Carol’s Column

We have our counterparts in the animal kingdom

Years ago I had my hair permed because my hairdresser who today has evolved into a creative hair designer told me that it would lighten my features, detract from my boot-shaped nose, enhance my cheekbones and frame my best feature, my eyes. “With your hair gloriously curled,” he said, “nobody will notice your astigmatic squint.”

When he'd completed his hirsute artistry I had what could be described as big hair. In fact, I'd go to the cinema and the people sitting behind me would ask me to remove my head.

In those days we owned a dog called Mahoney who also had big hair. One evening, my husband returned from work and kissed Mahoney who was, as usual, sitting in an armchair.

“Hi Honey,” he said, ruffled Mahoney's head and added: “You're looking really good.”

To this day he maintains he did not realise it was Mahoney he kissed. He also maintains that when Mahoney licked him back he thought I was being unusually affectionate and not my usual undemonstrative self.

Which illustrates there probably is truth in the tale that people begin to resemble their animals. Alternatively, that animals begin to resemble their owners. Whatever.

The other day I thought of this as I caught a quick movement in the shrubbery while I was doing my scoop-a-dog-dropping-and-fling-it-in-the-bushes. An aside. If you're a squash player, this scoop and flick movement develops extraordinary strength in the wrist.

Anyway, something flashed and I heard a querulous peeping sound. I parted the bush and on a leaf was the smallest frog I'd ever seen. Dark brown, it was barely half the length of my thumb.

I carried it into the diningroom, grabbed the frog book and identified it as a Cape chirping frog. I forget to mention, for my birthday, my daughter gave me frogmen Neville Passmore and Vincent Carruthers' book on South African frogs.

“Who does this look like?” I giggled.

“Your mother,” my husband replied.

The more I get to know frogs, the more human they are. A few weeks back, while camping in the bush, I heard a loud, trumpeting snoring beside me in the sleeping bag. So I did what I always do under these circumstances, I pinched my husband's nostrils tightly. The snoring continued. So with my other hand I covered his mouth. He woke. “You're smothering me!” he yelled.

We lay down and the snoring started again. Loud and rapid. “You're the one snoring,” said my mate.

By now, we were both awake and still the snoring continued. I shone a torch around the tent, and there, in the corner, sat a small khaki frog, a yellow stripe along its back. None other than a snoring puddle frog.

My favourite of the frogs is the strawberry rain frog which looks like a plump strawberry with legs attached. Walk in the forests or along paths fringed with fynbos, and you're bound to find one. They whistle and their hands are remarkably human-like.

Have you observed how frogs look like politicians? Take the mottle shovel nosed frog, plump with puffed up cheeks who resembles Mangosuthu Buthelezi, the rattling frog with long limbs, who looks not unlike Tony Leon and whose voice is a loud persistent rattle which some describe as coarse, others melodious. Then there's the bubbling kassinis – a dead ringer for Ronnie Kasrils.

“So who do you think I resemble?” asked my husband as we discussed this remarkable likeness of being.

“A guttural toad,” I replied.

“There speaks a raucous toad,” he replied.

Such is wedded bliss.

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