Elvis, Kip, Tiger, Jess and Jazz

As a cat person I have always found it easy to just say no to dogs. I have consistently been outvoted by the rest of the family on this matter - "but they're so easy, no trouble at all"  This is true - for them - since I am inevitably the one who walks them, takes them to the vet, makes sure their shots are up to date and generally has to mother them.

The only dog I ever agreed to was Kip, a retriever cross border collie with a great nature. Kip was a fielder of note and spent many Sunday afternoons playing garden cricket with us. Kip thought he was Jonty Rhodes and probably had a serious shot at a Proteas jacket. He was the whole family's dog and had lots of friends around the neighbourhood. Our favourite friends were the Andrews sisters (Dobermans up the road who howled in perfect harmony when they saw us coming). Kip taught me that it's better to aim the stone at the car when you're walking and idiots leave their gates open for their salivating snappy-toothed attack dogs to race out while you're walking past. These idiots will run to see what's happening when the stone hits the car, but not when you're screaming blue murder in the street trying to stop a dog fight.

When the scientist was 12 she spent an entire winter holiday working for the vet so when I spied Kip lying very still indeed on the verandah one morning I didn't hesitate to obtain her professional opinion on what the problem was. She examined him gently while I waited inside for the news, then very gravely told me "I'm sorry mom, he seems to have died in the night. I don't think he suffered at all". Brian buried him in my best mohair blanket under the lemon tree at the bottom of the garden - and probably in violation of at least 5 municipal by-laws. I simply decided there would be no more dogs.

Elvis was the 18 year-old's dog, the having of which I specifically forbade before leaving on a trip to Australia when he (the 18 year-old, not Elvis) was around 11 years old. I had seen the threat during a visit to friends with puppies a few days before I left

Elvis died on Easter Sunday 2007. He was poisoned by a Chinese additive to the expensive food you can only buy from the vet or specialist shops. There is a strange justice in this since he had what the vet delicately put as "a lack of genetic diversity" and if we'd elected to buy him the cheap supermarket food he would probably still be here.

Elvis - you know you're a redneck when you only have one set of grandparents


I should have known it wouldn't end well, the first trip to Australia saw the introduction of the bantams, donated by a kindly neighbour, but killed within a 24-hour period by Tiger, the dog who was asthmatic. The 18 year-old (who was very little when the first trip took place) had to have stitches in his chin while I was away caused by a slip in the bath.

Actually, Tiger wasn't asthmatic at all, but insisted on catching bees which he subsequently swallowed causing him to sound asthmatic. Tiger was donated to us by my mother, who took him on knowing full well she wasn't allowed pets in the complex where she lived. "If you don't take him they'll put him down"  We thought Tiger was a black/grey maltese poodle cross for years until we discovered miniature schnausers. Tiger, being a small dog, lived for around 14 years and one day got ahead of himself, taking on a wasp instead of the bees he could manage. Tiger, too is beneath the lemon tree, although mercifully not in a mohair blanket.

Jess, a labrador cross, was donated by the scientist's boyfriend of the day a little while after Tiger died (but mom they'll put her down if we don't take her. She'll be no trouble, you'll see) and is getting on a bit, she was a puppy while Elvis was around and ostensibly would keep him company

Elvis and Jess, BFF


Which brings us to Jazz (yes, it's confusing with Jess and Jazz) who we got from the SPCA to keep Jess company when Elvis died. Before we could take her home they inspected our premises and required us to cover the pool so she wouldn't drown. I put my foot down, seeing this as a step too far, so they relented and Jazz came to live with us.

Our new year's eve dinner guests patiently await their dinner

Jazz is also a cross labrador/something and is the only dog we've ever had who chooses to swim. She could also probably take part in the Iditarod race given how hard she pulls on the lead when I walk her. She takes it personally that we have a porcupine living in the stormwater drain at the end of the road and has made it her mission to catch it. I have a collection of porcupine quills in testament to this war and hopefully won't have to make an emergency trip to the vet (with either the porcupine or Jazz)

Jess and Jazz provided the entertainment at the 18 year-old's birthday party with the fight of the night - requiring an emergency room trip (for Jess, not the 18 year-olds who didn't fight at all)

I'm pretty sure no-one will listen to me when I say "no more dogs" and that I'll be teaching new dogs to walk on a lead in time to come. As an avowed non-fitness freak it provides an excuse to get out early and walk through the neighbourhood with pretend-protection.

I'm still primarily a cat person, but we've had some great dog characters over the years.