A Bible-loving dog gives Karin Brynard food for thought on the sinners and saints among man's best friend.
In a Cape Town parking lot I struggle to worm my car in between two others parked quite rudely across their lines. A man with a Bible under the arm gives directions.
When I step out of the car, he announces that he will safeguard it. "Me and my watchdog," he says, one hand solemnly on the Bible and the other pointing to a dog.
The dog looks on soberly. His name is Pacman because apparently he devours everything that crosses his path. Especially the Bible and specifically Leviticus. The man opens his Bible and shows me. A whole chunk of it is missing. "I'm on my third Bible!"
Walking away, I keep thinking about Pacman, the Leviticus devotee. It's the third book of the Bible, the one about justice and the law, in Pacman's belly for the third time. There's something Freudian there, I'm sure. Very consuming.
Back home I have a canine conundrum of a different kind, namely a serial sock-eating thief. She landed in my foster care during Lockdown (and never left). And, ja, she's a good sort. But she's a thief, nevertheless. Pinches socks from my cupboard, which she sneaks into her bed - gingerly, like they're newly hatched chicks.
I don't make too much fuss because it could have been sooooo much worse. And I speak from experience. My very first dog ate a sheep. I was very little and we lived on a farm. When the dog disappeared, my father said it had left in a hurry for a holiday at the seaside. But that dog never came back. It must have been a helluva holiday.
As an adult I got a miniature sausage dog that secretly snacked on my passport. She nibbled away all my fantastic holiday destinations in places like France and Italy. Only dowdy old Swaziland remained and a small strip of diehard Zimbabwe.
The dog even ate me, myself, from the precious travelling pass. Then she moved on to my wooden flute. And a guitar. And two fine salad spoons. And the cuffs of my best coat. But this was peanuts compared to my good friend Faffa's little dachsie that gobbled up his entire Persian carpet. A few wiry red strands were all that remained.
Then there was Mister Chips, the beloved Chihuahua of Miss Virtue, the town spinster. He ate Miss Virtue's only church hat. She sang in the choir and we all witnessed the hat's slow, sad demise. Every Sunday, another flower was missing from its large, pink brim. The hat became utterly denuded and Miss Virtue tried to restore its dignity with a ribbon. But, ja…
My new dog, however, has put me squarely into the camp of sneak-eaters. She's got super-telescopic ears, constantly roaming for the slightest crackle of a candy wrapper. I will tippy-toe into the farthest corner of the farthest room in the house to open a sweet; next moment, she'll nudge me accusingly from behind.
"Chocolates are bad for dogs," I would say defensively. She'd just flap her ears and stare back dolefully.
My brother-in-law Kobus has the same problem. In his case, the women in his house - forever on a diet - are like heat-seeking missiles when he tries to sneak some sweets. "You can quickly swallow a choccy and look innocent," he complains, "but with a marshmallow in your chops, you're a sitting duck."
Dogs are more accomplished in the art of gulping. I saw with my own eyes how our Ridgeback, Truida, scoffed a whole block of butter in one big gulp - plomp! Now you try doing that.
My friends are all glad about the sock-eating companion in my house. They'd been suggesting it since my husband's death some time ago. As though a dog could ever heal such a loss.
But the ‘foster dog' is still hanging around. Quite happily so, it seems; following me like a shadow. And when twilight arrives and the world turns blue, she will fetch me for a little waltz in the garden. I take her red ball along and soon we're frolicking and doing the twist.
On rainy days, when the hollow corners in the house grow large, she will bring me a sock from her precious stash and lay it lovingly at my feet. "Come," she seems to say, "let's fill the void together. The world might end, but the dance goes on. And a fine pair of socks is always a good start."
