Carol’s Column

All about camels, cogs and turkeys and other things

OOM Johannes Nel of Roodepoort has a problem — and believe me — it's a serious problem.

He phoned me on Monday.

“Hello Caroltjie,” he said. I could hear the line crackling, so I knew it was a long-distance call.

“I read your little storietjie in the Living magazine yesterday. The one about your cat Macaroni who thinks he's a dog. You know the one?”

I nodded, and then quickly said: “Yes”, realising he couldn't see me down the line so well.

“Ag, ja,” he continued, “it struck a deep chord in my heart, that storietjie. Because you see, I have a similar problem.”

“You have,” I breathed. I was fascinated. “You think you're a dog?”

“No, no,” he laughed.

“Aah, your cat thinks he's a dog.”

“No, no. It's my dog.”

“Your dog? You mean your dog thinks he's a dog? But that's not a problem.”

“Ag, no, Caroltjie. That's the problem,” he repeated. “My dog.”

By now I was getting confused.

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“You see, I have a dog called Stompie,” he continued.

“Stompie's a beautiful name for a dog,” I murmured.

“Yes, that's just it,” he shouted. “It's a beautiful name for a dog but not for a camel.”

“A camel?”

There was silence on the phone. Had he really said a camel?

I could hear him rumbling on: “You got it, you got it. Stompie thinks he's a camel.”

“Mr Nel,” I repeated slowly, “do I understand you to say that your dog Stompie thinks he's a camel?”

“That's it! Now, you're talking, Caroltjie. You see, I really have got a problem. What do you think I should do?”

Over the years, in the course of motherhood, I have been asked many things. How to turn water into instant lemonade? How to fly without wings? Why grass grows up instead of down? But never before had I heard of a dog who imagined himself to be a camel.

I gave the problem some thought and then had a brainwave.

“Mr Nel,” I said triumphantly, “if Stompie thinks he's a camel, why don't you send him off to join the Foreign Legion?”

There was further silence as Mr Nel ruminated a little. I could hear the whistling of the wind through his uppers as he breathed. Then he spoke. “Ja, that's not a bad idea,” he said thoughtfully, “but there's one problem.”

“What's that?” I asked a little impatiently.

“Now, how can I send Stompie off to join the Foreign Legion when he only speaks Afrikaans?”

That was the first of many calls I received this week.

Good heavens, I had no idea Johannesburg and the Reef were so inundated with problem pets.

Most callers wanted to know the name of a good cat, dog or bird psychiatrist while others offered suggestions on how to cure Macaroni's malaise.

There was even a minister who phoned to reassure me and my loved ones.

“Mrs Lazar,” he said, and identified himself.

“Please call me Carol,” I replied quickly. “Everyone does, especially ministers.”

“Certainly Carol,” he answered. “About your cat, Macaroni. I would like to suggest you accept him as he is.

“No matter what he's done,” he continued. “No matter that he has become dog-like in his personality, we must learn to accept things as they are. It is God's will. And Macaroni is but one of God's small defenceless creatures.”

Sure, I thought to myself, but this one of God's small defenceless creatures attacked the neighbours' cats, bit the postman on his shin, and last night barked until midnight because the moon dared to shine.

Surely, even God was getting a little weary of this particular creature?

I wanted to explain to the minister, but just then a movement caught my eye. It was Macaroni causing havoc among my newly-planted bulbs as he dug a huge hole in which to bury his bone.

So I abandoned the minister and chased God's small defenceless creature under the car from where he growled at me as I tried to strangle him or worse.

There was Sylvia who suggested we form an alliance with Macaroni and her female cat who suffered a similar problem. “We could breed cogs,” she suggested. She was fired with enthusiasm. “What a wonderful idea, Carol, a whole litter of cogs — why not indeed?”

I'll tell you why not. Because one Macaroni in life is more than enough. A whole herd of Macaronis would seriously disrupt world peace. Such as it is.

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Then there was the early morning call about Casanova Zulman, a handsome hound in the Alsation mould.

“He's got a ball fetish,” said his distressed owner. “We are desperate. We've built walls, wire fences, bricked in holes — but it's no good. He has extra-sensory perception. He just feels there's a ball in the area — and, like lightning, he's off to attack that ball.

“We've thought of psychiatric treatment, but do you really think it will help?”

There was the tale about the chicken who imagined himself to be a dog. Indeed, he's reputed to do everything bar raise his leg. And that's only because he'd fall over if he did so.

Then there was the cat who tried to fly — he'd jumped out of his owner's double-storey bedroom window seven times and cost them R693 in vet fees.

As the calls pour in, I'm becoming more and more involved. It's obvious there's a dire need for pet counselling in this town.

I'm doing my best, but my resources and experience are limited. Besides, it's becoming embarrassing explaining my sudden disappearances to my family.

“Ma, why are you wearing your mountaineering boots?” asked Jamie only yesterday as I slipped out before breakfast.

“There's a slight emergency,” I muttered. “There's a cat stuck up a tree at the Zoo Lake. He thinks he's a kite and he keeps trying to fly away.”

But there's always a variation on a theme.

This morning I received a call from a woman who sounded desperate.

“I read your column last week and I've got a similar problem,” she said. “It's my husband, he thinks he's a turkey. What should I do?”

“Fatten him up, stuff him and have him for Christmas,” I retorted.

Every problem has a solution.

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