That’s life
Piet Grobler reflects on the duty of a dog
What would a garden or cosy living room be without a dog – whether it works for its food or simply keeps its owner company? Artist and illustrator Piet Grobler* shares the insights he has gained over the years of living in South Africa, England and now Portugal.
Dogs as household pets were a strange concept in the Eastern Cape platteland where the late Afrikaans author Hennie Aucamp was raised in the ’30s and ’40s. Household dogs belonged in the city, and farm dogs were working dogs, he told me one day while we were chatting about cows and calves and dogs and cats.
This was also the case at Gretna, our farm in the Settlers area of the Springbok Flats in Limpopo, where there was always a commotion of at least six working farmyard dogs. “Pack” doesn’t sound quite right when talking about tame dogs. Nor do some other descriptive English alternatives: kennel, cowardice, cry or litter.
THE BRITISH are indeed crazy about their four-legged friends. Even in the countryside around the hills of Malvern in Worcestershire, where
I once lived, most dogs I encountered were household animals – or, rather, good-natured friends of their owners’ children. Workers? No. Only the sheep dogs worked. Everyone walked their dogs, but rarely would you know the names of the people you met on the mountain. They were simply “Rambo’s dad”, “Ollie’s mom” or “Tessa’s parents”. We were known as “Alice’s people”.
One could, of course, speculate about whether this indicates how much the English love dogs, or does it rather say more about their shyness when it comes to making friends with strangers and having personal conversations with them? A discussion with Rambo or Ollie or Tessa’s owners, for example, would either be about the “dreadful English weather” or something or other regarding the dog. We knew everything about the dogs we met – sometimes intimate details – but mostly nothing about their owners.
The English would have found it strange that Gretna’s dogs were organised into working teams. Two spent the day kennelled while the others caught rats, mice and snakes, and announced the arrival of visitors to the farmyard. At night, the day team moved into the kennels and the night shift took over their duties.
My mother, however, did eventually succumb and took two dogs into the house. For decades there were always two resident canines that slept in a basket in the kitchen corner beside the gas stove. But they never ventured into the sitting room. At times there were spaniels, sometimes Maltese poodles, sometimes one of each. Their only job was to provide pleasant companionship to the people of the house. They were mostly successful because unacceptable behaviour such as greed, begging or snapping at the outdoor dogs was always punished with a strict “Hoekie toe!” Before long, these two words banishing the dogs to the corner had become a generic command that encompassed everything from “voertsek!”, “stop!” and “calm down” to “stop begging
and go lie down”. So ingrained has the phrase become, that, even in the depths of England’s north-eastern countryside, my sister and her family still yell “Hoekie toe!” at their dog, who otherwise understands only English.
HERE IN PORTUGAL, where we live on the outskirts of a coastal village, I have yet to hear a dog being sent to the corner. Shame... that’s probably because that’s where they already are. The village dogs that live in houses with yards can usually be found – barking – in a too-small kennel at the gate. Some are tied – barking – to a chain near the gate, and those without a garden will stand – barking– at the top of the outdoor stairs, on a balcony or on top of a low roof.
Chained dogs are not unusual in the South African platteland, but one’s heart breaks at the sight of the cramped kennels and short chains that hold some Portuguese dogs captive. Could this have something to do with the fact that few people in a relatively poor country can afford a secure, high perimeter fence?
Although the animals are kept as guard dogs and are expected to announce the presence of any enemies or passers-by with possibly bad intentions, their barking is generally idle. According to some or other official international list, Portugal is the third-safest country in the world. The greatest danger you will find on a platteland street is the land mine you might step in when you’re looking around instead of paying attention to where you’re putting your feet.
But who is setting these traps if the poor Portuguese dogs spend their lives barking in pure frustration from behind their gates? Surely not the dogs belonging to the expats from the Netherlands, France and Britain who also live here? It is true that these canine immigrants are regularly taken for walks through the streets and along the farm roads in the area, but in accordance with strict northern European practice, a fresh deposit will be picked up quickly and discreetly using a small plastic bag, which would be tied closed and dropped into one of the municipal rubbish bins. Where it belongs, and as it should be.
But then we noticed that when the old ladies of the town step out in the late afternoon for a chat with the tannie next door or just down the road, they nonchalantly leave the gates open so that Cameao, Piloto and Bolinha can get out. Then the dogs have complete freedom to roam where they fancy, to chase cats to their heart’s content and to poop where they want to.
They wander far and they wander wide. Every afternoon, a dog or three will turn up at the beach, about a 20-minute walk from the town, where they will socialise with the bathers, beg a little, scavenge here and there, or run exuberantly in the breaking waves.
The beachcombers’ antics are mostly tolerated, which made me realise that certainly not all canines in Portugal lead a dog’s life. To tell the truth, Portuguese city dogs live a sophisticated existence, according to South African friends who live in Lisbon: excursions to the park and dog parlour are the order of the day, and none is in – or attached to – chains.
BUT NOT EVERY DOG’S STORY in the platteland is about slavery or unrestrained playfulness. In the evenings, when we sit on the stoep and watch the sun slowly setting over the sea before it plops over the edge of the flat earth, a little old woman struggles across the patch of open land next door. She strains along with her unusual burden: an elderly fox terrier with lame hind legs. The little dog forges ahead on her forelegs, her rear end elevated by the brave tannie’s contraption of ties and handles. They don’t walk for long or very far because both find the excursion tiring. Together, they enjoy the evening air and the last light of day.
Then I think all the way back to my late mother, who would cross Gretna’s farmyard at dusk to make sure all the chickens and turkeys were shut away for the night. Accompanying her were her two trusty comrades on their last outing of the day. Soon they would be given something delicious to eat, before curling up in the corner next to the gas stove.
It doesn’t matter where in the world you find yourself: a dog’s duty, merit and occupation is simply to love its people – whether it is a house pet, a guard dog or a working animal. Just like us, our best friends will eat their food by the sweat of their brow.
* For readers who don’t know and has perhaps wondered about it, Piet and Diek Grobler – who has illustrated this column since our first issue – are brothers.
Everyone walked their dogs, but rarely would you know the names of the people you met on the mountain. They were simply “Rambo’s dad”, “Ollie’s mom” or “Tessa’s parents”.