Carol’s Column

Heaven is ... a heedful dog

Everyone has ultimate aspirations. While others crave diamonds, a Lear jet, a tropical island, the ability to play a Chopin polonaise or sing like Bles Bridges, my ultimate aspiration is simple.

I want a well behaved dog. Seven months ago, we were presented with an apprentice Alsatian puppy.

She grew weekly and at three months was able to eat off the diningroom table without standing on her toes.

It wasn’t easy to find a name for her because as she grew, her personality changed.

“Don’t you think part of her problem is that she isn’t sure of her identity,” I said to my spouse. “Wombat, Dogface, Garbo, Charlie, Cleo — she’s confused.”

“Nonsense, when Nicky was born we re-registered her three times. It hasn’t affected her. In fact, I still prefer her first name.”

I didn’t reply. It will suffice to say that I felt Andrew Ian was not a suitable name for our first and only daughter.

Meanwhile, Cleo resembled a wolf with the nature of a lamb and the personality of Billy Idol.

Naturally gregarious, she liked nothing better than leaping onto laps, which was fine until she almost suffocated my mother-in-law.

Her appetite increased. Not content with three meals a day, she ate seven azaleas, a flowering jasmine and half a giant jacaranda.

Things deteriorated when she dug a hole in the garden and bit through the Parkwood water supply causing a temporary lowering of the water level at the Zoo Lake.

Things were getting desperate.

“I have the answer,” said my friend Jean Waite, a fanatical dog lover. “Send Cleo to training school.”

“Training school?”

“There’s this man called Des Kloeck, he trained Jock of the Bushveld. Give him a ring.”

So I did.

Mr Kloeck offered a three-week undergraduate course in canine behaviour. At the end of that time, he assured me that Cleo would return home a reformed dog.

We booked an appointment and I began to prepare Cleo for her departure.

“Look, it’s for your own good,” I told her as she shot through the house trailing my pantihose. “You’ll love it and there’ll be plenty of other dogs to play with.”

Then came the fateful day. I placed her on the passenger seat and we drove into the countryside.

Des Kloeck’s country estate was particularly attractive. Rural and peaceful, sheep grazing in a paddock, while several well-behaved dogs gambolled on the rolling lawns.

We were warmly greeted by Des Kloeck, who gently ushered Cleo into her boarding quarters between two handsome Dobermanns.

Her ears pricked up, she pushed out her canine pectorals and barely noticed as I slipped away.

What a tart, I thought to myself as I followed Des inside to discuss details.

In a fascinating half an hour, I discovered that Cleo was just going through a period of delinquency and that in three weeks, with plenty of love, attention and intensive training, she would turn into a well-mannered hound who would obey every command.

“You won’t recognise her,” said Des.

Something worried me. “Will she obey my commands or only yours,” I queried. “I mean, will you have to come home with me and Cleo?”

He laughed. “No, that won’t be necessary,” he said.

Ah well.

I learnt that dogs dig holes, eat flowers and chew furniture because they’re bored. “The secret is to keep her occupied,” said Des.

Cleo returns home in two weeks.

Not only will she be the only designer-trained dog on the block, she will eventually be the only graduate dog in Africa for I have enrolled her at Wits for a course in International relations.

She will not be bored for a moment.

■