Sniff sniff

I get that dogs like to sniff every blade of grass and that it's irritating when you're trying to have a walk, but surely one sniff is enough to get the message. You know, like, "Oh, wow, Fluffy's pregnant again."

What I don't get is, "Oh. Wow!!!. Fluffy's pregnant again. Smells like 4th week and omigod with that German Shepherd from 26 - has she no class? Oh yes... some bacon for breakfast. And, what? Smells like she's been at the duck poo again too. And... wait ... is that multivitamins again? Ew... folic acid. What the.."

Bad decision

There's a plant that decided to grow into my bathroom.

I'm sure there are some mornings when I'm sure it wishes it hadn't.

That's HRH to you

So we all know that you can be straight or gay or bi or he-she or she-he or transvestite or transgender or all of the above but, today, I heard a woman say she was trans-black. So basically, she was a black person born to white parents.

So I kinda figured out that if that is, in fact, a thing then I must be trans-princess. So, what this means, dear readers, is that I am actually a princess born into a life of advertising and, therefore, deserve a castle, some horses and loads of land upon which I can frolic. Oh, and possibly a tiara.

Just give me a ring when you're ready.

Thanks.

Dumb and dumber.

So ornithologists and mammalologists and reptilologists (ew) are always telling us how clever animals are and that they have instincts and genetic savvy. They carefully explain about navigation systems, courting, nesting, migrating, webs and so on and so forth.

Well, I'm here to tell you it's not really true. Some animals are seriously dumb. Let's take rabbits. I think the only reason their gene pool survived is because of high humping tendencies and very little to do with brains.

I had two rabbits. Emphasis on had. Mr Cuddles (who it turned out was gender fluid) and Phoebe. I was given them by a 'friend' who thought my daughter would love to look after the cute little furry things. As a mother, this 'friend' should have known better. I won't lie - they were cute. To look at. Their sanitary habits were something else. But I digress.

I couldn't bear to keep them in a hutch so I rabbit-proofed my back yard and let them lollop around there. I modified the hutch so they could hop in to nap or snuggle in the hay. Hell, I even built them a cunning second one in case they wanted some alone time. They were cosy, waterproof and built with love. The rabbits, however, chose to get sun stroke and hypothermia. It was so irritating - they would literally sit, next to the hutch in the pouring rain too dumb to go inside. At first I thought it was because the hutches may not have met their exacting leporine standards so I added more hay, hung a few pictures and installed Dstv. No. It wasn't enough. Or perhaps it was too much. Anyway they escaped one day and, as I mentioned before, it didn't end well.

My second example, and I'm sure that National Geographic won't be calling this a definitive study, is a frog that's a few warts short of a prince. I live in beautiful estate with loads of open spaces, there's a river, mud - frog bliss. My garden isn't bad either - it's quite big, a bit overgrown and has a million mosquitoes living in the undergrowth. So where goes the frog live? In my spare plastic bags in the recycling bin outside. Maybe it's evolving to live in our polluted world or it's plain crazy. I fear the latter as the other day I tried to move it into the garden and it actually growled at me as I tried to lower the container on its side. I'm serious, an actual growling noise. I figured it must know what it wanted so I put it back upright and left it. After all, who am I to mess with mother nature and her clever creatures?

Post script: As I sit here writing this during Tropical Storm Dineo, Gauteng Edition, I found said frog in the kitchen. I have no idea how it got in - I don't have a frog flap - but it's under the washing machine now. Sigh.

I can't, even.

So I thought I would write a piece about taxi drivers and their interesting take on sharing the road with other motorists. However, after about three attempts, I realised that I couldn't adequately describe the level of lunacy and complete disregard for the rules of the road these guys display. It's also difficult to put into words just what a taxi driver will do to get one car in front of you - no pavement is too steep, no bus too big, no gap too small, hell - even which side of the road they drive on is optional. I also realised that no-one would actually believe what I wrote.

I'm not sure what 'Whatever goes' is in latin but I think it should be a mandatory sticker on the back bumper - right next to 100% Venda and Zola.

There goes the neighbourhood

I recently repainted my room so I was sleeping in the spare room and using the other bathroom. On day two I happened to go into my bathroom to get something and discovered that a spider, perhaps the winner of the arachnid version of the Darwin Award, had built a web across the loo.

I know it probably thought to itself, 'Hey, check this out! Quiet, great view of the basin, private pool, super easy to work on - love the colour... it's gonna be easy pickings.'

But can you imagine the size of all eight of that spider's eyes if I had wandered through half asleep in the middle of the night and it looked up. 

Talk about getting more than you bargained. Way more.

Walkies!

I'm the proud grandmother (read mother) of a Pekinese/Daschund-cross called Pebbles. And, because I'm an indulgent granny, she goes for a walk every day (sometimes twice), which has many benefits - I get loads of fresh air, meet a lot of other walkers and, of course, know all the popular pee spots.

Barbara Woodhouse would definitely not approve of my dog obedience training skills but would, however, be very impressed at how well Pebbles has me trained. Despite her small stature, she has learned how to anchor herself to the ground in order to make me stop so that she can get a whiff of the day's pee du jour. She also knows how to leopard crawl - a tactic she uses when she wants to go to the dam for a dip. She's also schizophrenic. Off the leash, and I'm talking Pebbles here, it's all sweetness and light. However, clip on the leash and she turns into a maniac with all the strength of a pitbull and the sense of teenager on hormones - but I digress.

Far from being aimless, my wanderings have lead to certain interesting scientific discoveries. While my paper submitted to the Journal of Canine Perambulations hasn't been published yet, I can share with you (with pride) that I have classified a few distinct variety of dog walker. 

Let's start with the Friendlies. They greet you, discuss the weather, point out an interesting bird, say rude things about the body corporate and nice things about your dog ("She's so cute, I'm sure she didn't mean to draw blood!").

Then we have the Greeters. This group isn't that interested in whether you think it's hot for this time of year, or that it's early for the swallows to be back but they will greet you with a cheery "Hello!" or "Morning!". 

Moving down the list we have the Nodders. This bunch are generally in exercise mode and cannot allow mere conversation to distract them from reaching their daily step count. As they stride purposefully up to you, sweat glistening awkwardly on their upper lip, they hope that their intent is enough to move you off the path so they can reach their target and go home for a croissant. Not entirely rude, you'll get an acknowledgement of your lowly existence with a brief nod and perhaps even a smile. Their dogs have been trained not to sniff at anything and cannot, therefore, be trusted.

Then we have the Grunters. These people always seem so angry that I often wonder whether they wouldn't be happier in a dungeon punching a wall rather than taking a walk.Or maybe they're masochists ("I told you not to enjoy that cup of tea, now you must walk. Outside. Where you may see people who will smile and try and engage you in conversation. And take the dog.") Whatever the case, your smile or greeting is met by a terse 'grunh' as they step hurriedly past you in case your friendliness is contagious. 

At the bottom of the dog-walking gene pool are the Avoiders. These people behave as though they saw your picture on the CIA's Most Wanted List and you can literally see them plotting how to protect themselves should you suddenly attack them with the leash. As you get closer they actually step off the path and give you such a wide berth you'd swear the 'Unclean' sign was still around your neck.