A very real funeral.

A man who has worked for our family for years came to tell us of the death of his beloved wife.  His grief was palpable, he sobbed unashamedly, a broken man.  We made him tea, gave him tissues and rescue remedy. Words for him were meaningless, but we uttered the usual platitudes.  He said he wanted to come to work to keep his mind off his loss.  A day or two later as he washed the car, he cried silently, tears rolling down his weathered cheeks.  I asked if he wanted to go home and he said no.  His concern was giving his wife a beautiful funeral.  This man is very poor, his life has been a struggle, yet he approaches everything with a can do attitude.  He has recently acquired a new house in a slightly better area than the ghetto he had lived in for so many years and the reason, ultimately, why his wife succumbed to tuberculosis.  She sadly never had the chance to hang frilly curtains at her new glass kitchen window.  We stepped in to help with the funeral.  I asked if I might attend and on a bright, chilly Friday morning, arrived to say goodbye.  The whole neighbourhood was there.  Dogs, children, adults all standing outside the small house.  It was bitterly cold, yet people were dressed in their finery. No stockings or jerseys.  I was greeted and taken to view the body.  I had forgotten that it is the way it is done in their community.  We sanitise death and all we deal with is a small box of ashes.  The coffin was ornate and within the open end was white cloth with purple edging and a face.  A dead cold face.  Her eyes were not entirely closed.  I admit to being taken aback thinking could the undertakers not have glued them shut.   Her children, all young adults, stood holding each other sobbing.  I do not usually attend funerals because I feel the pain of others acutely.  Holding back tears for me is very difficult.  I feel a little like a fraud appearing to cry for someone I don't know well.  In that community, though, emotions are worn on sleeves and it is refreshing not to have to hold back.   After scores of people had quietly shuffled past the open coffin and paid their respects, the coffin was carried from the house, slid into the hearse.  We drove slowly to the church.  The church was a run down building and the pastor nowhere to be found.  He was eventually located and the coffin was moved into the building.  I was asked to be a pall bearer.  The service began and the pastor, a charismatic preacher.  I almost jumped out of my seat a number of times when he bellowed.  We sang, clapped and some danced.  All throughout I watched as the family stood quietly, heads bowed, tears flowing.  The final trip was to the cemetery.  The sun shone, but it was still very cold.  A deep hole draped with fake green grass waited to claim the coffin.  More singing and the coffin was lowered.  Dirt and flowers were thrown, the green mats removed and the men of the funeral party helped fill the grave while the women sang.  The resulting earthen mound was decorated with clear plastic cool drink bottles filled with water and plastic flowers.  It was over.  As we made our way back to the house, people were arriving with plates of food and huge pots of soup.  I smiled and said, "you gave her a beautiful funeral, well done."  And he did, and what made it so beautiful for me was the heartfelt passion of a man for his wife.  It was real.

03h00

It is 03h00.  Again.  I am awake, wide awake.  What does one do at the witching hour when it is dark, very quiet, the rest of the household is fast asleep and the glowing red numerals of the alarm clock taunt you?  I initially look to see what time it is, knowing fully what time it will be, then I lie still hoping that I will nod off, but knowing I won't.  Tea sometimes helps, but making it all depends on how spooky it is downstairs!  I am often afraid in the dark, but not to the same extent all the time.  Some nights are worse than others. I have a personal policy not to trawl facebook or the internet in the wee hours to limit the emfs I expose myself to.   I would read, but that would mean bothering my bedfellow with my bedside light.  The television is downstairs so that is not an option for aforementioned reasons.  This morning I write, but usually I do what I call circular thinking.  I go around in mental circles trying to work out things that are bothering me, have practice angry conversations with people, rehash events of the day, write 29 versions of an important email in my head, make profound life decisions. Somehow emotions experienced during this enforced wakefulness are magnified too.  Sometimes the early morning thinking yields results, but mostly any sweeping epiphanies fade into insignificance with the rising of the sun.

Beaches, dogs and curtailment of freedom.

The beach, any beach has always been my go to place in times of contemplation.  The calming motion of the water soothes me.  The sand on my feet, my badge of happiness.  A beach is a free space where dancing can be done, cartwheels executed with wild abandon, horses gallop and dogs run unfettered.  It belongs to no one and should be revered as a sacred space.  Why would the powers that be wish to attempt to enforce a law which takes away something as fundamental as dogs on beaches?  At the moment, unless enough people object, dogs will be banned or severely curtailed on our beaches.  Leashed and policed.  Where will our dogs be able to run free?  The simple answer is, they won't.  The reasoning is immaterial to me.  It is wrong to consider taking a basic pleasure away.  Dogs accompany their humans surfing, fishing, content, free companions who also offer some protection against bad elements who frequent the beaches.  The people I associate with are conscientious about picking up after their dogs and are quick to leash their dogs if there is a problem, but seldom have I witnessed aggressive dogs on our beaches.   Aggressive humans, yes!  How happy do those sandy, damp dog faces look, panting and content in the back of a bakkie after a frolic in the sea?  This will be a thing of the past if we do not stand together and object.  Maybe all the dogs and their humans should stage a beach protest march.  Someone has to understand that if this law is passed, it will be a travesty.  Let us and our furry friends at least have the beach.

Goodbye tree.

A well established garden is a pleasure.  I thoroughly enjoy wandering around checking on the plants, picking off dead leaves, admiring the lush growth, the pretty rosebuds, getting stupidly excited about a tomato or patti-pan bursting forth in my veggie patch.  Gardens are places for contemplation and, I believe, reflect the state of mind of the gardener.  Bird song and quiet in the late afternoon makes me happy.  I often sit at my outside table sipping a chilled glass of wine and watch as the last rays of sunlight turn to dusky twilight.  The bats suddenly appear swooping and swishing, catching insects.  The circle of life is very much apparent if one just takes the time to notice.  Birds nest, lizards bask, spiders spin, butterflies burst forth after their caterpillars have decimated leaves.  I do not believe in using anything that purposefully kills so I share my garden with all manner of species.  Sometimes, because we are human, we feel the need to do away with things in our gardens that no longer serve a purpose or are encroaching on our property.  It has finally come to pass that the Eugenia tree has spread its roots under the house.  It is almost seven metres tall, a restaurant for the baboons who love its pink berries and is home to all manner of bird life.  The decision was made to fell it a few months ago, but it was reprieved because our little black cat needed it to escape to the roof.  Now that the cat has moved out, its death knell tolled.  I chose a tree feller carefully, someone who would understand that a tree for me is not just a tree.  The tree feller promised to carefully put any nests he found in another tree.  Today is the day.  I went out at dawn to say thank you and goodbye to the tree.  When I went to the bank early to draw the money to pay for the job I suddenly realised how sad I was at this prospect.  That tree has grown with us as a family.  As is the way of the universe, I met a lovely lady in the queue and found myself telling her about the tree.  She understood and assured me the tree would understand.  I drove home.  The tree feller arrived and now as I type, I can hear the chainsaws.  I cannot bear to look.  I mourn this end of life and it hurts, but that is the nature of me and I couldn't do it any other way.

Ode to maggots.

Fearless I and often called

to capture, not kill, creeping creatures
and not one of them did I abhor
until I first saw maggots.

In dark, dirty places bred by flies
heat-hatched in rotten flesh.
The wriggling mass once realised
filled me with pure revulsion.

They spilled off the bag onto the floor
and moved with speed toward my feet
with grotesqueness only they can have
pus-white, rice-like, fat on meat.

Carrion eaters, coffin companions
putrefaction's little messengers
showing me in their slimy minions
my fear of my mortality.

I gasped in fear felt in my gut
and leapt about my feet up high
imagining maggots on my body
quelling panic, the urge to cry.

I wished they'd simply go away
my bravery had been defaced.
The urge to kill them, maim, destroy
overcame my sense of reason.

I steeled myself to act against them
exterminate the vile, vile things.
All in vain, I could not face them
my nemesis found, my feet grew wings.

Mel Gouws 14/02/2001

Thoughts on freedom of speech.

The definition of freedom of speech has become a world wide debate in the wake of the tragic events in France.  It is supposedly a human right, yet how free can our speech or expression truly be?  Freedom of speech, if taken literally, means having the right to say exactly what we feel without censorship or sensitivity to the opinions of others without consequences. Most people naturally censor their opinions depending on the forum they are presenting to.  'Freedom of speech' is shouted to the hilltops, but how free should our speech really be?  If I knowingly insult another with my opinion of them, they should be free to insult me in retaliation. Please note, insult in retaliation, not murder.  This I should accept if I wish to take the phrase 'freedom of speech' literally.   If I unknowingly insult somebody and I am alerted to this fact I should apologise.  Simple, but seldom practised and possibly a naive assumption.  Words or artistic expression are in the eye of the beholder and the aspect I find difficult to get my head around is the diverse, conflicting views that people hold about the same topic.  I may think that as long as I feel my speech harms none, I should be allowed to air my views, but what about the individual who disagrees with the subject I am airing?  The adage "think before you speak" applies to my writing because as we all know, once the commentary is out, it cannot be easily retracted.  I try to be as sensitive as possible, but someone, somewhere will probably be offended.  So, yes I do self-censor to an extent.  I struggle to understand why people, aka trolls, hiding behind computer screens on various social media sites have the need to stir things up.  Racist and religious slurs, vitriolic outbursts and insulting language to list some of the upsetting things I have seen online.  Just my opinion you understand.  My personal rule is never to be drawn into the fray although sometimes I become so angry, I admit to having been tempted to comment.  The problem is that, as the world has witnessed, that anger became a blood bath, a fatal retribution to what some perceived as satirical.  If there was to be such a thing as true freedom of speech, it has to work for all, but as we know, deeply ingrained perspectives cannot be changed.  As intelligent, benevolent beings simply wanting peace on this planet, I think we should consider the fact that free speech or no-holds barred expression has suddenly become a honed, double-edged sword.  A Damoclesian sword which will cause even the most outspoken to think twice and words to be almost always carefully coached to protect the feelings and lives of others.   A sad ending to the saying "the pen is mightier than the sword."  So, my humble, reluctant conclusion is this.  Raw, uncut freedom of speech in this turbulent world of ours can in fact no longer safely exist.

Luna.

Angus, being a boisterous bull terrier, tends to hog the limelight.  There is no ignoring him even if you try and the same goes for Sam, our rather large ginger cat.  At first light Sam calls me for his food.  He shouts 'Mel, Mel, Mel' or 'Ma, ma, ma' as he plonks up the stairs.  If I do not immediately respond, he pats me in the face.  If he suspects that I am pretending to be asleep, (of course I am, who could sleep through Sam abuse?) he brings out his fail-safe, and somewhat painful, sneaky claw.  We do in fact have a third fur child, a very tiny, highly opinionated, grumpy black cat.  She chose my daughter at TEARS, the local animal shelter.  A rehabilitated feral cat, she had been completely disdainful of both her cat mates and the humans who tried to love her, but she greeted my daughter from her perch by putting her minute paws on her shoulders.  It was an instant bond.  As we left, this apparently solitary and unsociable cat, followed all the way down the enclosure and stretched her paw through the mesh of her cage. Cola came home and was renamed Luna.  It took some time and a lot of love from my daughter for Luna to settle in comfortably.  She slept on my daughter and helped with all her art projects.  Luna has never really meowed, she 'meeps' and makes bird-like squeaks.  When Angus arrived she still lived on the ground, but after she scratched his nose one day war was declared between the two.  From then on, if Angus saw Luna, the chase was with nasty intent.  Luna had to make hasty dash for the tree onto the roof or to the wall.  Luna, next to Sam, is a quarter of his size, but feisty.  She often boxed Sam even if he had done nothing.  He just sat there and took it with a silly look on his face!  Luna went missing once.  It was awful.  We put up posters and asked all over the neighbourhood.  I told my daughter who was heartbroken thinking Luna had left her, that Luna would be back if she could.  Two weeks later, while we were out, a kind neighbour phoned saying she thought she had seen Luna.  My daughter rushed home and phoned me in floods of tears because Luna had returned, very thin, but very happy to see her human.  We think she may have been shut in a garage when the neighbours went on holiday.  My daughter moved out last year into a block of flats where pets were not allowed.  Luna stayed at home and spent her time on the roof, off doing cat stuff or sitting in the middle of our, thankfully, quiet street, leg in the air, washing herself.  I worried that as she got older, her escaping skills would slow and Angus may catch her.  My daughter moved from the flat and into a pet-besotted house.  I suggested Luna move too.  I packed her little case with food, a bowl and her blanket and yesterday, Luna went to live a far more suitable cat life.  No chasing, lots of human contact, ground!  Queen Grumpy Cat, Looley Luna will rule the roost.  I will miss you little meeper, but your life is going to be wonderful from now on.

Mrs Fix-it.

I consider myself lucky to be a practical person.  Maybe I was a man in a previous life (men tend to be more practical because they are encouraged to be growing up) or my brain is just wired like that, but it is a useful and for me, very gratifying, thing.  I have a terrier mentality, tending to get my teeth into a problem and going at it until it is solved or fixed and fixed properly (not with five screws left over that clearly should be in there somewhere!)  Those tangled metal puzzles that came in Christmas crackers kept me quiet for hours!  I know I annoy people saying 'Let me try', fidgeting and looking over their shoulders until they do because I have already worked it out.  Anything mechanised is a matter of applying logic, though sadly these days things are not made to be fixed.  As a child I would be sifting through the neatly laid out parts of a broken radio or vacuum cleaner to find and fix the problem.  Sometimes, especially during rescues for some reason, the solution to a difficult extrication simply popped into my head.  I can relate to the apparent urban legend of the random person who saw a truck stuck under a bridge and casually suggested to a battery of engineers (who were scratching their heads about how to lift the bridge) that they let the tyres down.  Hooray!  Someone with simple common sense!  Nowadays with the advent of Google, I have the luxury of useful information at my fingertips to help me even with mysterious computer technology.  Obviously there are some things I will leave to the professionals, like major surgery (minor, in the case of a survival situation, I may attempt!), bomb disposal and of course my failing, mathematics.  The little x's and y's to the power of two in brackets may as well be the answer to how the pyramids were built or where the Yeti is hiding as far as I am concerned.  It would be simpler for me to construct a full size working model of a black hole than get my brain around algebra.  Although, in the construction process, I would be using it instinctively, wouldn't I.  Amazing how the brain works.  I am sure if I sat down and applied myself, I would get it but I am not inclined to!

Kommetjie, the beginning of the end.

As the warm summer evenings stay lighter longer I sit outside listening to the birds and watching the sky change.  It is idyllic here in Kommetjie and I am so blessed to have been able to call this village my home for the past twenty years.  There is a dark lining on the pink clouds though.  Kommetjie is threatened with development.  Development in the form of one hundred and seventy six duplex and simplex housing units, a retail park, the infrastructure that goes with it and that is just for starters.  When all this began, I wrote a carefully worded objection stating all the obvious, to me, reasons why this form of development should not be allowed.  I wrote about the existing traffic problems, the influx of people and their impact on the amenities, the environmental devastation, which is inevitable, including the destruction of the 'green lung' which has happened around the world and which nobody, clearly, has learned from.  I thought at the time that nobody in their right mind would approve this.  I, being an avid and passionate nature lover, did not factor in those who are simply not, those who are apathetic and those who are plain and simply, greedy.  I was shocked and dismayed when, a few weeks ago, the news broke that an environmental study group had approved the go ahead for the development.  No, no and no.  How could this happen?  Anyway, sentimentalism aside.  Let us look at the hard facts.  Money talks and it will probably win.  Those who stand to make money do not care about the objections, the signatures, the flora and fauna we fight so hard to preserve.  It is a case of bums in houses and hand rubbing, Fagin style, at how much money is in the bank.   No amount of reasonable discussion will sway the decision and I feel impotent that I cannot do more to fight this.  My home, my village is going to become another casualty to the corporates, ruining it forever.  I call on those who are like-minded to consider becoming eco-warriors.  Put up posters, write letters and when then time comes, stage a 'sit-in' in the face of bulldozers.  Will you?

Just musing about life.

There has been so much to contemplate, digest and action over the past few weeks, I suggested my muse take a sabatical.  As I sit here typing once again, the sun is sinking, casting a beautiful, mellow light over my garden.  The pigeons are eyeing me from their palm tree, Angus is playing quietly with his ball on the lawn and I can hear the rather un-melodious guinea fowls rasping away in the distance, the tweeting of the tiny white-eyes hopping around in the trees and a plover calling.  All the rose bushes have fragrant blooms, an agapanthus has sprung its first purple flower, the long suffering bourganvillia is doing better and in the veggie patch, the pattipans have buttery yellow flowers.  My glass of wine has condensation running down its sides and I sip with bliss every now and then.  Dare I say it, life is good.  It is week three of a no-carb, no sugar, mediterranean-style diet to help my husband lose weight.  He has done exceptionally well.  Of course the food fantasies have become an annoying topic of conversation, but I am proud of his resolve and it can only do us both good to loose some unwelcome kilos.  The problem, of course, is all the "hidden" sugars and starches.  I have always been careful to read labels and cook food from scratch with fresh ingredients.  It has become quite difficult to find whole, natural, unmodified food, especially in the supermarkets.  If I could buy a farm near the sea, I would just go off the grid entirely.  Food would be grown, electricity would be generated with solar and perhaps wind power and water collected in huge, green drums from the skies.  Transport will be of the four legged variety and I will have to become a vegetarian because all my animals will have names and faces.  My dream, a dream I will realise, hopefully sooner than later.  This week Tuesday, the twenty-fifth of November, is our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  I remember that day as if it were yesterday.  A good friend died early that morning in a motorbike accident.  My mother threw at least ten hissy fits about nothing in particular, but all in all, we did what we set out to do, we got married.  A long and winding road.  I am proud of us, we did it, we survived in the face of adversity and we become a stronger and stronger unit as the years roll by.  My Peter Pan has evolved into Hannibal, my warrior.  Our daughter has become a beautiful, sensitive and talented woman.  This morning, my dear sister sent me a short message from New Zealand.  Just to give me a hug.  Oh, I have so much to be grateful for.  I brim over with thankfulness for what I have in life.   I would like to dedicate this blog to dear ones who left this world last week and someone who was unable to say goodbye, but not of his own doing.  Be at peace within yourselves.  Life is short, but it is wonderful.

Angus. Vet emergency.

Last Saturday, we threw a party at home for my birthday.  The weather was windy, but the sun shone and our outdoor area is sheltered.  As people arrived, Angus went from person to person, greeting with a sniff and a wag. He seemed a bit quiet, but showed no sign of distress.  As the party progressed, comments were made about how well he was behaving.  All our friends know not to give any bones to Angus as bull terriers tend to swallow them whole and of course this can cause problems.  A friend came to tell me that Angus had vomited so I checked him over, found nothing out of the ordinary and let him be.  That night, he seemed restless and unable to get comfortable.  The following morning, my actual birthday, he refused food and just lay under the kitchen table, shivering.  I had a feeling that he had a blockage in his stomach and I know how serious this can be.  No vets are open on this side of the mountain so we decided to take him to the Animal Hospital in the suburb of Kenilworth over the mountain.  The vet there checked him out and had x-rays taken. He showed no discomfort when his abdomen was palpated and nothing showed up on x-ray so she sent him home after a series of injections.  The following morning we were at the Fish Hoek vet's door before it opened.  The night had been horrible, sleep impossibe with Angus simply lying still, pale and distressed.  The CD of x-rays was perused and a blockage was in fact visible.  An emergency operation had to be performed immediately.  Bull terriers are a breed who tend to only show pain when it is severe which makes diagnosis very difficult.  We waited, cell phones close by.  Eventually the call came and Angus had survived the operation, a long piece of an unidentifiable something had been lodged in his gut.  The problem with long objects is that many incisions have to be made to remove them.  As there were no staff available to do the night shift in hospital, we took a semi-conscious Angus home on a stretcher with a drip attached.  I am a paramedic, so I was allowed to do the necessary observations.  Angus, my husband and I had another sleepless night on the couches in the lounge and when morning came, Angus was extremely distressed.  We took him back to the vet and peritonitis or infection had set in, which is always a risk with gut surgery.  Another operation had to be done to check for leakage and to flush the abdominal cavity.  Angus stayed in the hospital for the night sedated.  I spent the evening wondering if I would ever see him again, trying to be positive and sending him healing. The outpouring of love for him from all our friends was massive and it helped us tremendously.  The vet called at eight the following morning to say that Angus had made it through the night, he made sure that I knew how critical Angus was and that it was touch and go at this point.  The reason for this is that the gut had been damaged due to a lack of oxygen to the tissue during the time that the object was lodged.  The dead tissue had been removed and the gut sewn closed.  Another night, this time sleeping on the floor, with Angus on a drip at home, medication to be given via the IV.  He insisted on moving around because he was so uncomfortable so we had to follow holding the drip bag high.

 Back to vet for a check up in the morning.  He had to stay for observation because his temperature had spiked slightly.  Once the team was happier with his condition, I went to collect him.  Armed with a bag full of drugs and special food, Angus came home.  His wound began to seep serous fluid so we attached a sanitary towel to his tummy to stem the flow. Last night was better and I was woken by a nose nudge at two am.  Angus was in need of cuddles which he got along with his pain medication.  This morning, Angus looks brighter and is eating and drinking.  I never thought I would be so excited to see dog poo on the lawn!  His wound has stopped seeping and we are hopeful that he is turning the corner.  This makes me realise just how much a part of my life my furry shadow is and how much of my heart he has stolen!  My grateful thanks to the vets who saved Angus and to all those who have enquired, sent love and positive energy to him.  Let the healing continue.

And now for something completely different. . .

As previously stated I am not one for beauty treatments.  I don't have the patience or the stomach for hours in salons amongst caped and foiled gossipers.  I did, however, once attempt to wax my legs at home with help from a friend.  The day started with an expedition to buy suitable wax which, from the blurb on the packaging, appeared to be ridiculously simple to use and promised silky, smooth legs in no time.  It sounded perfect and so began the quest for hairlessness.  The wax was popped into the microwave, as per instructions.  Almost immediately the container burst into flame.  Not to be daunted by this setback, a different tactic was employed and the charred container was warmed in hot water.  Legs exposed, warm and suspiciously resinous wax was smeared liberally on my, soon to be gorgeous, pins.  Strips at the ready, grimace on face, riiiiiip and. . . nothing.  Not a hair moved and nor did the wax.  Again and again we tried to no avail.  My legs were embalmed in stubbornly solid wax.  Nothing for it, but to call the helpline.  Luckily the number was on the uncharred bit of the container.  Unfortunately hysteria had set in and between the two of us, giggles prevented us from making much sense to the not particularly bright helpline lady.  She seemed to think we were having her on.  Eventually we were told that baby oil was the appropriate solvent.  Did we have any? Of course not.  We had not forseen any leg versus wax catastrophes.  By this time, we had tried all manner of ways to remove the wax and my legs were rather red and sore and covered with blobs of cotton wool.  Next hurdle, a trip to the shop to buy baby oil.  My friend doesn't drive so I drove, robed in a towel and the plan was for her to nip into the shop, grab the baby oil and get the damn wax off.  Easy.  All was going well until her child escaped the car wanting her Mum.  Child running through parking lot with me, towel, wax, cotton wool and all in hot pursuit. Of course the towel fell off, it just couldn't not have. I grabbed screaming child who, by now had attracted a huge amount of attention wailing "Mummy, I want my Mummy." Now I was being viewed as a half naked, child snatcher by half of Fish Hoek's surly shoppers. After what seemed like an age, my friend emerged brandishing a tiny bottle of our life saving elixir. Oh thank the powers that be! I put foot and wax-caked-leg out of the car park and we squealed with laughter as I recounted between snorts what had happened during her absence. A calming cup of tea and operation remove wax began. It worked, but not without a great deal of elbow grease. Moral of the story. If your beauty product bursts into flame within the first five minutes of use, you should probably take that as an ominous sign. I am just so grateful that I started with my legs and not my bikini line!

My sister, my friend.

In life people cross paths for a reason, a season or a lifetime, as the saying goes.  My sister and I were destined to be together.  We were adopted thirteen months apart from different backgrounds.  This fact was never disclosed to us by our adoptive parents.  My sister came home to me and I apparently did not appreciate the intrusion as I sent her hurtling down the staircase on a tray and while she cried at the foot of the stairs, I squirted washing up liquid in her eyes!  As time went by, I got over my jealousy and we grew as close as siblings can be.  Our upbringing was strict, almost Victorian, and we relied on each other for comfort.  We made up games, we adventured into the bush behind our house, we danced and sang and spent time with our Dad on the beach.  Our lives also revolved around ballet and music eisteddfods, school work and piano exams.  Our Mother expected nothing less than perfection and there was little enjoyment on the trips home. An angry cloud of disapproval often hung in the car about things most petty.  Like toes not pointed enough or slouching.  I think this is the reason why we both developed a such a whacky sense of humour to help us through.   As young girls and then teens, Dad was ill and we were eventually sent to boarding school. I don't think we really realised how much we lent on each other in those days or how much insidious interference our Mother caused to our impressionable psyches. We discovered by accident around the ages of fourteen and fifteen that we were adopted. I tried to be philosophical, my sister was devastated. We knew instinctively not to say we knew, but it came out. It was a difficult time, a true elephant in the room as it was a taboo subject. The roots we thought we had were severed and we were ungrounded. Our behaviour deteriorated. As young adults we began to spend less time together. This in part due to natural pathfinding and the death of our beloved Dad. My sister moved out early, I stayed at home. We wrote long letters to each other, but things were not the same. We were lonely for each other, but a subtle rift had developed. Unbeknown to us, Mother sought to divide and conquer by playing one sister against the other. For what reason, we will probably never know. As the years went by, we lived our lives. We married, had children and found our respective careers. My Mother and sister immigrated to New Zealand. This before I had access to email so regular communication wasn't that easy. After some particulary nasty accusatory behaviour from my Mother I felt it necessary to finally sever her negative influence and never spoke to her again. Sadly my sister became a casualty of this because I was made out to be the villain. When our Mother died, I realised just how dire the situation was. Our sisterhood was in tatters. We could barely speak to each other all due to the disinformation campaign Mother had put in place. Some tentative messages via cell phone, then a phone call and slowly, putting the pieces together, we began to rebuild. It was a time of real elation and deep sadness. Elation for me because I had my sister back and sadness that a person who called herself a mother had caused such unnecessary harm. In 2012 I travelled to New Zealand to see my sister after ten years of silence. For the first few days we were a little wary of each other, but then we just found our old course. Like a river knows where to flow, we did too. We spoke of the happy memories, we spoke of the dark days and together we buried her ashes, we buried our past. That was a day of great significance, a new beginning for us both. I rent the sky asunder with echoing blasts from my Dad's double-barrelled shot gun. We vowed never to be apart in spirit, ever again. Goes to show that blood is not always thicker than water. My sister, my friend how did I cope without you for so long.

Angus, continued.

I wrote a blog about our bull terrier named Angus a while ago entitled 'Angus, his story.'  Since then Angus has been improving daily.  As I type, he is curled up asleep in his basket, his beloved orange ball near his nose.  During his 'terrible tail time,' this would never have happened.  He hardly slept then because he was fixated with chasing his tail and mutilating it.  Since his tail was amputated, he has been weaned from his anti-epileptic meds and we are in the process of doing the same with his anti-anxiety meds.  Angus likes routine and tells the time exceptionally well. He loves car trips and is wary of the vet, but behaves exceptionally well with him. I think he might instinctively know that the vet gave him another chance at life as a real dog. Up to this point he has not been dog-friendly, but he met a Jack Russell the other day and immediately went into the 'bowing position' which says "Play with me!" in dog language. The Jack Russell was at risk of being flung into the air by an Angus nose under his tummy. We were amazed to see this as the times before play spiralled into aggression very quickly.  He sleeps upstairs with us these days and has his spot at the bottom of the bed.  Before he settles down for the night, he washes Sam, our very large ginger cat.  This causes much disgruntled meowing. Once that task is finished, he bomb drops into his space with a grunt and goes to sleep.  In the early morning, Sam and Angus start gently waking us.  Sam with the patting-paw-in-the-face method and Angus with the nose-nibble method. Needless to say, this becomes more and more insistent as they realise we are pretending to be asleep.  They are both let out only to return for 'snuggle Mum in the bed' time. When I manage to extricate myself and go downstairs, Angus sometimes grabs my dressing gown tie and leads me to wherever my husband happens to be.  We all sit on the couch and watch TV.  Angus like to sprawl across our laps.  Breakfast crumbles eaten, it is time for Angus to bark at the cupboard for his ball. If I am working that day, Angus curls his waggy body around me all the way to the door, maybe to prevent me from going. If I am at home during the day, I have a black and white shadow. I can't even go to the loo without being checked on! Angus is not a great gardener, but he tries. He likes to sniff blooms. We have had some disputes about where the plants should be planted. Angus pulls them out and relocates them. . .  Everytime I come home I am greeted in true bully style, ears back, wagging stumpy tail and quite a lot of boinging!  He knows now that humans need a nice cup of tea when returning from work so he waits, almost patiently, with the occasional woof in case we have forgotten the promised ball game.  Eventually, when the ball emerges from its cupboard hiding place, he gleefully grabs it and rushes outside to roll it in the mud. Once it is suitable anointed, it is presented to either Mum or Dad with a bump. No white clothing in this house! The problem is he won't let it go. We have tried everything! He puts it under the stove and flattens himself so just his rear end protrudes, idiot! We then have to prostrate ourselves on the floor with a long kitchen implement to get the ball out.  The game goes on until "Game over" is announced.  Angus then likes to remind the pigeons nesting on the awning who exactly is boss by barking at them. They perch on the edge looking rather puzzled. He also chats to the staffie nextdoor for a bit. He sniffs at his bowl when he thinks it should be filled and he is always on time. Then it is time to help Dad cook. If he is not sitting on someone's feet, he is near the stove, it is a bit like an obstacle course. While watching TV, Angus likes to snuggle next to me on the couch or chew a hoof filled with peanut butter in his basket. He used to be unable to chew anything because he thought his tail was going to grab his treat and spent his time growling at it. Poor chap! Angus is a very sensitive dog and has displayed this many times. If one of us is upset, he will do his utmost to help by climbing onto the person's lap and pushing his chest hard up against the person. He likes to join in when people are laughing and clowns around doing his springbok leaps (all four legs off the ground) usually with something ridiculous like pliers or the decorative metal warthog in his mouth! Angus has just turned three and I will say this again. I am so glad we found someone who was willing to help us spare his life. He is an absolute character.

Thoughts on challenge.

Challenge is something I thrive on.  For me, life without a challenge or ten would not be worth living.  Challenge for me is a self-test.  It has nothing to do with pitting myself against others, it has to do with my inner drive to succeed, solve a difficult problem, survive even.  I like to think I would not give up when others have.  Television programs like 'Survivor' appeal to me, but I probably would not do well because I am not a devious person.  I am able to read people well so picking up deception would not be difficult, but playing mind games is not my modus operandi.  I like to win fair and square, on my own merit rather than be cheated, that just makes me cross!  Another thing that makes me cross is people who throw in the towel when things become difficult.  I understand letting things go, but people who move from place to place, person to person, doctrine to doctrine searching for perfection are usually doomed to failure.  Make the best of what you have and who you are.  Strive for your dreams and don't be afraid to question, explore and of course challenge yourself.  How will you know what you can accomplish unless you have tried?