Carol’s Column

An election of a different kind

On this day of elections another choice has just taken place in this household. An election of a different kind.

We've always been a haven of creatures. Children, adults, dogs, cats, fish, hamsters and for short periods, cows, broken-winged birds, chickens and rabbits.

Then in quick succession, our three dogs died of longevity which has left us alone with Percy Baneshik the cat.

As dogless folk will tell you, there are attractions to being without hounds. No droppings, no barking, no fleas, no slobbering wet licks. No laborious arrangements to make when going away for a few days, no endless bowls of scientifically balanced pet dinners designed to make your dogs' tails curl and their eyes twinkle.

The downside is no tail-wagging greetings, no excited barks, no Nureyev leaps, no slobbering wet licks and no mobile disposal units for leftovers.

Recently, over dinner, two main topics of conversation have reigned – the less than inspiring candidates for the coming elections and whether or not we should replace our canines. And, if the answer is affirmative, with what breed.

Our garden is small so we decided that should we get another dog, we'd go for something compact. Which is why I enthused when I saw an advertisement in the newspaper for a staffie. It read: 'STAFFIE: two-year-old female to good home. Owners relocating. Loves long walks and sleeping on your bed. Phone Jody ...'

"Perfect," I exclaimed to my less than enthusiastic spouse. "This dog will be house trained, staffies are medium-sized and they have character." I phoned Jody.

The interrogation was fierce: "Why do you want a staffie?" she asked.

"Because we have a small garden and I thought a medium-sized dog would be perfect. But we'll take her for long walks."

"She will have to sleep on your bed."

"No problem," I muttered, my fingers crossed. I knew my husband would say the marital bower wasn't big enough for him, me and a staffie, but I'd make him a comfortable bed in the kitchen.

Eventually, Jody suggested she and Jessie (the staffie) come and check us out. Jessie arrived, a large, exuberant dog. She knocked over my husband, tore through the flower beds, leapt into the jacuzzi, jumped on my head and made herself thoroughly at home. We loved her.

We discovered we were the fourth people on the check list. Said Jody, they'd let us know. On Sunday they phoned to reject us. Jody felt we might have been overwhelmed by Jessie. I wept, my husband cheered with joy.

Then a friend, Inken Hainebach, called. Inken is involved with the Dog Animal Rescue Group (Darg). She was, she told me, fostering a homeless white maltese who had formed an intimate alliance with a black scottie. From this, four mixed-race, mixed-gender puppies had been born. She'd cared for them and was now looking for a home for two puppies. The other two and the mother, she'd keep herself. The siblings had to stay together.

I didn't hesitate.

But first, we had to pass a home check from Darg. Ms Pat von Bratt and her list duly appeared.

"Where will the dogs sleep? What will they eat? Is the garden enclosed? ..."

"Why don't we just have another baby?" my husband whispered. "It's easier."

After a nerve-wracking half hour, silence. Then we were handed a form which read: 'Wonderful, caring owners. 100 percent approved.'

Yo!

As yet, we haven't seen the puppies but we're choosing names. My spouse favours Handlebar and Rover, while I rather like Butch and Hank.

Talking choices, remember to vote. You get who you deserve.

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