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Friday, 01 November 2013 00:11

Part twenty-two : Doggie do's - This month is also about the "Other things"!

In this small community where I live, observing nature is as much about noting human behaviour as it is about the wildlife, plus the interaction between humans, domestic pets and the native birds and animals.

For instance, the daily routine of dog-walking – not to be confused with simply exercising and dispersing the fat from our pampered pets, but also as a means of keeping the knees and hips in working order for the elderly mutt owners, with the added advantage of keeping up-to-date with the latest news and state of affairs affecting the other community residents ! Being nosy ? Oh no – just interested !

First on the scene between 7 and 7.30 am is a sprightly little white poodle/Maltese cross aptly named "Whoopi" whose equally sprightly white-haired owner strides confidently around the criss-crossing roads and pathways of this enclave, large stick in hand ready to beat off any lion or tiger that may suddenly spring out from between the neatly mown blades of grass. With tail held high and wagging lickety-split, Whoopi lunges at all and any ground-feeding birds, with a special joyous whoop on encountering an ibis. This routine is repeated at 5.30 pm. Twice a day without fail. Rain, hail, snow or excessive heat and humidity. On the dot. No exception. Lucky little mutt !

Next comes Cyril, a hippity-hoppity grey Raggedy-Anne type dog whose mishandled cross-breeding has left him looking all skew-whiff, with his hindquarters at least six inches higher than his head. His owner, Victor, walking stick tucked neatly in the crook of his arm, ambles contentedly along, towing Cyril behind him rather like you would drag a pompon on a piece of string waiting for the cat to pounce. This little procession is often repeated three or four times a day – and beware any other dog who may be out and about at the same time. Despite his amiable appearance Cyril has a moody and sometimes vicious disposition – he hates other dogs and humans with equal ferocity. Placing a friendly hand on Cyril's head is akin to patting a man-eating crocodile. Just don't do it !

When the rising sun delivers adequate warmth, Albert issues forth from the confines of his unit with his small aged, dachshund-type mutt leading his small, aged owner on a painfully slow measured stroll as far as the entrance gates end back again. The slight possibility of a repeat performance in the afternoon keeps this poor little mutt living in the "land of hope". Perhaps they both are...

Next on the scene is Bruiser, a large Rotty cum Doberman cum Mastiff cum Ridgeback-type dog, who gambols ungainly in the parkland behind my back fence. He happily chases balls and frisbees, drags crackling palm fronds around and manages to irritate every other dog whose fence allows visions of this longed-for freedom. And so they voice their disapproval and envy in loud discordant yapping until Bruiser's owner gives in and takes him home.

Meanwhile we all keep our fingers crossed that the three small, toy, champagne-coloured poodles from No 33 don't make any of their customary "escape from prison" sorties while either Cyril or Bruiser are on the loose. Imagine the mayhem !

Then there is Bubbles. Fourteen years ago she was an exuberant Foxy/Airedale/What-have-you cross puppy. (In fact she is a good example of the true Darwin Heinz breed – the whole 57 varieties). Medium-size, no discernible inherited diseases or faults, just random genes thrown together in an attractive configuration. Now, with "parents" unable to take her for walks, she relies on the Hot Dogs Bathmobile for a shampoo every fortnight, followed by a sniff reconnaissance around her youthful stamping grounds. After a token spurt of pretended aggression towards a languid unfazed ibis she reverts to her memories of faster days and the nostalgia of past conquests. Go, Bubbles !

My turn for "walkies time" is just before dark when the westward sky is painted in beautiful pastel shades, the birds are chirping wearily on their night-time perches while the flying foxes (fruit bats) wing silently overhead on their nightly scavenging hunts. The last shift of robber ants are scurrying back to their underground nest and the delicious aromas of home cooking drift on a light breeze ; tantalising cuisine from the many different cultures and nationalities that make up this community.

P.S. All names have been changed to protect the mongrels !

P.P.S. Hope you have a Happy Christmas.