Carol’s Column

Henry the hog falls in love

WE HAVE a problem in this household.

In fact we have many problems — but in the past few weeks, only one has manifested itself with a vengeance.

Henry is in love.

So what, you might say. Why shouldn’t Henry have a little romance in his life?

He’s certainly old enough and over the past years has always behaved with great decorum. With his lady friends certainly.

Henry is a small black dog who closely resembles a warthog.

In fact the Wildlife Society recently phoned me to ask if I had a permit to keep a warthog in an urban area.

They are still not fully convinced that Henry is really a dog. And I must be honest, neither am I.

We acquired Henry years ago when a friend brought him around.

She’d found him abandoned and shivering at the side of the road.

“Carol, I know you’ll love and nurture him,” she’d said at the time, “he’s ugly but different.”

Ugly, he wasn’t ugly, he was hideous and as he’s aged, so have his looks.

When he runs, he sticks his tail in the air in true warthog fashion.

A well-known character in the neighbourhood, his greatest joy in life is to visit the Artists in the Sun exhibition at the Zoo Lake — we’re only two tree-stops away.

He’ll wander among the artists, giving the paintings he likes his own, personal stamp of approval by lifting his stocky little leg.

But, over the years, Henry has remained celibate. Until two weeks ago.

“There’s something wrong with Henry,” I said to my husband.

He peered over his glasses. “You’re imagining it.”

“No, really. I went upstairs to walk your children’s washing to the washbin when I saw Henry smiling at himself in the mirror.”

“You’re mad,” said my husband. It’s these little terms of endearment that keep our marriage alive.

“See for yourself,” I said smugly.

So he did. He peered quietly through the bedroom door and sure enough, there was Henry, grinning and cocking an eyebrow at himself in the mirror.

“This is ridiculous,” said my husband. “that’s not even a dog, that’s a warthog. What the hang is a warthog doing smiling at himself in my bedroom?

It will suffice to say that Henry the hog was chased downstairs and out on to the tulip patch with much haste.

It was round about this time that Henry started disappearing.

A sociable, family-type of dog, he’d wait patiently at the gate until somebody opened it — then — like a black arrow, he’d streak away, not to be seen for hours.

His appetite dwindled and he became a shadow of a warthog dog.

“He’s looking anorexic” I complained to my good friend Betty.

“Lucky Henry,” she murmured.

And then on Monday morning, as I leapt downstairs to rustle up a little seven-course breakfast for my starving family, fluffy pink dressing gown and curlers flying, I came upon an extraordinary sight.

There, sitting in the diningroom was Henry. And, right beside him sat another dog.

A massive carpet of a dog. He must have been at least four times Henry’s size.

Closer examination revealed that he was a she.

This fact was reinforced by Henry’s subsequent amorous behaviour.

Wilton — for we have christened her Wilton, does not seem to have a home.

The kids and I’ve walked the neighbourhood looking for a possible owner.

“Would you claim her?” asked my spouse.

“Well, she must have come from somewhere,” I replied sharply.

Henry’s romance is progressing nicely. He and Wilton do everything — well, almost everything.

They share the same bowl, the same chair, the same bone, the same pats.

However, things are getting a little tense on the home front.

“Listen, I’ve had it,” said my spouse only yesterday morning. “This house is not big enough for you, me, four children, three dogs a cat, a goldfish and Wilton. One of us has to leave.

“Besides,” he continued, “I am tired of coming home and finding my bed taken over by a warthog and a shaggy carpet — you must choose. It’s either Henry and Wilton or me.”

Well ... what can I say other than Henry and Wilton don’t snore. They also stick to their side of the bed.

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