Carol’s Column

I'm not hogging it over the jet set

WHO needs a hot-shot sports car, diamond nipple caps, a wine farm in the Cape or a seaside shack on the Cote d'Azur? We already have our status symbol.

A sick dog.

And make no mistake, this is a status symbol that makes all others pale into insignificance.

Our status symbol is small, black and exclusive, is a member of the ANC (as in African National Canines) and responds to the name of Henry-the-Hog. A dog of discernment, he appreciates art and is a regular visitor to Zoo Lake's monthly Artists in the Sun. A film critic of distinction, he particularly enjoys Continental movies such as "Jean de Florette" and "The Unbearable Lightness of Being".

He has a remarkable palate and has been known to frequent illustrious establishments such as the Zoo Lake restaurant, from which he was seen escaping with some hapless person's lapin aux pruneaux.

An iconoclast by nature, the Hog has always demanded his own space, which is how it should be. However, he has also insisted that his space be clear. Which means the total exclusion of any other canine and that caused the problem.

I arrived home from toe-stretching exercises to find an ambulance with siren blasting parked in the driveway. The neighbours watched in silence as two paravets carried a stretcher out of the house whereupon lay Henry-the-Hog attached to a drip.

"Unfortunately he's still alive," muttered our next-door neighbour, who hasn't been able to walk his dog in the street for the past 13 years because the Hog is not partial to beagles.

It seemed that there had been a full-frontal clash between the Hog and a Siberian wolfhound, upon which the Siberian wolfhound picked up Henry-the-Hog in his massive jaws and attempted to shred him.

At the hospital, the vet was solicitous but firm.

"I'm sorry, I can allow no visitors until I have examined Henry-the-Hog, as he is in a state of extreme shock. Please sit in the waiting room until I am able to give you a diagnosis and prognosis of his condition.

"But," he added, "I must tell you, the situation looks grave."

I sat down next to a one-eyed parrot with his wing in a splint. "Don't worry," he said, "things always look worse then they are. Your little fellow looks like a fighter, he'll pull through."

The situation was tense as slowly the clock ticked. Was the Hog's time running out? After three hours, the vet emerged. His face was sombre. "X-rays show that Henry-the-Hog has severe spinal injuries. His nerves have been damaged, he has a hip displacement, a spastic colon and a broken front right leg. He may never be able to walk again. Only time will tell. Do you want me to continue the treatment?"

The alternative was too ghastly to contemplate. Besides, I once inadvertently sprayed Barry's silkworms with Doom, causing instant death to 783 silkworms — which branded me as a murderer in my children's eyes for the following 10 years. How could I possibly consider removing Henry-the-Hog from Earth?

"Do your best for the Hog," I said to the vet.

That was three weeks ago.

Henry-the-Hog was discharged from hospital yesterday morning.

The bill? R2 231,58.

"You've got to be joking," said my spouse. "This is not a dog we have, this is a financial liability."

"Just think of Henry-the-Hog as the ultimate status symbol," I said tartly. "Who else do you know has a dog with a vet's bill of R2 231,58?"

As I got out of the car clutching Henry-the-Hog, I slipped.

"Good heavens, don't drop him," shouted my husband, "I can't afford the funeral."

One has to be philosophical. Can a diamond nipple cap wag its tail?

■