wishes it had that much lore. Whole cosmic battles, elephant gods, time loops, avatars. That religion runs twelve parallel storylines at once.”

Kelly pointed at him. “Meanwhile, Byron Bay thinks spirituality is buying a $90 candle that smells like enlightenment and broken relationships.”

Tony looked out at the water. “Norse mythology was even more cooked. Odin hangs himself from a tree for nine days to learn… runes. Imagine going to your mates and saying, ‘Boys, I’m tying myself to a tree till I understand the alphabet.’”

Kelly cackled. “He had ravens too — the original emotional support animals. Vikings were out there raiding villages with a bird whispering anxiety updates into their ear.”

Anna licked the last sugary drip off her hand. “And Thor — God of Thunder — was basically a guy with OCD and a hammer. Whole Norse religion was tall blond men blaming storms on giants.”

“That reminds me,” Dave said, “what about that shaman bloke married to the Norwegian princess? The one who claims he can talk to ancient spirits and sell beads blessed by interdimensional energy?”

Kelly nodded. “Yeah, him. The one who looks like he’s buffering mid-sentence. If Odin were alive today he’d sue him for copyright.”

Tony nodded. “Whole Viking religion would’ve gone full influencer if Instagram existed. Sponsored by mead. #ValhallaVibes. ‘Click link in bio for my Rune Masterclass.’”

A bronzed surfer wandered past holding a longboard like a sentimental weapon. “Oi,” he said uninvited, “I did ayahuasca once. Spoke to a jaguar.”

Tony didn’t even look up. “No you didn’t, mate. You threw up into a bucket while a guy named Tristan shook a stick over your head.”

The surfer stared, processing, nodded slowly, then wandered into the waves.

Kelly snorted. “Speaking of cooked belief systems — Greek mythology. Zeus turning into a swan to seduce someone. A SWAN. Infinite power and he chooses poultry cosplay.”

Tony shook his head. “Greek gods were just a family of horny immortals with weather powers and no HR department.”

Dave wiped sand off his leg. “Honestly, Greek mythology is the closest thing to modern reality TV. Big cast, constant cheating, season finales involving lightning.”

Anna leaned back. “And modern religions are no better. Scientology? Space opera for rich people. Volcanoes, aliens, spirit infestations. Even the Greeks would’ve said ‘bit much.’”

Kelly nodded. “Televangelists too — private jets funded by pensioners. Preaching prosperity gospel like it’s Afterpay for salvation. Jesus would’ve turned over their tables and their flight logs.”

Marcin pushed his sunglasses up. “Deepak Chopra cracks me up. Says ‘quantum’ every five seconds. Billionaires lap it up like it’s enlightenment. Bloke could fart on stage and someone would call it vibrational medicine.”

Mitch rolled over. “Deepak’s whole brand is ‘science but make it vibes.’ Epstein’s mates loved that shit. Quantum healing, cosmic resonance, all that woo. If reincarnation exists, he’s coming back as an essential oil.”

Tony scooped up a handful of sand and let it fall. “Honestly, every era invents the religion it deserves. Ancient people got burning bushes. Vikings got frost giants. Greeks got horny birds. We get crypto, astrology, ayahuasca influencers, and that one Byron guy who thinks mercury retrograde is a government conspiracy.”

Kelly shook her head. “Astrology’s religion for people who don’t like rules. ‘I’m not rude, I’m a Capricorn.’ No babe, you’re rude.”

Anna groaned. “Astrology is just a cosmic personality test written by someone who’d been dumped eleven times.”

Dave: “And reincarnation’s worse. ‘Sorry I’m a terrible person, my past life was a peasant with trauma.’”

Marcin chuckled. “If reincarnation is real I’m coming back as a low-maintenance houseplant.”

Tony: “I want to come back as a dog with no job.”

Mitch: “I reckon I was a parking inspector in a past life.”

Kelly flicked sand at him. “You are in this one.”

A seagull swooped down, grabbed the last bit of Anna’s ice block stick, and flew off triumphantly like it had just stolen fire from Olympus.

Tony gestured after it. “THAT’S religion. Right there. Chaos. Seagulls taking what they want. Humans writing stories to pretend it all means something.”

Dave flopped back in the sand, staring up at the sky. “Every religion’s just a big existential Band-Aid. Stops you noticing the size of the void until you’re old enough to accept it.”

Kelly nodded. “And then you pick whichever story offends you the least.”

Marcin shrugged. “Or whichever one has the best snacks.”

Anna nodded. “Or the hottest prophets.”

Tony smirked. “Or the shortest sermons.”

Mitch groaned. “Or the fewest dietary requirements.”

A kid nearby lost his teddy in the surf and screamed like he’d witnessed the crucifixion firsthand. Someone dropped an esky lid and chased it into the wind like they were reenacting a pilgrimage. A dog dug a hole with enough enthusiasm to qualify as a religious ritual.

And the group kept talking, letting thousands of years of belief, myth, superstition, cosmic nonsense, and genuine human longing wash over them like warm water and bullshit.

Tony brushed sand off his knees. “You know, lookin’ at all of it together… none of the religions feel that different.”

Kelly agreed. “Different outfits, same pitch.”

Anna added, “Different metaphors, same fear.”

Dave: “Different rituals, same grief.”

Marcin: “Different gods, same humans.”

Mitch paused. “Same bullshit, different millennium.”

They all nodded.

Sun dipped. Sand cooled.
A breeze curled around them like the last page of a story no one fully understood.

And religion — all of it — sat there, exposed, ridiculous, profound, pointless, necessary, beautiful, stupid, human.

Like everything else.