Internet shaming


I’m not an advocate of internet shaming, but this has gone too far.

I’m babysitting my mother’s beloved Golden Retriever, Angus, for a week while she sips Mai Tais on the banks of the Crocodile River.

It was supposed to be the thin end of the wedge and ease my husband into the idea of a new puppy. It has had quite the opposite effect.

There’s nothing like causing a neighbourhood spectacle at 7:30 in the morning in rush hour traffic.

That was me this morning – running like a crazy woman, high heels in my hand and a blowing ineffectually on a silent whistle.

Like they don’t think I’m weird enough after the whole painted eggs incident.

Angus would see me, stop, wag his tail and wait until I made a mad rush for him, at which point he’d bounce back 10 meters and laugh at me.

This went on until I couldn’t stand it anymore and went home to wait for him to get bored and return.

After 45 minutes, I was freaking out.

I thought I’d lost my mother’s child. I called the neighbourhood watch, the security company and the vet and shared my tale of woe.

With all these lovely people mobilised the area was canvassed as Angus took increasing pleasure in knowing the havoc he had wrecked.

When everyone had just about given up, he waltzed back into yard, swam in the fish pond and went to sleep in a sunny spot like nothing had happened.

And he is sexist.

At 2am he demanded to be let out and then refused to come back in.

In sleep deprived fury I went back to bed.

After enduring 20 minutes of him barking inanely my husband got up and opened the door, yelled “Angus! Get in here.” And he did. He bloody well did.

Forget that I stood out in the middle of the damn night yelling the exact same thing.

Apparently, he only listens to men.

Angus is exceptionally well-trained. He can shake paws, sit and stay and practically do cartwheels on demand.

But, and this is the crux…

Only when he feels like it.

I am at the mercy of a sexist, masochistic prima donna who thinks I exist only to provide him with entertainment.

If he wasn’t so incredibly beautiful and sweet when he isn’t causing chaos…

K is for Kidding. You must be kidding? Right?



After my bizarre parking lot accident a week or so back, you’d think I’d have met my quota. You can read about that crash with calamity if you feel like it later.

Today was one of those days when I should have stuck with routine. Just the same thing I do every day and not messed with the system.  Of course, I didn’t and so now here I sit bemoaning the fact. 20/20 hindsight and all that.

siameseThe first stupid choice I made was leaving work early, due to having left two small people in my mother’s small house with a hyperactive Golden Retriever, a skittish Siamese kitten and the cleaning service. I was concerned that the summation of the first three items of that list would result in chaos greater than the sum of its parts.

The second mistake was deciding on a whim to take a different route home. Why today of all days I chose to vary this, I have no idea. It was not a choice that ended well.

RobotHappily pulling up at the red robot (traffic light in every other country) I found myself behind a taxi and two other cars I paid no attention to.

I wouldn’t paid attention to the taxi either had it not been the catalyst for the disaster that followed.

Let me tell you about South African taxis.

They are not the yellow cabs of New York City.

They are not the black cabs of London.

If you ever need to catch a taxi here you will need these.
If you ever need to catch a taxi here you will need these.

They are minibuses in varying stages of disrepair and near to total unroadworthiness that form the spinal column of our public transport system.

The roads are their domain. This means they can and will stop at anytime, anywhere with no warning (because 90% of the time the brake lights don’t work anyway).

And that is exactly what this one did.

Why he did not disgorge his passengers at the red traffic light, I have no idea.

Instead he waited until the light turned green and we all happily accelerated to be on our merry ways.

And then he stopped. Dead.

The car behind him stopped.

The car behind him stopped.

I stopped.

Then I chanced a glance in my rear view mirror and saw the future looking backwards.

mercThe future was a shiny, black Mercedes that on any other day, in any other circumstance I would have paused to admire.

Instead I thought, “Oh shit.”

Because the shiny, black Mercedes in question was blithely unaware we had all come to a screaming halt.

There was nothing to do and nowhere to go.

“Brace yourselves chaps!” I called out to Miss Diva and the Young Padawan.

And that was that.

With a screech of brakes and that horrid silence that seems to stretch forever I watched the shiny, black Mercedes close in on my not-so-shiny grey Ford Fiesta. And then he made first contact.

Regardless of having been forewarned the crash still felt like a charging rhino just head butted the centre of my back.

In real time this whole scenario probably unfolded in milliseconds.

I was very calm and Mr. Merc can thank my doctor for that (he prescribed me Xanax for insomnia and anxiety the day before). We exchanged the requisite numbers and he was terribly nice and concerned about all of us.

star trekIn all honesty, there wasn’t a hell of a lot he could have done to avoid the accident anyway.

Needless to mention, the taxi driver disappeared faster than Captain Kirk in the Starship Enterprise’s transporter.

As we drove away I noticed his shiny, black Mercedes wasn’t so shiny anymore. Feeling petty, I took some comfort in this fact.

The right thing to do after a Motor Vehicle Accident or as I discovered what “they” call an MVA, is to go to the police and fill out a report.

So, off we went.

How hard could this possibly be?

You have no idea.

sapsPolice Station 1 in my area of residence told me I had to go to Police Station B where the accident occurred.

Police Station B had a queue stretching into the parking lot.

Thirty minutes later I was very relieved when the Constable allowed me to complete the form myself without the lengthy dictation that usually takes place and the writing down of that dictation during which entire continents shift.

Ten minutes later I was back in the queue. At this point my children were not so quietly going insane. I might have told them that if they were naughty the scary policeman in the corner would put in a jail cell to chill out. They shut up.

Twenty minutes after that I handed my completed form to a different police officer who informed me that I had to go back to Police Station A.

At this point I ignored what I had told my offspring and let my mild indignation heat up to full steam. He stamped my form and sent me down a darkened corridor to the first door on the right.

The smell emanating from this room was so strong it had actual shape and colour. A sort of putrid algae green cloud of cabbage, boiled chicken and chakalaka hit my nostrils like an H-Bomb blast.

I then had to yell over about 8000 decibels of badly tuned radio to make myself heard to a distinctly disinterested young lady who eventually handed me a scrap of paper with my case number.

The case number is vital for my insurance claim. Otherwise it serves no purpose whatsoever and chances are high that my meticulously filled in form will end up in a landfill somewhere within the next 48 hours. It is an awful lot of bother for very little outcome.

Someone should write an app.

Of course, the next step was calling my husband. I flaked out a bit here.

I sent an SMS.

“Had accident. Not my fault. All okay. At police station.”

He rang back in about 0.2 of a millisecond.

At least he wasn’t mad at me. He even offered to come past the police station and give me a hug. In retrospect that was probably why he called me the night of the flat tyre (see I is for I have a Flat Tyre).

The damage report is not heartening. The boot/trunk does not open. The bumper is hanging on by a thread. Great chips of paint have fallen off the body. All-in-all a bit of a mess, with the result that I will be carless for some time, unless my insurance springs for a rental. Please not a Kia Picanto.

On a more personal level, my two passengers have minor whiplash, thank you God for safety belts, and I have to go for x-rays on my back.

It turns out titanium doesn’t have a lot of give and my replacement lumbar disk (see: Farting for Food) might have been knocked out of kilter. Something I hope with all my heart an anti-inflammatory can cure because I am in no hurry to be cut open again anytime soon.

The moral of the story?

Sometimes routine can kill you with boredom.

Sometimes it can just save your life.

It’s a toss up really.

Walkhaven – 1st in show

Walkhaven 5Lesson learnt last weekend.

People really do look like their dogs.

Even normal everyday people, not just the strange and bizarre Crufts types.

There should be an app. There probably is, but I couldn’t find it. An app where you can upload a picture of yourself and have it mapped to a dog breed.

Think of the time and agony it would save for people trying to buy a new puppy.

I am liar, I did find one

“This phone and Facebook application is based on the insight that dogs look like their owners and matches you to a dog available for adoption. You simply take a photo of yourself and the software begins scanning every part of your face – from your eyes, hair, nose, mouth and facial features. It then analyses and compares your features against every single available dog, until your Dog-A-Like is found.”

We met my Mum for lunch yesterday at the Walkhaven Dog Park north of Johannesburg. South Africa is not big on dog parks so Walkhaven is a bit on an anomaly.

People are quite superfluous here. Like parents at a kid’s birthday party. We’re really just transportation.

A necessary evil and completely ignored by all canines upon arrival except when it comes to ball throwing.

My mother is owned by a Golden Retriever named Angus. He is incorrigible, gorgeous, incurably optimistic, has a weakness for chocolate cake and small children. He’s a lot like my mum.

Walkhaven 2Next door to us was an enormous Great Dane. Who sat on the bench next to his people throughout lunch.

Although they weren’t six foot tall, they matched perfectly – completely laid back and slightly larger than life.

The very overweight bulldog and bull mastiff were accompanied by a brick shit house of a man in teeny tiny shorts. They all minced across the grassland in a row.

Walkhaven Dog Park is in Muldersdrift near the  Cradle of Humankind and near my favourite picnic place, The Moon and Sixpence on 22 hectares of rolling grassland.

There are two dams (doggie swimming pools no people allowed) surrounded by lush wetland you can have a braai, bring a picnic or have a bite at the people restaurant. You can even buy some fabulous dog stuff at the Dog Box. My mother took Angus in and let him pick out his own ball (pink) from a bucket. Think of a Toys R Us for canines.

They have Doggie Halloween and Doggie New Year. It’s all very dog oriented. If you are not a dog person do not go here. If you are it is dog Mecca and you and your dog will love it.

Entrance to Walkhaven Dog Park is R30 per adult and R15 for kids and

Visit Walkhaven at