Carol’s Column

Bye-bye smelly, lovable, comical canine

ON Wednesday night Henry-the-Hog died and life can never be the same.

Small and black, like Sammy Davis Jr, he was quite the ugliest dog you’ve ever seen.

He arrived in our house 18 years ago, a six-week-old morsel as big as a clenched fist.

“What is it?” the kids asked curiously as we gazed at this misshapen scrap with head large and shaggy, his ears pointed and perky like a bat-eared fox. His neck was thick and ruffed, his backside bare and bald. And, when we placed him on the ground, he tottered off with his tail in the air.

More than anything else, he resembled a warthog which is, I suppose, why we named him Henry-the-Hog.

Like my wobble-headed, wrinkled, cross-eyed newborn babies, I hoped Henry would improve with age.

Well, the kids’ heads stopped wobbling, their eyes straightened and their wrinkles plumped out.

Not Henry-the-Hog. He was the most comical dog on the block with his short legs and square body. An iconoclast by nature, he did his own thing and bucked the system whenever he could.

Gentle and loving, he was as fearless as a honey badger, as aggressive as a hungry lion when threatened by other dogs who dared to walk on his street.

If the gate opened a centimetre he’d rocket out and down to the Zoo Lake to cause havoc, after stopping to rip open the neighbour’s straight-lined rubbish bags and scatter their contents.

A miniature menace, he’d chase ducks, steal sandwiches and pee against paintings exhibited at Artists in the Sun.

For 18 years he refused to walk on a leash, lying with his legs in the air as a sign of passive protest.

A legendary Romeo, the neighbourhood is filled with Hog offspring. An original free spirit, he was totally oblivious of race, colour, creed or size and no bitch escaped his merry lust.

Like brushing my teeth in the morning or my bank overdraft, Henry-the-Hog was a fact in my life.

And suddenly he’s gone.

But his loving yet less-than-fragrant spirit lingers on.

There are the memories of how he cunningly opened the fridge to steal chicken liver pate. How, with true discernment, he’d place himself at the feet of the most obnoxious guest at a dinner party then emit foul odours.

When you called, he’d run in the other direction, if you tried to quieten his barking, he’d howl louder and, if bathed, he’d immediately disappear for a roll in the compost heap. He loved tomatoes, orange liqueur chocolates and beer, and loathed dog food pellets and municipal rat catchers.

As he aged, black faded to grey, his teeth yellowed and loosened, his breath smelt like three-week-old takkies and his tail waggle slowed.

But he made us feel good just being there, arthritic and limping, loyal and loving.

On Wednesday night he died and we were bereft.

I miss him so much.

Last night, my daughter phoned from UCT.

“Don’t worry, Ma,” she said. “Henry-the-Hog’s in heaven.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I dreamt about him,” she said. “There was a large cloud and upon it sat an old bearded man on a throne. I think it was God,” she added.

“When suddenly, from the edge of the cloud appeared a tiny black dog. He limped up to the throne and then …” she paused.

“What?” I said.

“He lifted his leg against the throne.”

Yes, there’s no doubt Henry-the-Hog’s in heaven and making himself totally at home.

Which is how it should be.

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