Carol’s Column

A tragic tale

HE WASN'T right.

There was no doubt about it. I could see from the way he moved, walked, lifted his head.

Even his appetite had changed. From being a hearty eater, he'd become a voracious glutton.

Yes, you could see all was not well in the state of Parkwood.

“Perhaps he needs psychiatric treatment,” suggested Jamie, an acute 13-year-old observer of life.

“You think so?” I replied.

“Yes, Ma. Look at his behavioural patterns. There's definitely something peculiar going on.”

I tried to look but it was impossible because he disappeared like a streak of lightning in the direction of the neighbours.

“Oh dear,” said Nicky, “now there'll be trouble. Yes, he really does need psychiatric treatment.”

So I booked an appointment with a psychiatrist.

Have you any idea how busy they are in Johannesburg?

“Dear, this is a totally psychotic town,” said one sympathetic receptionist. “Everyone's using a psychiatrist these days. The first appointment we can give you is next January.”

“Next January!”

She sensed the desperation in my voice because she relented and squeezed me in in April between a manic depressive and a psychopath.

“It's an unusual problem,” I explained as I gave her our name.

“They always are, dear, they always are,” she murmured. “But don't worry, that's what Doctor's here for.”

“You see, he thinks ...”

She cut me short.

“I can't chat now, dear. One of our patient's having a tantrum in the waiting room. He's attacking the potted plants. You can tell Doctor when you see him. He's a wonderful psychiatrist. Quite the best in Johannesburg.”

I felt so relieved as I put the phone down.

“We had to do something,” said my daughter, “we couldn't let him run amock this way. Heavens knows what he'll get up to next.”

“You're right.”

“It's a personality transformation,” said Jamie seriously. “From being a likeable, outgoing personality, he's become frustrated and withdrawn.”

He shook his head dolefully. “Perhaps we'll have to have him committed. Institutionalised. One has to do that sometimes when all else fails.”

“No, I couldn't bear that,” I replied in horror. “I'll never put him in a home.”

“Ma, you've got to think about what's best for him,” said Jamie as he chewed his overcooked scrambled eggs.

Just then, there was the most dreadful screeching from next door.

We jumped up from the table. “It may be too late,” I gasped.

We rushed to the wall and peered over.

There, balanced on the roof, terrorising the Hall's slender, streamlined, elegant Siamese cats, was Macaroni.

Purdey, Kimbo and Tumbleweed Hall looked terrified, as well they might. Macaroni was growling and snarling in a most ferocious way.

“Drown him! Drown him!” shouted Doug Hall from below. “That dratted cat has got to go.”

It was indeed a most unusual problem.

After so many years, Mac-the-cat had decided he was a dog.

The problem first manifested itself about six months ago when we noticed him wagging his tail like the other three dogs of the household.

“Look, Mac's copying Henry-the-hog,” Jamie'd remarked.

Things deteriorated. Slowly, we watched his personality change. From being a sleek, feline with a purring nature, he became a bounding, leaping creature. Just like a dog.

He took to sitting on his haunches and begging. He abandoned his succulent fish fingers and consented to eat only dog food.

He began to chase all the cats in the neighbourhood in a distinctly dog-like way.

When we took the hounds down to the Zoo Lake for a run, Mac would stand in line, wagging his tail, waiting to have a leash tied around his neck.

When we threw the ball for the dogs — Mac retrieved it first.

One evening, while I was watching TV, Mac lay himself at my feet and rolled over.

I began to tickle his tummy with my toe, as I automatically do to whoever or whatever's lying at my feet. When I suddenly heard a most peculiar noise.

It wasn't a purr. No, it was a distinctive bark.

Mac-the-cat was barking. He'd turned into a dog.

This was confirmed at the Artists in the Sun gathering at Zoo Lake when we watched him follow Henry-the-hog around and emulate him lifting his leg against certain paintings he deplored.

Yes, there was no doubt — Mac was a dog.

It was difficult to come to terms with. A sex change we could have coped with. A gay cat is acceptable. But a total metamorphosis — it was too much.

That's when we decided to seek psychiatric help.

Meanwhile, we're humouring him.

He does everything with the other dogs. I take him walking, brush his coat regularly and have taught him to shake hands with his paw.

He gets bones as rewards and I've changed his cat basket for the traditional dog box.

In fact, between you and me, as in the way of many converts, he's become more dog-like than a dog.

But perhaps psychiatric treatment will help.

They say it does wonders.

“Did you tell the psychiatrist Mac was a cat when you made the appointment?” asked Jamie.

“Don't be silly,” I replied. He'll think we're mad.”

Yes, well.

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