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 :-)
19 April 2011
7 April 2011
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!
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!
18 March 2011
Failure to Navigate
I can't say I'm too attached to useless gadgets. I just find that at the rate technology develops these days, something bigger and better is going be released tomorrow so honestly why bother! This does go without saying that today I took my first, virgin drive into the city solo. Well, Imogen was in her car-seat but its not like she was offering too much argument as to which route to take.
So post installing her majesty into her chair, I set the GPS (brand not mentioned, but you know who you are!) and head off. Might I add that "Emily" then chose this time to develop a most terrible case of laryngitis. Perhaps the fact that the jolly thing missioned off the windscreen only 50 meters up the road should have been an omen. But being the tenacious, stubborn, Staffordshire Bull Terror type that I am, I persisted. Well only so far. About 6kms into my journey I threw the fecking thing into the cubby, drew a deep breath and prayed I could remember the route.
Ok, now I digress, but only for a moment. The journey is much different from the passenger seat! When I am riding shotgun I know every landmark, remember every road number, in fact I could navigate the Vatican on Prozac whilst blindfolded and drunk. Heck I know it all. In fact this has been the source of many arguments between the king and I over the years.
But, put me behind the wheel and its like my internal road map goes "ppoooofff" and it all disappears. My brain turns to jelly. I'm rendered lost. Directionless. Rigting beduiweled as they say in Afrikaans.
I am also one of those weird creatures that functions better when driving if the baby is on mute and the radio is blaring at a thousand decibels. I don't know what it is but I create these mental maps that seem to be etched into my brain by music.
Ok got to destination all safe and sound. And actually think I may have enjoyed the trip. And Must add the I consider the only contributing factor is the fact that the king made me drive there just last week.
Righty. Ahem. Trip back. Not so lekker. After fiddling with the "equipment" for more than an hour at my destination I was thrilled. It seemed I had not only cured Emily's elective mutism but I had also trimmed about 15mins off my journey. Oh yippee, lucky me (sarcasm intended!)
So, bundle her majesty back into the Suzi-ooki, say our cheerios and head off. And wouldnt you believe it if the sodding thing goes blank before the end of the road! So there I am on what I feel is possibly the narrowest street in Cape Town with my hazards on, looking like a real "ma-plotter" whilst I fiddle behind my seat and locate mandatory charger, proud of my forbearance at remembering to pack the thing in the first place. Plug in said charger and still blank screen. So for the second time today I inhale deeply and tell myself, "it's okay, I'll just get the GPS on before I hit the M5". Ya right!
Ok well the M5 ain't that bad. But the route that promised to "trim" 15mins off my journey involves the Koeberg Interchange. A tangled spaghetti mess of highway that the Cape Town city metrepol thought wasnt complicated enough so they decided to revamp. Three lanes moving (barely) 6kms in an hour. Yes, I really wanted to sit thru my ENTIRE CD collection in traffic. Thanks for making that happen.
And without the GPS, I would now have to swallow my pride and actually remember where I'm meant to be going. Its here that I refer to my previous point about my bum and the driver's seat and sudden memory loss. So suck it up, sister. And after a reassuring call from the king I was on my way. With her majesty now asleep in her seat. What I would've given to snooze all the way home.
And as you can probably tell I made it home fine and well. Albeit a 20min journey took almost and hour and a half.
Now its round about now that I would wax lyrical about the vestiges of NOT buying these gadgets. How they are total crap. Over-priced. Just another 'thing' to cart in and out of the car. Yada, yada, yada.
But after all of this, I did learn a lesson today. No jokes. A real lesson. And it is...brace yourselves.
Pay more attention when you're so busy being the know-it-all passenger!
PS. Emily survived, but today she did get an free introduction to her private pilots license. Sorry, some habits die hard I'm afraid.
So until we meet again.
Bon ca, Mon coeur!
So post installing her majesty into her chair, I set the GPS (brand not mentioned, but you know who you are!) and head off. Might I add that "Emily" then chose this time to develop a most terrible case of laryngitis. Perhaps the fact that the jolly thing missioned off the windscreen only 50 meters up the road should have been an omen. But being the tenacious, stubborn, Staffordshire Bull Terror type that I am, I persisted. Well only so far. About 6kms into my journey I threw the fecking thing into the cubby, drew a deep breath and prayed I could remember the route.
Ok, now I digress, but only for a moment. The journey is much different from the passenger seat! When I am riding shotgun I know every landmark, remember every road number, in fact I could navigate the Vatican on Prozac whilst blindfolded and drunk. Heck I know it all. In fact this has been the source of many arguments between the king and I over the years.
But, put me behind the wheel and its like my internal road map goes "ppoooofff" and it all disappears. My brain turns to jelly. I'm rendered lost. Directionless. Rigting beduiweled as they say in Afrikaans.
I am also one of those weird creatures that functions better when driving if the baby is on mute and the radio is blaring at a thousand decibels. I don't know what it is but I create these mental maps that seem to be etched into my brain by music.
Ok got to destination all safe and sound. And actually think I may have enjoyed the trip. And Must add the I consider the only contributing factor is the fact that the king made me drive there just last week.
Righty. Ahem. Trip back. Not so lekker. After fiddling with the "equipment" for more than an hour at my destination I was thrilled. It seemed I had not only cured Emily's elective mutism but I had also trimmed about 15mins off my journey. Oh yippee, lucky me (sarcasm intended!)
So, bundle her majesty back into the Suzi-ooki, say our cheerios and head off. And wouldnt you believe it if the sodding thing goes blank before the end of the road! So there I am on what I feel is possibly the narrowest street in Cape Town with my hazards on, looking like a real "ma-plotter" whilst I fiddle behind my seat and locate mandatory charger, proud of my forbearance at remembering to pack the thing in the first place. Plug in said charger and still blank screen. So for the second time today I inhale deeply and tell myself, "it's okay, I'll just get the GPS on before I hit the M5". Ya right!
Ok well the M5 ain't that bad. But the route that promised to "trim" 15mins off my journey involves the Koeberg Interchange. A tangled spaghetti mess of highway that the Cape Town city metrepol thought wasnt complicated enough so they decided to revamp. Three lanes moving (barely) 6kms in an hour. Yes, I really wanted to sit thru my ENTIRE CD collection in traffic. Thanks for making that happen.
And without the GPS, I would now have to swallow my pride and actually remember where I'm meant to be going. Its here that I refer to my previous point about my bum and the driver's seat and sudden memory loss. So suck it up, sister. And after a reassuring call from the king I was on my way. With her majesty now asleep in her seat. What I would've given to snooze all the way home.
And as you can probably tell I made it home fine and well. Albeit a 20min journey took almost and hour and a half.
Now its round about now that I would wax lyrical about the vestiges of NOT buying these gadgets. How they are total crap. Over-priced. Just another 'thing' to cart in and out of the car. Yada, yada, yada.
But after all of this, I did learn a lesson today. No jokes. A real lesson. And it is...brace yourselves.
Pay more attention when you're so busy being the know-it-all passenger!
PS. Emily survived, but today she did get an free introduction to her private pilots license. Sorry, some habits die hard I'm afraid.
So until we meet again.
Bon ca, Mon coeur!
14 March 2011
You're not always wanted, welcome or needed - vol. 1
Monday already. Where did my weekend go?
This morning started out as one of those really "odd" days. You, know, when something just doesn't feel right. Well, after draaaaaaging myself out of bed at 6am, I started my day shift for Monday. It was at 9am when Imogen (my daughter of 11mths) was still fighting the nap I was determined she needed that I eventually gave in. Gave up. Caved under pressure.
I found myself simply telling her that if she doesn't want to sleep, then today I am not going to force the issue. She can meander around the house until her eyelids slam shut. I am in mood to be battling the wills.
So being what I perceive to be a sensitive mom, I felt very bad so plonked my behind down next to her in the nursery ready to entertain and generally have some fun when she looked up me at with me with her little eyes and burst into tears. I was flabbergasted. I mean, I meant to be her whole world. Without me she is meant to go to jelly and have a fit. But for the first time I experienced her emerging independence. It was like she was telling me to leave her alone. And jeepers, did it hurt.
So with ego dented and jilted, I now sit here at my PC while her majesty, Princess Imogen, entertains herself. And she must be having fun because I hear to odd coo of delight from the room.
I have been to the door to peek in once or twice just to make sure everything is alright. The last time I did this, she saw me and quite casually waved me "Bye Bye" and went back to what it was she was doing.
So there you have it. At 11 months, this little person let me know in no uncertain terms that, yes, mama, thanks for letting me use your uterus, but there are days when you are not always welcome, wanted or needed for that fact.
Lesson #1 of more to come, I assume.
Lets hope I weather the rest with sanity intact.
This morning started out as one of those really "odd" days. You, know, when something just doesn't feel right. Well, after draaaaaaging myself out of bed at 6am, I started my day shift for Monday. It was at 9am when Imogen (my daughter of 11mths) was still fighting the nap I was determined she needed that I eventually gave in. Gave up. Caved under pressure.
I found myself simply telling her that if she doesn't want to sleep, then today I am not going to force the issue. She can meander around the house until her eyelids slam shut. I am in mood to be battling the wills.
So being what I perceive to be a sensitive mom, I felt very bad so plonked my behind down next to her in the nursery ready to entertain and generally have some fun when she looked up me at with me with her little eyes and burst into tears. I was flabbergasted. I mean, I meant to be her whole world. Without me she is meant to go to jelly and have a fit. But for the first time I experienced her emerging independence. It was like she was telling me to leave her alone. And jeepers, did it hurt.
So with ego dented and jilted, I now sit here at my PC while her majesty, Princess Imogen, entertains herself. And she must be having fun because I hear to odd coo of delight from the room.
I have been to the door to peek in once or twice just to make sure everything is alright. The last time I did this, she saw me and quite casually waved me "Bye Bye" and went back to what it was she was doing.
So there you have it. At 11 months, this little person let me know in no uncertain terms that, yes, mama, thanks for letting me use your uterus, but there are days when you are not always welcome, wanted or needed for that fact.
Lesson #1 of more to come, I assume.
Lets hope I weather the rest with sanity intact.
12 March 2011
Welcome to blogging
Alrighty, here I go. People have often told me have rather inconventional views to everyday happenings so I have been regatly encouraged of late to start my own blog.
This is it.......I will try and add a few words and anecdotes on a daily basis. But that may not always be possible seeing as I'm a full time mom to our earth-child, Imogen.
Stay tuned on for new scribblings.
GB
Tiff
This is it.......I will try and add a few words and anecdotes on a daily basis. But that may not always be possible seeing as I'm a full time mom to our earth-child, Imogen.
Stay tuned on for new scribblings.
GB
Tiff
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