Carol’s Column

I miss our fluffy little scrap of energy

Eight years ago, two sad things happened in my life.

My father died, followed a few weeks later by Henry the Hog our black Scottie-type dog who, more than anything else, resembled a warthog with his bare rump and wild head of hair.

On reflection, that description could have applied to my father too.

My dad was 80 and Henry the Hog 18, both a goodly age.

I'm not altogether sure what kind of heaven I believe in, however at the back of my mind I see them in their heavenly home, my father watching the Western Province rugby team on TV hammering the opposition.

Throughout this, my father's right foot is scratching The Hog on his prominently displayed stomach.

But this is all celestial surmise.

I thought of this when this week, our small white maltese poodle Dumpling passed on to elysian fields.

Dumpling, like Henry the Hog, was 18 years old, which the vet told me, was a very venerable age indeed. A miniature scruff of a dog, she was the third in a line of maltese poodles owned by this family.

Her grandmother Candy One, was found wandering around the Zoo Lake. We advertised for days, contacted vets and the SPCA all in vain.

So Candy remained with us. We were delighted how she rapidly put on weight and then, one morning, discovered two miniature Candys. We parted with one puppy and retained the other – Candy Two.

Always a bit of a tart, Candy Two was first impregnated by Henry the Hog and a batch of the most perfect silvery silk grey Maltese Scotties were born.

Then she had a brief alliance with a handsome Maltese called Sprog and they produced the most beautiful batch of Omo-white puppies. We kept the weakest and smallest – Dumpling.

Dumpling was a lion among Malteses. Single-jawed, she once pulled a toddler who'd fallen into the pool to the step at the edge and then barked frantically alerting his mother who'd momentarily answered the phone inside.

On another occasion she bit the ankles of a would-be thief riding off with our gardener's bicycle. So successful was she that he wobbled and fell, upon which Dumpling attached herself to his nose.

I almost felt sorry for him as he leapt to his feet and escaped down Denbigh Road, blood streaming from the wounds. Almost.

When washed, she looked like a snowball but within days, she'd darken to grey, sometimes equalling Henry the Hog in blackness.

She had one litter but outlived all her children and, as happens, the older she got, the more characterful she became.

She loved piano concertos, was particularly partial to the Beatles and loved a small thimble of medium dry sherry.

Her sight and hearing deteriorated and towards the end, she was deaf and blind. However, that didn't deter her from wandering around the house and garden – areas she knew well.

Then she got pneumonia and I took her to the vet. "Carol," he said, "It is time now."

For a moment, I did not understand what he meant.

"You cannot let her suffer, you must think of her, not you," he added.

"This is the kindest thing for Dumpling."

So I held her in my arms as he gently injected her and within a second, her eyes had closed.

I know that pets live for a shorter time than we do. And I know we should accept this and appreciate them for that short time.

Nevertheless, I cannot tell you how I miss our fluffy little scrap of energy.

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