Author Archive
White Horse
By PG Jonker
As people grow older they seem to develop a need to see what happened to the folks that were at school with them. So it became time to attend the reunion of the class of 1981 of Vredenburg High School. That was not my class, but my wife’s.
As is incumbent upon South Africans, we kicked of with a braai the Friday evening, at a semi-outdoor establishment, Vlakvarkgat, on the West Coast road outside Langebaan. A lot of laughter and backslapping abound. Now 1981 had been a while ago. So, although everyone in attendance still knew who they were, some urgent and discrete enquiries were occasionally required to remember what that good buddy of yours’ name was, before you could do the jovial back slapping thing.
At one stage a horse walked into the bar. I kid you not! I checked my non-alcoholic beverage, but could smell no alcohol in it. I checked the other patrons to see their response, but no-one responded with any measure of surprise. In fact, it is as if it is the most normal thing under the sun for a horse to walk into the bar.
So now I’m thinking, maybe they do not see the horse (in which event I think I’m a bit in trouble), alternatively, for them it is a run of the mill kind of thing for horses to do around here. Come to think of it, does the Whiskey bottle not sport a white horse? So maybe it’s just me.
But I decided to check this out. So I walked up to the horse and politely enquire: “Howzit, horse?” The horse responded by nudging her mouth into my hands, looking for something to eat, (sugar, more in particular, I later realised). Clearly the horse thought nothing of being chatted up by a human. Just for the records I took a picture of the horse.
I did wonder afterwards whether my fly might have been open, or why the horse seemed to be laughing like that.
PGJ…
Making the best of burnt valves
By PG Jonker
Shortly after acquiring my brand new second hand Mazda Magnum DC I had to have a burnt valve repaired at 120 000km’s. It is on the old Essex 3-liter engine that mutated into a 3.4 litre engine for service in these bakkies.
Rather unhappy with this turn of events I made enquiries to find out more about this. Those in the know were reluctant to speak, but from my enquiries I could gather that the burning of the #3 valve was a known problem on these engines. I was also told that the problem became known to Ford’s engineers, and that they had it fixed. As a subtle indicator to those in the know, the tappet covers of the fixed models were made silver instead of the standard black that I had on my bakkie.
[By the way, I would love to hear from some of you techo-fundis out there if anyone has any knowledge about this problem.]
Well, there is not much to do about this but to repair the valve, and hoping for the best. My thinking was that I would just factor into my motoring budget to have a burnt #3 valve repaired every 120 000km. This problem has caused me to come to an arrangement with Theuns, my mechanic, to start every service with a pressure test to check the valves.
Much to my dismay I got a call from Theuns on the day that the bakkie went in for its 180 000 km’s service. There is again a burnt valve. To add insult to injury it turned out to be the #1 valve this time. Now this is a bit of a problem. I could convince myself that it is OK to repair a #3 valve every 120 000 (or even every 60 000km’s), but if the problem is not confined to one specific cylinder, it means that I have 12 valves that could randomly get burnt. Eisj!
Once again I tried to console myself that some of my friends on some well known brands pay for each service what it cost me every time I had to have a valve repaired. I had the valve duly repaired. This time I hope that the engine rebuilders would have opted for the hardened valve seats that should alleviate the problem of the burning valves, I am told.
I have, though, decided to make the best of the 12 valves that were replaced with the last reparation (which was 75 000km’s ago, I might add). These 12 valves now have a special place in my camping armaments. I use them to nail my groundsheets to the ground. And I can’t tell you how much pleasure it gives me to hammer away on especially the burnt valve every time I go camping!
PGJ…
My Muisie se naam is Cha-Cha
Speelskooltanniedinge
Deur PG Jonker
By geleentheid is Chris-Jan se speelgroepie op ‘n uitstappie na ‘n plaas in Adderleystraat. Nee, nie die Adderleystraat in Kaapstad nie, die een aan die buitewyke van Durbanville. Ja, daar is wraggies so ‘n straat, maar daar staan nie ‘n standbeeld waar die duiwe op kan mis nie. Hulle moet hulle besigheid elders gaan doen. Die doel van die uitstappie was dat die kindertjies ‘n demonstrasie kry van hoe die boer nat koring droogmaak. Moet sê, dit was vir my ook nuus dat jy dit kan doen. Ek het geweet koring kan roes, maar ek het nie geweet jy kan dit droog kry nie. Ek wonder of dit dan die roes keer? In ieder geval, ná die boer se vertoning met die koringdroogmaakding toe is almal nou weer op pad terug huis toe. Maar nou is die spulletjie se fut al bietjie uit en hul lus vir stilsit min.
Marga is saam om te help toesig hou. Sy was self voorheen ‘n speelskooltannie gewees. So neem sy dit op haar om die spannetjie besig te hou sodat haar vriendin ongestoord die bussie kan bestuur. Elkeen kry ‘n muisie. ‘n Denkbeeldige muisie wat Marga onder haar trui uithaal, een vir een. Almal is vreeslik opgewonde oor hul muisies. Dis net een mannetjie (ek noem hom maar Jannie) wat bietjie ongeduldig is. Sien, soos die geluk dit wil hê sit Jannie en sy maatjie op die agterste sitplek. Dus kom hulle laaste aan die beurt om hul muise te kry. En net om seker te maak dat Marga nie dalk oorweeg om hom vir heel laaste te los nie, dring Jannie toe daarop aan om sy muis te kry voordat sy maatjie een kry. Ter wille van die vrede gee Marga in, en so kry Jannie sy maatjie se muisie. Maar Marga kon darem toe nie help om vir Jannie te verduidelik dat die laaste muis wat vir hom bedoel was eintlik ‘n baie spesiale muis was. Maar as hy dan nou so wil wees, dan het sy maatjie nou daardie spesiale muis gekry.
Maar Jannie laat hom nie vermaak van hierdie tipe sielkunde nie. Hy slaan sy maatjie totdat dié inskiklik is om muise te ruil. So, nou het Jannie in elk geval sy spesiale muis sonder dat hy hoef te gewag het tot heel laaste. En hy is baie tevrede met homself. Nou speel almal met hul muisies.
“My muisie is pienk, en sy naam is Cha-Cha”, sê die een dogtertjie. “My muis is groen”, sê die seuntjie langs haar. “My muis is ook groen, en sy naam is Groenie”. Verbeeldingryk, nogals, het ek nou maar gedink.
Maar nou vertel Marga my agterna dat sy, op pad plaas toe, ook die kindertjie besig gehou het. Tóé het sy vir elkeen ‘n skoenlapper onder haar trui uitgehaal. Alles het goed gegaan, totdat hulle by ‘n verkeerslig stilhou. Toe raak almal daai skoenlappers aan die vlieg. Dis toe groot pandemonium, amper moeilikheid met die verkeer, jy verstaan. Dis toe met dié dat sy besluit skoenlappers is dalk bietjies te gevaarlik vir kindertjies van hierdie ouderdom.
Dit is toe op dié manier dat Cha-Cha die pienk muis en haar maatjies in die prentjie kom.
PGJ…
VIP PROTECTION
By PG Jonker
During training as a National Serviceman in the army in Kimberley one of the modules in which we were supposed to receive training was VIP protection. By the time we reached that part of the course the instructors probably already had their 40-days party or something, but they were not in the mood. So we just got told we will never do VIP protection, so they’re not going to bother teaching us. End of VIP protection training.
Well, they were wrong.
Some of us were transferred to the SWATF (South West African Territorial Force) where we spent most of the next more than a year in Windhoek, Namibia. And it turned out that from time to time we had to do VIP protection.
On such occasions we were then heavy covert, each armed with a two way radio and a firearm. If you were fortunate, you got the Walther pistol with a holster. Less fortunate, and you got the standard army Star pistol, without a holster. Many a time I had to fish the Star out of my pants as my belt could not keep it in position. I mean, my belt could not even keep my pants in position due to me being a bit skinny.
Uzi
Their always used to be an Uzi sub machine gun as part of the outfit. This was a bit of an enigma. None of us had any training in how to handle the Uzi, but it was nevertheless fun being issued with one. It was a bit difficult to be covert with an Uzi in hand. However, the upside was that civilian onlookers greatly respected the bearer of the Uzi. It is indeed as Deon Maas writes in his book WhiteBoy in Africa: in Africa the guy with the gun is always right (except, says Deon, if you have American Dollars, then you are right).
The Uzi turned out to be a rather dangerous creature. Yes, I know, that is the intended nature of a fire arm, but this one was slightly more dangerous in untrained hands. After one of our VIP protection exercises Hugo was making the Uzi safe whilst explaining to us the reason for it being so dangerous. Apparently it had something to do with the fact that two moving parts were combined in one. As a living illustration the gun went off while he was in the process of making it safe.
A shocked silence followed. Hugo’s ash white face only returned to its normal colour once we established that nobody was hit. Hugo was indeed aiming away from us, but the offices had thin wooden and glass separation walls that would not have stopped a bullet. Eventually he found the bullet lodged in a thick file inside his steel cabinet.
By the time some of the permanent force officers came to make enquiries about the shot that they have heard we were all nicely composed again, and could convince them that someone just banged a plastic bag. Hugo positioned himself in front of the cabinet so that the bullet hole could not be seen without nearer inspection.
Radio procedures
I digress. Back to VIP protection. It was a bit like playing our own “Spy v Spy” (a-la the Mad comics). We each had a code name. Sadly, our friend nicknamed “Spy” could not use his nickname as his radio calling code, for obvious reasons.
My code name was “Wiele”. Rather exotic, don’t you think? Like in: “Wiele, Wiele, Wiele, this is Kaspaas, message, over.” To which Wiele will then do the “Wiele, send, over” thing.
Now the bigger the team was, the more difficult it became to remember each other’s code name. Hence the following activities over the two way radio one day:
“Jaco, Jaco, Jaco, come in”.
Silence.
“Jaco, Jaco, Jaco, where are you, come in.”
Silence.
“Now where is that bl***dy Jaco!”
Silence.
So it went on for a while until someone mustered the nerve to quip over the radio:
“Major, sir, yóú are Jaco”.
PGJ…
Mykonos downwind dash
By PG Jonker
[Published in Leisure Wheels, September 2010]
“Board at own risk” read the notice on the side of Mafuta where she lay on her mooring at the Royal Cape Yacht Club, Cape Town. Both sides of the boat, mind you, just to make sure that the message is “inescapably clear”, to quote Captain Jack Sparrow of Pirates of the Caribbean. Hah! Should have known there would be a catch somewhere. When skipper and owner Matthys Lourens invited to a weekend of carefree sailing bliss on a yacht I should have thought it is too good to be true. There had to be strings attached.
Mafuta is a 37 feet Bavarian cruiser / racer, I’m told.
Three cabins down below can accommodate 6 people sharing in comfort. The bunks in the dining area can also be converted to sleep a further two people.
The occasion is the downwind dash from Royal Cape Yacht Club (Table Bay) to Mykonos, Langebaan. A spirit of expectation is in the air. Everyone enjoys a breakfast at the RCYC. Pretended good natured backslapping through clenched teeth with accompanying good wishes is in good order.
Downwind dash
OK, we all know the South Easter is the hallmark of Cape Town. Hence, a downwind dash with the South Easter in your back. On the wings of the wind down to Langebaan.
Starting time is 08h30. It is an overcast and absolute wind still morning. The sea is as calm and flat as can be. At the starting line there is a jostling for position. The best position is at the windward side of the starting line, so everyone aims for that spot.
Now this is a simple matter of supply and demand. There is only one uppermost upwind spot. And there is only so much space at that end of the line. There is a marked absence of a spirit of ubuntu and sharing among contenders. To the contrary, colourful language is in the order. It is done loudly, and often with all crew member participating in the exercise – one would not want the receiver of the message to be under any misunderstanding as to what is conveyed to him.
The hooter goes, and off we go. All merrily dashing down wind, mos.
Now there are certain basic conditions for successful sailing. First and foremost, you need a boat. Check. You also need plenty of water. Check. Then, of course, there is the little thing about the wind, you know. And this is lacking on this glorious morning.
A massive tanker (OK, I know all tankers are massive, but I need to mention it for the effect) comes steaming out of the harbour and handsomely outpaces all the contending yachts. Maybe it was a fast tanker, OK.
It’s a bit of an anti-climax. Everyone is worked up, adrenalin is pumping, sails are in position, and for me as an outsider it appears as if friendships have even been put at risk with some well aimed obscenities during the jostling at the starting line. And now there is absolutely no wind.
The upside is the pleasure in seeing some of the yachts even moving backwards instead of forward. But it’s only funny when it happens to other yachts.
Eventually the wind starts pushing. Two hours later we find ourselves near Robben Island. In the channel between Robben Island and the main land we encounter quite a number of whales. They are amazingly big. It is difficult to describing them civilised without resorting to some expletives. Majestic should do.
The sound of them breathing reverberates through the air. Every time one of them surfaces and you hear it breathing it feels like you are right on top of the animal, only to see that you are as much as a few hundred meters away.
Absent from our crew on this trip is Ralph, who was the senior skipper on board the previous year. Ralph made international headlines in 2010 by surviving a whale jumping on his yacht (https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=313).
Four and a half hours later we find ourselves opposite Koeberg. By car it would have been some 20 minutes, depending on traffic, to have reached Koeberg. The word “racing” seems peculiarly out of place for what we are doing. By five o’clock the afternoon we pass Dassen Island between Dassen and Yzerfontein, now doing a healthy 7,5 knots, which brings back a bit of a smile amongst the crew, with Skipper Matthys Lourens at the helm.
Two dolphins join us. With absolute grace and ease they play around the boat. Our speed is not much of a challenge to them, and they soon become bored and go their own way.
After dark we enter Saldanha Bay harbour, aiming for Mykonos through the passage between Jutten Island and the main land.
In the dark two other yachts overtake us. It’s a fascinating sight. The yellow moon is a bit more than half full, with the hare in the moon peering down on us. To our starboard side we can only make out the two port lights of the overtaking yachts. It is hypnotic, with the purposeful movement of the boat under your feet, and the whooshing sound only of the water passing underneath.
Skipper Matthys decides to give these guys a run for their money and instructs for the spinnaker to be hoisted. However, the spinnaker refuses to deploy due to the lines becoming entangled. In the dark it is not possible to rectify, so we give it up as a bad job and watch the form of the other two yachts disappearing in the darkness.
Thirteen hours after we left Table Bay, at 21h26, we pass the finishing line.
In no time the fire is lit for a braai. A stainless steel box with a lid is a permanent fixture on the aft port side for this purpose.
Another hard day in Africa simmers to an end.
PGJ…
Pursuit Race – Langebaan
By PG Jonker
The Saturday after the down wind dash from Table Bay to Mykonos, Langebaan, a pursuit race is hosted by the Mykonos yacht club. Boats are set off in staggered fashion depending on their handicap. In theory, if everyone sails to the best ability of his boat, everyone should finish at the same time. Which means that the boat that finishes first takes line honours and need not wait for handicap calculations to be performed to know what his final position is.
Mafuta departs at 11h25:54. Precisely, ek sê. After the first turn we have the wind from behind. This is now dashing! The wind is blowing at some 25 knots, leading to the skipper’s decision to rather not hoist the spinnaker. The decision turns out not to be over cautious. We have great fun watching other boats getting bogged down in the water at peculiar angels as the wind in their spinnakers keeps them there. One yacht loses his spinnaker in the wind.
Those who successfully get their spinnakers up, though, come flying past us never to be seen again for the rest of the day.
The race takes the whole day. By the time we are back near the entrance to the Mykonos yacht club the wind is blowing to up to 35 knots.
It turns out that some masochist worked out the route. Just as you think the end is in sight, you realise you have another few legs of the race left, and that you might only see this spot again an hour or more later. The increasing wind and water splashing over the deck makes the taking of pictures impossible – except, of course, if you have an underwater camera.
The crew hangs over the guardrails to stabilise the boat and keep it more upright against the push of the wind. Those dressed in proper foulies are still warm and dry. I can report that the municipal type of rain suits that you buy at your nearest hardware store are not made for this kind of conditions.
By the time we reach the finishing line we are pretty tired, and most of us also wet. Later the evening there is a prize giving ceremony, but our name is not called out. I can only assume it to have been an error on the side of the judges.
PGJ…
Some joys of camping – meeting people
By PG Jonker
One of the things with camping is that you meet interesting people. Admittedly, some of them you might prefer not to meet. Take for example the following experience from yesteryear.
Across the road from us we have a rather interesting family. They consist of the grandparents, the parents, four boys between the ages of 8 and 14 and an uncle of them with a big boep. It would be fair to say that the boys’ social skills are still in the developing phase.
Their first notable attempt to social interaction is to teach a sixteen-year old mentally retarded girl in the camp how to swear. They are very effective teachers and soon their endeavors pay off handsome dividends. Much to their surprise, however the girl’ father, who also happens to be a Reverend, is not as thrilled with the progress that the boys made.
On a later occasion the boys are left to their own devices with the rest of the outfit going on an angling expedition. The boys hang around their tent, being bored. In an endeavor to be sociable they eventually start shouting obscenities to passersby. Eventually one of the campers walks over to reprimand them, unfortunately limited to a verbal reprimand. I thought a more decisive action would have been medically indicated under circumstances.
Not too much later I had to shed my own impartial observance and trundle over to the boys’ site to have a word with the grown-ups after the boys started bullying my 10-year old son. I have to admit in shame that the discussion took place in much more amicable fashion than how I intended it to go. I bumped into the grandma who solemnly undertook to look into the disciplinary matters.
From my vantage point I observe an irate mother visiting the outfit the next day demanding the return of a toy cell phone that went amiss. Four angel faces deny any knowledge, and the mother leaves with the matter unresolved. To my pleasure, however, I observe a security official attending to the outfit the next morning to have a word with the parents. I’m not convinced that the visit bore any fruit, as one of the boys shortly thereafter winds a girl with a hook punch from behind. “Just playing!” he protests, deeply hurt, when taken to task about it.
On another occasion the uncle with the boep is left in charge of the outfit. Following a slight difference of opinion between the boys and the uncle, one of the boys takes a well aimed shot at the uncle first with a shoe, followed by a pebble. Uncle does not take kindly to this. He waddles out of his camping chair and purposefully takes off his belt. By that time, however, all the boys have removed themselves to a safe distance. When the parents eventually arrive, however, some blows with a belt did find its target. I’m pretty much in favour of proper discipline, but even to me it sounded more like assault than discipline.
In a happy turn of events my children’s much older cousin joins our outfit for a few days. Shortly thereafter a misunderstanding ensues between cousin and the boys from the outfit across the road. Cousin quickly establishes himself as reigning alpha male and rearranges the pecking order. Now, at last, the kids on this side of the road can go about their business unescorted.
Under this new reign things improve so dramatically that, when I on occasion make enquiries at the outfit across the street about a missing tennis ball, one of the boys jumps up, run out to the shop just outside the gate of the campsite, and buy me a brand new tennis ball.
Sometimes kids really make it difficult for you to stay angry with them.
PGJ…
Hoe bedoel oom Koos dan nou?
Deur Johnie Jonker
Oom Koos Spamer op St. Helenabaai was baie goed ingerig om sy voertuie self te versien. As jy reguit by sy garage uitgery het, was jy bo-oor ‘n diensput en kon jy lekker regop als bykom wat nodig was vir enige versiening.
Van ons kon onthou het hy ‘n grys/blou Opel Rekord Mark 2 Car-a-Van gehad. Soos die een regs, onder, maar die stasiewa.
Alhoewel die motor lank (vir altyd?) in sy besit was, het dit nie eintlik ver gery nie, en was hoofsaaklik dorp toe (Vredenburg) en terug. Na die waarborg verval het, het hy aanvanklik seker self die instandhouding gedoen, maar teen die tyd dat ons begin belangstel het in hierdie tipe aktiwiteit, was dit sy seuns Willie en Kobie se werk om van tyd tot tyd op ‘n Saterdag versiening te doen onder die wakende ogie van oom Koos.
Net langs die diensput was daar ‘n werksbank onder ‘n gerieflike Port Jackson koelteboom. My broer Gideon en ek was dikwels Saterdae soontoe, en “help” maar hier en daar – dis mos darem altyd lekkerder om by iemand anders te werk as jou eie huis. Op so ‘n Saterdag is dit toe juis weer tyd vir motor versiening.
Oom Koos sit daar op sy kampstoel en gesels met ons en beduie wat gedoen moet word. Willie het ‘n onderdeel uit die kar en op die werksbank, besig om dit uitmekaar te maak. Maar duidelik was die onderdeel lanklaas in komponent formaat – dalk destyds voor montering in Port Elizabeth – en daar’s ‘n bout wat nie wil los kom nie. Hierdie is immers die Weskus, en goed roes nou maar.
Ongeag die delikaatheid daarvan, is elke stuk gereedskap ten minste een keer in sy leeftyd ‘n hamer. Dit het natuurlik die nadeel dat as jou gereedskap altyd ‘n “hamer” is, jou probleme later almal na spykers begin lyk. Maar ek dwaal af.
Oom Koos raak nou ongemaklik oor, eerstens die misbruik van sy gereedskap, maar ook oor die lewensverwagting van die onderdeel wat nou al so ‘n paar stewige houe weg het in ‘n poging om die bout los te kry. Die doel is wel om die item in stukke te kry, maar dis nie heeltemal dieselfde as stukkend nie.
Nou wil hy sy “tegnikus” vermaan om darem meer omsigtig te werk te gaan. Maar behalwe dat hy nie iemand was wat lelik praat nie, het hy boonop nou ook gaste – my broer en ek – en alhoewel hy sekerlik ‘n baie wye woordeskat gehad het, dink hy dit toe goed om sy vermaning so te rig: ”Met GEWELD, kan jy ….umm, … ’n viool teen ‘n BOOM stukkend slaan”.
JJJ…
I want my wheelies!
Having the wheels come off
By PG JONKER
On a previous occasion we went camping with a friend’s caravan at Gouritsmond. We then decided to get one of those canvass tents with an extension. It works well, but we found it to become a bit crowded with our own three children and friends who make themselves at home in the extension which is supposed to serve as the kitchen and dining area.
To top it, on the day of our departure from Gourits we found that the tent and its fixtures have grown so remarkably that we had to leave a few things behind. There was simply not enough room for everything. So we decided to reconsider our camping outfit in favour of a caravan. Enter Frikkie and his caravan.
With my friend Frikkie’s blessings, we then opted for a year of Gourits camping with his caravan. One of those bulky Gypsey’s with the fixed roof of about 1974 vintage. So we set off for Worcester to go fetch the caravan. That would have the benefit that, by the time I depart for holiday, I would have towed the caravan for some 90km’s, so I should have the feel of it.
Frikkie is a handy guy. On occasion he lost a wheel on his bakkie while touring the Richtersveld. Unfazed, he simply did a field repair job on it and proceeded (see https://pgjonker.co.za/?p=118). He is a guy with a plan for any eventuality.
Frikkie’s caravan is stored behind his house. To get it out requires a bit of an exercise. On the face of it, it is simple. You just drag the caravan out from behind his garage. Go around the garage, up with a little slope which brings you under his carport, around another corner and you are on your way to his front gate. Easy as that. So I thought, until the morning we arrive at Frikkie’s place.
The process summarised above is pretty much correct. The problem, though, is that the carport referred to is a bit on the low side. The caravan cannot pass underneath it. But that is not a problem for Frikkie. He made himself two small steel wheels that fit on the caravan. The wheels are small enough to lower the caravan just enough for it to pass underneath the carport.
So the first exercise is to, as stated before, drag the caravan out from behind the garage and up to the point where it is about to move up the incline to the area underneath the carport. Up to this point the caravan is still shod in his standard wheels.
Now we (OK, actually Frikkie does this) remove the standard wheels and replace them with the small steel wheels.
Once this is done, the caravan is pushed up the incline. Once you are on even surface you are met with one of the legs of the carport that is smack in the middle of where you need to pass with the caravan. That is no problem. Frikkie had a plan. This leg has a swivel point at the top, and the bottom can be undone from the floor where it is fixed with a bolt. Now someone just keeps this leg out of harm’s way, and off goes the caravan. Once you have passed under the carport, the leg gets installed again.
Now the process of refitting the proper wheels follows.
And wala! One hour later you have managed to move the caravan a full 20 meters, and ready for action.
Frikkie has since sold his caravan. I guess his wheels came off about this whole process.
PGJ…
Ons hond Zoë
Deur PG Jonker
Zoë is ons tweedehandse bulhond. Ons het haar gekry toe sy amper 6 jaar oud was al. Saam met ‘n kombersie waarop gestaan het “British Airways, do not remove”. Zoë is ‘n Engelse bulhond, sien.
Zoë doen nogals snaakse goed. Ek het bietjie gaan oplees oor bulhonde om haar gedrag beter te verstaan. Die ou wat egter die skryfwerk oor bulhonde gedoen het op die website waar ek gaan oplees het moes ‘n politikus geword het. Of miskien eerder ‘n diplomaat. Hy beskryf verskeie tipiese kenmerke van bulhonde sonder om ooit die woord “dom” te gebruik, of sonder om dit selfs te suggereer.
Pig headed. Will of its own. Persistent. Will consider your command and decide whether it is an obeyable command.
Nee, nee, nee. Daai ding van wonder en wik en weeg of hulle jou bevel wil nakom reken ek is eerder ‘n geval van: “hoe bedoel die meneer dan nou?” My vrou sê ek sal die hond se gevoelens seermaak as ek sê sy is dom. Ons hond is dus nie dom nie.
Ons vriende se hond, Bully, het weer die gewoonte om jou aan jou knieë te byt as hy aandag wil hê. Dis hoe hoog hy kan bykom. Dis eintlik seker maar ‘n bedekte seën dat die hond so laag is, noudat ek dink daaraan…
In Zoë se eerste woning was sy bevoorreg om blykbaar op die kinders se beddens te slaap. Ongelukkig in ons huis het dit anders gewerk, hoofsaaklik te danke aan Zoë se “interessante” kenmerke. Soos byvoorbeeld, as dit koud is, dan is sy nie lus om haar ding buite te gaan doen nie. Dan piepie sy in haar kooi, en maak haar dan tuis op die rusbank. En as dit blyk dat ‘n verdere wieps medies aangedui is, dan doen sy dit ook daar op die rusbank en skuif daarna bloot aan na die volgende kussing toe. Zoë het nou ‘n eie huisie BUITE ons huis waar sy snags slaap.
Soggens is sy eerste ding voor ons slaapkamer se buitedeur. Dan kyk sy vir ons deur die glasdeur aan met daai ‘Puss in Boots’ gesigsuitdrukking uit Schrek uit. Geen mens kan dit uithou nie. Dan maak ons vir haar oop. Sy sit in afwagting en wag totdat die deur oopgaan, dan vlieg sy om, hardloop deur die tuin en gee ‘n paar blaffe vir denkbeeldige rowers en skelms.
Maar omdat ons in die nuwe Suid-Afrika woon waar mens nie deure onbewaak kan laat oopstaan nie, kan ek nie my deur ooplos totdat sy besluit het om in te kom nie. Dus skuif ek weer die deur toe, net om sekondes later dieselfde gesig voor die deur te hê. En as ek dan oopmaak, dan herhaal die hele proses homself. Dit help nie eens om vir Zoë luidkeëls aan te spreek om in te kom nie. Dan doen sy daai ding waar sy oorweeg of sy die voorstel wil nakom of nie.
In haar guns moet ek darem sê dat niemand kan sê dat Zoë bang is vir donderweer nie. Tot die teendeel. Wanneer daai blitse slaan en die donderweer raas en ander honde kruip onder hul base se beddens weg, dan is Zoë absoluut in haar element. As die weerlig slaan, dan storm sy daar uit – sy soek daai bliksem. Sodanig dat niemand kan slaap nie, as gevolg van haar geraas, nie as gevolg van die swaar weer nie.
So het ek al by geleentheid ‘n halfuur op ‘n donker nat donderweersnag in my tuin rondgehardloop agter Zoë aan om haar te vang en in die huis in te bring. Zoë kon nie haar geluk glo nie. Dis 03h00 die oggend, die blitse slaan heerlik om haar, en boonop het haar baas uitgekom om te kom speel.
Zoë klink op haar skrikwekkendste as sy slaap. Sy het ‘n ernstige sinusprobleem.
‘n Hondelewe, watwou….
PGJ…