Carol’s Column

Boris was Hugo looking for love

He picked us up as we walked around the Zoo Lake. My daughter Nicky, Cleo, our designer-trained Alsatian and I were followed as we briskly trotted past the ducks and 207 other dog-walkers.

He was old, with greying hair, flat feet and a slight limp.

“He’s panting,” observed Nicky as he followed our trail.

“Go away,” I said loudly several times. He ignored us.

We left the Zoo Lake and sprinted the two blocks to our house. “He’s still following,” whispered Nicky.

We got home and slipped inside the home-made security gate. He stood outside while Henry-the-hog and Dumpling, our two smaller dogs, barked like AK-47s. An hour later, he was still there, his great eyes mournful.

“He’s lost,” said Nicky, “and he looks hungry.”

“I’m not a welfare station,” I muttered angrily. Nevertheless, when I fed the dogs, I gave the massive Rottweiler outside the gate, a plate of food.

He wolfed it down. “Shame,” said Nicky, “he’s starving. He probably hasn’t eaten for days.”

He was wearing a collar with a tag. Taking a torch, for the sun had slipped out of the sky, I checked the tag. There was the SPCA Booysens number, plus his own code.

“Sorry,” said the helpful SPCA emergencies man, “the kennel section is shut. Phone again tomorrow. Perhaps you can bring him in, or put him up over night.”

A trip to Booysens was inconvenient. Furthermore, accommodating Boris (he looked like a Boris) was out of the question. The Hog would never understand.

Meanwhile, Boris sat patiently outside the gate. “I wonder why,” said Nicky reflectively, “he chose us. There were hundreds of other people at the Zoo Lake; why this family?”

Why indeed?

When my spouse arrived, Boris shot inside like oiled mercury and plonked himself under the diningroom table. The Hog was barkless with shock.

“What’s that? A dinosaur?” said my husband as he caught sight of the huge splay-footed creature.

“That’s Boris,” we replied in unison.

“He looks just like your father,” said my husband.

I phoned the SPCA at the crack of dawn and spoke to Karin, giving her Boris’s tag number and there was silence as she looked him up.

“Ah,” she said. “It’s Hugo.”

Hugo? I looked at Boris who definitely looked more like Boris than Hugo.

“This is such a sad story,” she continued. “Hugo’s owner is Adrian Sutton. He lives in Westcliffe Drive and a few months ago, his companion, a beagle, disappeared.”

“Adrian’s companion?”

“No, no, Hugo’s. Anyway, he often slips out to try and find his beagle friend. He’s been reported found on several occasions.”

I related the sad story to Nicky who immediately cuddled poor, lonely Boris alias Hugo. Boris sighed pathetically.

I phoned Adrian Sutton. “We have a Boris who could be your Hugo,” I said. “He’s old, with greying hair, and arthritic with flat feet.”

“No,” said Adrian. “Hugo is not old, he’s 14 months, he has flat feet, but the grey on his backside is paint.”

We investigated Boris. The grey hair was indeed paint. There was no doubt, Boris was Hugo.

“I’m so sorry for all the trouble,” said Adrian Sutton, “we’ll fetch him immediately.”

I wasn’t there when he came but Nicky tells me Boris resisted. He’d formed a close alliance with Cleo and they’d become inseparable.

“He looked so sad when he left, digging his flat feet into the ground, I almost cried,” said my daughter.

That was on Thursday.

On Friday, it was obvious that Cleo was on heat and equally obvious is that soon we will be the proud owners of Rottsatians.

“Be philosophical,” said Nicky wisely. “In the new South Africa, a mixed ancestry is desirable.”

Ja, no, well, fine. But Rottsatians?

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