There is no "I" in P-E-T . . .

I am always baffled by the statement, "I'm not a dog person" or "I'm not a cat person". I am just a plain animal person.Hello, where have these people been living. You are an animal you crazy monkey

I retain a natural respect for all of God's creatures. I swim in the ocean but know there are things down there that want to eat me and will, given half the chance. I have holidayed in wildernesses and been a spectator to the rhythms of the circle of life. I am by no means a saint. I have killed a stupid amount of mozzies; not that it had any effect on the population whatsoever- but it was good for stress-relief, and am guilty of whipping out the doom and killing a fair amount of ants. I tolerate many creatures, snakes, spiders, the praying mantis that keeps coming through my study window!

All this aside, I need to confess, I...am...a...pet-owner! There I said it! Phew I feel so much lighter now.

I have been guilty of letting a bevy of non-descript castaways into my heart! And as something expensive happens, I bang my fist on the table and declare "That's it! I'm not doing this again, it's just too painful". But the words haven't even gone cold on my lips when I find myself again saying yes to just one more!

I acquired my "first" in 2002. A Jack Russell terrier whom I called Bentley (as in the car!) and he was the love of my life. My "kalulu" as his majesty jealously announced. We lived in a garden cottage at the time and even though the landlord had animals of his own he was gracious enough to grant me this one wish. Bentley went to daycare at my mom-in-law on weekdays and was waiting at the window every afternoon when I went to fetch him. He was the first dog I had all to myself and I taught him tricks and loved him and walked him and so on. I was always envious of people who travelled everywhere with their pets and now I was one of them! Yippee! It was a cool club to be in! I went to the deli and he was the picture of charm in the trolley. I went to the bank and he sat at my feet. I went grocery shopping and he charmed the vegetable weigher-person! Sadly due to a freak accident in 2007 he passed on. I cried for weeks. Though he was my first he sure wasn't my only or my last!

There has to be something said about the unwavering love from my pets. Is it the way they seem to hear my car coming from miles away and all lay in wait in the driveway? Is it the way they will settle at my feet no matter where I am and what I'm doing. Is it the way they greet me so emphatically no matter how long I've been gone (even if its just to the cafe and back!). I swear if they could bottle the stuff I would buy it by the gallon.

And what's in a name. I find that pet names are as personal and expressive as tattoos. You can tell a great deal about people from what they call their pets. There are the slaves to the ordinary who opt for Lucky, Lady, Jessie, Blackie, Whitey, Duke and Sandy. Then there are the uber cool place name-ers coming up with Malibu, Dakota, Orlando, Paris, Skye and to on. Not to mention the brand-labellers who tote Levi, whiskey, Morgan, Prada and the like.

Erm, then there myself and his majesty. A hopeless pair we are so we ended up with Hannah, a dachsie mix of extraneous proportions. Diesel a staffordshire bull terrier and Jock-of-the-bushveld lookalike. Osca, simply from an ad on telly his majesty saw, whose punchline was "Does that mean Oscar can stay?". He simply spelt it differently so to be able to deny his addiction to telly. And Orson, his majesty's first love, a Jack Russell terrier who aptly lives up to his name - a french translation meaning "Little Bear". Oh and not forgetting the cat, Rumpleteaser, from the musical Cats. No imagination, I know!

All of this talk of animals brings to mind an email that did the rounds a few years ago. Written from the point of view of a pet owner to a non-pet owner. Whilst rather lenghty the gist of the message is love me love my pets. They live here, you don't. If you don't want fur on your clothes then don't sit on the sofa. And so on. Very good, could almost hear the furry author sniggering.

I can relate. With the acquisition of each new pet his majesty and I collectively lay down the law, mostly to ourselves, and say, right, no animals sleeping inside, no pets on the furniture, no animals on the bed. Pfffffffffffffft! That lasts all of about 24 hours of their arrival and admittedly his majesty is usually the first to crack. Oh ask him, he'll deny it to the death but it's him who caves in at the first "spca" stares he gets. He's hopeless.

On the subject of the spca, this is how we got most of our animals - apart from the ones we took on from emigrating friends. I have a hate of store bought animals and firmly insist that to purchase them is not a form of emancipation but merely stimulating the trade. Not the mention the mindless masses who say they are merely going to let their pet have one litter and then have them sterilised. Imagine if you will that you were allowed to have sex only once and had the means and method removed. Surely you would live out the rest of your days missing it right? I say nip and neuter in puppy hood then the poor beast has no knowledge and cannot miss what they don't know about! And the SPCA do so much with so little.

I promise, all of the mix breed, lost soul, pavement specials we have adopted over the years have turned out the be the most fantastic animals imaginable.

And if you ever find yourself in the company of someone whose just remarked that they are not a "pet" person, I dare you to look them from head-to-toe and tutt as loudly as you can. They deserve your pity. Life without an animal is lonely. Even Adam had the birds and beast to keep him company.

Note : - If you are the "NOT-A-PET-PERSON" reading this blog then no offense but please go and get a dog, you mammal. You will be happier, its a medical fact. And if you don't, know that right now I am tutting at you in pity.

Til next time. . .
Bark out loud :-)

How Imogen arrived . . . and it wasn't by stork!

Righty, so it was on this very day a year ago that I ate 2 consecutive mutton bunny chows in a futile attempt to oust my now 1 year old daughter from my then very tired and honestly, exhausted womb. Thinking back I am sure my parents were in shock. Firstly at my ability to devour practically an entire loaf of bread by myself and secondly the fact that I was no longer "charmed" at incubating!

Well, a bit of a back story. Imogen is the result of fertility treatment. A long and emotionally charged journey that culminated in what I can only deem as the best sentence I had heard in a very long time - the king delivering the news "My love, you'd better book your maternity leave because we have a bun in the oven". Phew now with that came a technicality. We had a gem of an obgyn we had seen in Durban, who after numerous visits, had the eta at the 12th April 2010. And after transferring to an obgyn closer to home, he set our date at on or around the 6th April 2010. My awesome parents planned a holiday to be here in time to meet the new arrival. So the 6th came and went and still nada. I was just very tired and very "over" this whole experience by now. I could tell my dad was shattered, in fact I do recall him asking me jokingly if I couldn't just will myself into labour? You know, I would if I could!

With their imminent departure that Saturday we were running out of time, so on the Friday I suggested that we go to the mall and have a cuppa and some cake and just call it quits. And my mom being my mom she wanted to hit a "few" shops while we were at it. So there I was now officially overdue, waddling the mall from north to south. Phew, I was buggered! That evening we were throwing a braai for my in-laws to say cheerio to the folks.As always, a very sedate but lovely affair but man, I was kaputt. I recall spending the entire evening on a wicker chair on the patio with my feet up because I just couldnt' muster the energy to move. Once everyone had said their adieus I went to shower, stubbed my toe on the shower stall and was attempting very limited gymnastics to sort the said toenail, like a whimsical contortionist. Imagine if you will a heavily pregnant woman trying to reach her toenail with her leg bent back behind her knee. Stretch, grunt, hmpppffffff and. . . oops! My water broke! Yikes, so there I was on the eve of my parents departure, wandering into the lounge where they were all chilling and very calmly saying "um, I think my water just broke, could you stay another day, I think the baby will be here by tomorrow?!

I am not famous for cosmic timing. I am exceedingly punctual, nauseatingly so but as to the grand designs of the timing of the events that occur in my life, I must admit defeat and give in to what they call Irish Luck! Like starting my period on my wedding day (argh) and always getting a HUGE pimple on my nose the day we want to take family pics! Typical.

Long story short, a hurried car ride the 2 seconds to the hospital, a very loooooooooooong night and 17 hours of labour later the obgyn gave the orders and my pain was relieved and I could breath again. Epidurals are grand things, given the choice I would have one every 28 days! I was stubborn and wanted to give this natural malarky a bash but had to give in when my cervix failed to dilate! Stupid thing, this is after all what it was designed for, the whole meaning of its existence. Anyway, that aside, I was whisked away to theatre, past my family waiting in the lounge! I have no idea how and when they arrived but I am pretty sure they heard every four letter expletive that I had vented from the active labour ward in the last few hours! I still cringe when I think about that! I do recall whipping out all the cuss words my Polish grandfather had taught us too! Argh, how embarrassing!

Into theatre, stripped and having my body subdivided was the strangest sensation. I remember the king being on my right and me constantly picking up my head trying to see over the curtain as to what was happening. He later told me that in my delirium I asked him if he could see my insides, which had the entire theatre in stitches (no pun intended!). Shoving, grunting (from the obgyn), huffing and puffing and ..........the pleasant sounds of a baby crying followed by the sniffles of the king himself. Dilemma for me though. I wasn't allowed to wear my glasses and so couldn't actually see my baby. I may have even asked if she was next to that "gray thing" under the warming lamp? I also commented that she looked nothing like the cactus I was sure I was giving birth to earlier.  Oh wait, seeing as I was in a room called a theatre, I felt obliged to perform so when the obgyn was putting my bits back together he jokingly asked if I wanted a tummy tuck while he was there, to which  I replied a drunken "Noooooooooooooo, take it all off my bum!" Ever the clown , I swear you can't take me anywhere!

I was wheeled off to "RECOVERY", an awful artificially lit morgue of a place where the aircondtioning is too cold and they don't have enough blankets. All this while the family were now meeting and greeting our arrival. I was returned to the ward where I slept off some of the drugs and was awoken by my dad poking his beaming, smiling head around the corner and telling me well done, followed by my ma whom I had never been so happy to see. And I finally got to meet her majesty. Such an overwhelming moment looking at that pink crumpled person squinting up at me.

I could go on about how cute her hands were and how she had the chubbiest little chin and how here eyes were looking at everything and and and. But that's it in a rather large nutshell really. The cliff notes version. The short and sweet story of it.

That's the story of how Imogen arrived. And not a stork in sight. Pfffffffft!