Carol’s Column

Who says it's a dog's life?

HER name was Candy and she was a snowball of a dog. Small, white and fluffy.

We lost her Saturday a week ago.

We only noticed she was missing that night.

We searched throughout Parkwood and Rosebank. Our hearts stopping every time we saw something white at the side of the road.

Gloom descended on the Lazar household.

Even the Sunday roast, always attacked with vulture-like enthusiasm was left dried and shrivelled — we'd lost our appetites.

Licquorice-the-labrador and Henry, Candy's four-legged companions, moped around miserably, not even attacking the summons man.

In deference to our loss, he left saying he'd be back at a more appropriate moment.

On Monday I phoned the SPCA who took down every detail.

"White but scruffy," I said to the sympathetic 'Lost and Found' lady at the other end. "She needs a bath, she has coal-lump eyes, a button nose, her tail is wispy and she waggles it in circles."

"Don't worry Mrs Lazar, I'm sure you'll find her. Don't be despondent." She also gave me the phone number of every vet in our area.

No Candy.

And then on Monday night, a Mrs Robertson phoned me.

She'd received our number from the SPCA. Her daughter had picked up a little Maltese-type dog in Rosebank.

It had to be Candy.

Off we shot to Atholhurst, Mrs Robertson and Candy. Only to find the dearest little white Maltese, but it wasn't Candy.

At the table that night, I fed Candy surreptitious little pieces of chicken in the customary way except that Candy wasn't there.

Habit is a hard thing to conquer.

The following day, Tuesday, dawned bright yet miserable.

We missed Candy's early-morning joyous leap on to the bed. And her tail-wagging, rump-shaking wake-up-good-morning.

At 11am, the phone rang. It was the SPCA to tell me that they thought Candy might have been found wandering among the traffic in President Street.

She was at that moment waiting for me to come and claim her in a furniture store.

I flew to the shop — and there, a little subdued, but totally recognisable was Candy.

There was no doubt.

She was scruffy, there were burs in her fur and she looked decidedly worse for wear, but it was Candy.

She must be confused or in a state of shock, I thought to myself as we drove home.

She certainly isn't her usual exuberant self.

No matter, wait until she's back on her own grass with her own trees, flowers and bones. With her companions. She'll revert to normal.

Back home, Licquorice-the-Labrador took one sniff at Candy and gave a fearsome growl. Henry greeted her half-heartedly.

I popped Candy in the bath, singing to myself. It was so good to have her home again.

I couldn't wait for the kids to get home from school.

As I removed 26 ticks and at least 30 fleas from her coat, she licked me gratefully.

She was delighted to see the kids and pronked like a springbok, her little legs flying high in the air.

Said Ralph later: "You know, it's funny Ma, this experience really has unsettled Candy — she's not quite the same, is she? It's almost as if her personality has changed."

"It was the shock, the horror of being separated from us, the bewilderment. You'd probably feel the same." I replied.

"Try me?" he muttered and wandered off to feed his goldfish.

I looked out of the window.

Oh it was a glorious sight to see Licquorice, Henry and Candy frolicking in the garden, breaking my seedlings and digging up the dahlias.

And then the phone rang.

"Hello, Mrs Lazar," said a cheerful voice. "This is Melody Barrow. Look, I think I found your little dog. From your advertisment in the paper it sounds exactly like her.

"She was wandering in Jan Smuts Avenue in Parkwood on Saturday morning. I couldn't keep her so I dropped her at my vet and he's looking after her for the moment."

It can't be Candy, I thought to myself. Or can it? I had a funny feeling in my innards.

Which is why we trotted off to the veterinary hospital.

We were escorted to a cage — and there, lying resignedly, was a little ball of fluff who looked just like Candy.

She took one look at us and almost leapt through the cage.

There was no doubt it was Candy.

How extraordinary I mused to myself as we drove home triumphantly. This morning we had no Candy, and now there are two.

They're identical, two clones.

Meanwhile, I've had 14 phone calls from people saying they've found Candy.

She's been seen as far afield as Germiston, Bloemfontein and Oogies.

And from the descriptions, they all sound like Candy.

Why, we could have a whole herd of Candys.

It's amazing what a little advertising will do.

Only this morning my friend Angela remarked: "You know, it'll be interesting to see what happens if you lose your husband. If you advertise, perhaps you'll find a look-alike."

How disappointing.

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