Sticks and stones. . .

I grew up with the adage "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."  I have said that to myself numerous times, in numerous situations, but I have come to realise that that saying is nonsense.  It was probably coined by some poor soul who had been on the pointy end of somebody's tongue lashing in an attempt to lessen the blow.  Words are a magnificent tool when it comes to their ability to wound.  A well placed acerbic comment can effectively humiliate, undermine and reduce another to a quivering wreck in the time it takes to utter the sounds.  The sad thing about hurting people with words is that they cannot ever be fully retracted.  Once words have been spoken, the sentiment is there.  People who speak without thinking and realise that their words may have hurt someone will typically clap their hand over their mouths and apologise.  Others, who use words as their weapon of choice, are skilled at the art of word war.  They will make insidious comments that are difficult to pin point as an insult.  They will say hurtful things and end with a laugh as if making a joke.  If confronted, the word bully will say something like "Oh, don't be silly, I didn't mean it like that, I meant this. . . "  Or, "Oh, I think you must have the wrong end of the stick."  Yeah, right, the sharpened end!  The intended target, usually a well mannered pacifist, seethes, but says nothing and then lies awake all night thinking about the clever, caustic retorts they could have made.  We are taught to ignore hurtful words, but in all honesty, we can't.  Sometimes a comment is so hurtful that even years later the residue of those cruel words still resonate.  I live by a rule that I may think what I like, but those thoughts may not leave my mouth unless they absolutely have to.  So, give me sticks and stones any day.  At least I have a chance to defend myself.  Words do hurt me.

Armchair activism.

I am noticing a trend toward, what I call, armchair activism on social media sites.  Some of it leads to great strides in awareness and some of it makes me question where humanity is going.  There are those out there who will vociferously defend a belief by attacking, ridiculing and condemning anything that is not within their sphere of understanding.  Some have a valid reason, some don't seem to need one and some are just being revolting trolls for the sake of it.  I, for one, like to think I am very careful about what I post on social media.  I check my sources and am very wary about who could be offended right down to the words I use and how they could sound to a reader.  I read all posts with an open mind, but often have to take a deep breath before studiously ignoring the urge to rant!  An emotional outburst, it seems, is not the way to respond.  There are causes to fight,  causes to take note of and causes to leave well alone.  I feel that far too many people take things far too seriously.  So seriously, in fact, that they have spilled out from social media and into real life, leading a misplaced comment into a deadly scenario.  My philosophy is find the happy medium, find balance.  If I can contribute information in a meaningful way, using my life experience or knowledge, I will try.  If not, I won't.  If I am shot down in flames and I am not passionate enough about a cause, I will back away.  I have learned that my opinion is not necessarily another's.  I have also learned that in cyberspace people don't care whether or not you are affronted.  Do I need that negativity?  A great, big resounding no!

Sam, a cat in a million.

Some years ago a rather bedraggled, smelly orange and white cat began nightly sorties to steal cat food.  Many stand off's were had between our legal resident, tiny Luna and this larger interloper.  I met this cat one day while hanging washing.  I noticed a ginger paw extending down from the garage roof and then a cat face emerged and miaowed at me.  I stroked the paw, which did not withdraw, and that was the beginning of my relationship with Sam.  His name was chosen by my daughter.  We don't know where he came from as none of our found posters elicited any response.  He was clearly used to charming humans and just flopped down when the dog sniffed him.  Luna, of course, was stiffly disapproving, but she isn't known as grumpy cat for nothing.  Sam was checked at the vet and declared a healthy, neutered male.  Sam settled into our lives as if he had always lived with us.  His personality as big as a house, he was always at the parties and gatherings.  When our new puppy arrived, Sam took to him and they became firm friends snuggling together on the couch or bed. Sam's love was food.  He would call me "Mel, Mel, Mel" and then sprint ahead of me to his room extending his rather large bulk up the door until I opened it.  This happened every single day.  If I was asleep, I would be wakened by his not so genteel stomping up the stairs.  Then, if I pretended to be asleep, a gentle patting with the paw was employed which slowly but surely became clawingly insistent.  If that failed to goad me into action I would be encouraged with biting. . .  The neighbours informed me that he was a thug, intimidating their kitties into giving him their food!  When Sam was put on diet because he weighed in at whopping eleven kilograms, he supplemented his diet with the local wildlife.  One morning I found the remains of two mice, a huge rat and parts of a pigeon.  Sam still ate his breakfast.  He did lose weight, but not much.  Luna moved out to live with my daughter and Sam stayed with us.  He seemed to thrive even more being an only cat.  He talked more and spent all his time in our company. Always there to greet, shouting from the top of the garage or splayed out on the paving for a tummy rub.  He quite often grabbed my dressing gown tie and led me around.  When my sleeping patterns went haywire I would come downstairs at three am to see his cat face at the door waiting for me. He would sit with me on the stairs as I drank my tea.  He was a very comforting presence.  At the beginning of June, Sam had what I thought was a scratch on his nose.  It would not heal and grew into a blob quite quickly so I took him to the vet.  Tests were done and it seemed Sam had a urinary tract infection which had to be cleared before removal of the possibly cancerous growth.  Sam seemed his usual self except he would pick at his biscuits and preferred soft food.  He was taken back to the vet for the operation on his nose.  That done, all once again, seemed fine.  The nose biopsy came back positive for hemagiosarcoma, a quite aggressive cancer, but the prognosis was not dire.  A few days later he suddenly developed huge weeping sores on his tummy, became lethargic and wouldn't eat or drink.  I made an emergency appointment for him early the next morning.  That afternoon, he was dead.  I visited him in the early afternoon and he greeted me, albeit a weakened version of himself.  When I returned to take him home later that evening, I just knew he was dying. He was cold and crying.  It broke my heart to tell the vet to put him out of his misery.  We said goodbye, both sobbing.  An IV was in situ so the vet did not have to move him.  He went peacefully.  I asked the vet to do an autopsy because we were unsure as to what exactly had happened.  We went home.  It was so quick, it was such a shock.  The vet kindly stayed late to perform the autopsy and called me to say that Sam had an enlarged right kidney and dark growths within both kidneys.  He died of renal failure. Poor brave Sam.  It is so quiet at home without his huge, comforting, purry self.  Angus, our bull terrier, searched for him in the days after he died.  I see flashes of him all the time and I swear I felt a nibble on my arm the other morning very early.

Bye Sammy, you were a cat in a million.

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!