My mom passed away in 2007. We were always different people from two different points of view, and those differences became huge hurdles once I started my own family. Looking back, I am sorry I didn’t try harder and do better, but these are the regrets I must live with. My mom was slowly being eaten by a cancerous growth in her brain, and towards the end, we had mended our differences, but we still had the odd squabble, which was so characteristic of our relationship. She passed away one night, peacefully in her sleep, and to my distress, bereft me of my sparring partner. The next few months were very hard as I felt that I had lost a huge part of myself. Regrets and all of that… Our home life was also going through a tough time, the pressures of trying to run a startup business, the responsibility of keeping food on the table, and raising children taking its toll on us daily.
In September 2007, a month after my mom’s departure, I decided to do something that would make a difference in our community and give me a sense of accomplishment. Our local Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) is a community-based organization. Most towns or cities in South Africa have an SPCA, depending on the financial support received via donations and community support. I often say, “Show me your town’s SPCA, and I will tell you a lot about the community.” Never a truer word spoken…
Our SPCA was rather neglected. Problems with the administration of funds by the people responsible for overall management had made it a very sad place. The staff was just trying to swim in a sea of bad decisions made by these individuals. The gardens were so neglected, and I thought I could uplift the spirits of the staff and create a favorable impression of the place with the public if I gave the garden a little bit of tender loving care. Appearances do affect emotions, and I was hoping that a mowed lawn and a few colorful flower beds would bring some pride and happiness to an otherwise sad place.
Every week, once a week, I took myself and my gardener, and we went to the SPCA to pay my dues. The only deal I had with the staff was that I didn’t want to get involved with the animals. I knew that once I turned that corner, there would be no holding me back. We would have an influx of dogs at home that would scare all our neighbors. My husband would just revolt as I would certainly want to bring all the animals home.
This arrangement worked well until it didn’t…It took me two months and I fell into the trap…
On November 11, 2007, I arrived at the SPCA armed with spades, buckets, a weed eater, and a lawnmower. I had hardly stopped the car when the staff surrounded me. They were begging for help. A man had dropped off two newborn puppies at the office that morning. They had been born at approximately 4 am and were the last of a huge litter. The mother took one look at the last two babies and decided they were better off with Jesus. Before she could execute her decision, the owner quickly took the two smallest puppies away. Unfortunately, the job of raising a puppy by bottle-feeding is quite a daunting task. Every two hours, they have to be fed. You have to make sure they do not get the milk in their lungs, and you have to clean their bottoms. And just when you think you have finished, it’s time to start again. This owner was not interested in raising these pups and dropped them off at the SPCA.
There was no way the staff could dedicate their time to the two pups. It was nearly silly season and the influx of unwanted animals had already started. The few staff members that manned the branch would not be able to feed and look after the pups so guess what? The garden lady looked like a good candidate and me being me, how could I say no?
I was given the two pups, sat down in the office, and started the feeding routine. I was new to all of this, and it was a pretty daunting undertaking. Bottles, warming milk, coaxing puppies, cleaning bottoms… the time flew, and soon it was time to go home. The office wasn’t equipped for newborn puppies, and these sad little figures were kept in a crate lined with an old towel and two 2L coke bottles filled with hot water to keep their temperatures up. I have to say I was a little sad to hand the two back to the office staff when the time came for us to go home. The puppies were a mixed breed but with a very strong influence from the boerboel side. They must have weighed about 450g each. The one pup, a girl, was perfect, but the other, a little boy, had a deformed back leg and struggled to breathe. I knew in my heart of hearts that the little guy was not going to make it. I gave them back to the staff, and my parting words were: “If you can’t manage, call me…”
Little did I know that those words would cement a relationship that would last for many years to come, but I am getting ahead of myself here, so back to the beginning…
Our son, Keagan, is a very good swimmer. At that stage, he was in training, and his coach had booked an indoor pool for the evening, which was situated approximately 45 minutes from home. I found myself sitting by the indoor pool, watching Keagan do laps when I got a phone call from Briony. “Mommy, a lady dropped off a basket here, and there is a puppy in it…”
Oh, my word! I was so excited and elated, and as soon as the training had finished, I made my way home as fast as I could. I had never raised a puppy, but how hard could it be? How hard indeed?!
Hazel threw everything at us. She complained incessantly, squirmed when we fed her. We got the formula wrong and fed her too much milk, then too little. We made it too strong, then too weak. And it never ended. I became sleep-deprived, but I had Briony to help me until she went on a school camp, and I was left standing on my own. When I think of those days, I see a mental image of a woman who looked like Andy Capp’s wife… finished, ‘klaar’ and ‘gedaan’. Working, travelling, coming home, and doing all the things a mom does with a puppy attached to your hip, then doing night feeds and just going on repeat day after day took its toll. Despite nearly living at the vet and walking in my sleep, Hazel flourished. She went everywhere with me. I simply carted my little basket under my arm as I made my way through the supermarket, to the chemist, hairdresser, and dentist, going to work and coming home. She was there. Nobody knew what was in the basket, and I didn’t say a word. She was so small and didn’t make a sound, so that was a bonus.
Things went well until they went bad. Then they went really, really bad. Spectacularly so. I was sitting at the hairdresser one morning, reading my book with my hair in tinfoil, just minding my own business. Suddenly, I thought, “Hazel has been very quiet.” I peeked in my basket and immediately saw a puppy that was literally on death’s door. How that transpired so quickly, I had no idea. We had made it to 5 weeks, and I think I was caught with my pants down, becoming rather self-assured with the role as a surrogate mother.
That morning, I fed her, burped her, cleaned her bottom, and she was fine as I made my way to the hair salon. What I now saw was a puppy that was struggling to breathe, and without a thought, I grabbed the basket and my handbag and flew out of the salon without a word to my hairstylist or anybody else.
Luckily, our resident vet practice was just up the road, and I remember rushing in there, being ushered straight through to the consulting room. The vet took one look at me, looked again, and then dragged his focus to my puppy. It seemed that we had gotten fluid on her lungs with the bottle-feeding, and she was suffering from pneumonia. When you research pneumonia in bottle-fed puppies, the statistics of them pulling through are appalling. Luckily for the vet and me, I didn’t know this at that moment.
Hazel was immediately hospitalized, and I was sent home. I got into my car and caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror… I was horrified to see that I still had tinfoil hair! My highlights were by now firelights as I rushed back to the salon and found my hairstylist speechless, combined with being rather pissed off, waiting for me. I tried to explain, but her only concern was that we had left the highlights in for so long that they might have become mummified. Thankfully, all turned out well with the hairdo, but I shudder when I think of the stir my entrance and exit at the vet had caused. Not only the staff but also the people who were sitting waiting in the waiting room to see the vet. That night, I should have had my first night of sleeping through without the feeding routine, but I didn’t. I paced the floor and couldn’t wait for the next morning so I could call and find out if Hazel had made it through the night.
Hazel made it. It was as was destined to bring hope to our family. She saved us in so many ways during her 11 years of existence. She was sterilized at the age of 6 months, but removing her ovaries never removed the fact that she wanted to be a mother. She loved her teddies and became a surrogate mother to the many kittens and puppies that I brought home over the years, always ready to wash their bottoms and allow them to cuddle up to her ample body. She was a curvaceous dog, large in frame and large in heart. There was never a moment when I looked at her and thought that I had to take away any babies from her; she loved anything small, and if anything, she would only snuggle them to death.
When I brought orphaned animals home, Hazel would step in and claim them. They became Hazel’s babies and were fiercely protected while she played Mama.
The day I brought Mowgli home, I immediately put Hazel in charge. She gave me one look and said, “I’ve got this.” That’s how we raised Mowgli. When he curled up next to Mama Hazel, everybody understood that there was going to be no funny business.
Hazel also had her fair share of operations and vet visits. She was a terrible patient and would tear her stitches out with such ferocity that our vet, a very mild-mannered man, became a little rabid when he saw us. First, she had a growth on her head. Twenty stitches later, which turned into forty stitches as she kindly removed the first lot herself, and a purple head with all the gentian violet spray, she looked like she had been in a bar fight. Then came the TPLO surgeries. First, the one back leg, then the other one.
I don’t know what it is with this family and dogs with bad back legs, but we have had a lot of these surgeries come our way in the past twenty years or so. Hazel was a bad patient. She had to be crated after her surgeries for 6 weeks, but this didn’t stop her from removing her stitches. The skin was finally stretched so tight, and the vet was even “tighter”. Not a pleasant experience.
The things she loved were car rides, taking long walks on the farm, swimming, looking after babies, and sucking her teddies. In her lifetime, she got ample opportunity to do all of the above, but our greatest wish was to take her and all our other dogs to the sea. In 2018, my best friend, Sammy, came to visit me from Holland. I saw an opportunity and immediately coaxed her into agreeing that we could take all the dogs in the Goanywherevehicle and make this dream come true. Poor Sam. She didn’t begin to imagine the magnitude of the undertaking. An eight-hour drive with 5 dogs was pure hell. To be honest, Hazel slept most of the way. She was very, very old, and if truth be told, we should not have made this journey with her. We arrived at our destination after a harrowing day in the car. Grace had sung the song of her people all the way, Mina wanted to be on the front seat and had dug her nails into Sammy’s legs, Fuzzy wanted to sit on my lap, and Briony was left bringing up the rear as she had to try and control the masses from taking over the car. We had a few stops along the way, and by the time we had reached our holiday home, everybody was exhausted.
That night, we went to bed early, and the next morning, we all donned our swimsuits and made our way to the beach. Hazel was overwhelmed by the sight of this big pool. She was struggling with her back legs, and the deep sand didn’t help, so we made a sling and helped her to where the sand was firmer and more manageable. She loved it, and so did the others. They played in the surf, and as it was a bit of an overcast day, the temperatures were perfect. It became a day to remember. We stayed as long as Hazel’s legs would allow us, and then we made our way back to the house. Everybody flopped down on the cool veranda and slept like babies.
The next day, we did the same, but coming back from the beach, I noticed that Hazel was beyond exhausted. Once we reached our holiday house, we made her comfortable. However, that night, I saw that my dog was knocking on heaven’s door. We sat with her throughout the night, and I watched her labored breathing, her heart struggling. I knew I had to make a very hard decision.
We were in a very remote area and I didn’t know where to find a vet. Google Maps was employed and we found one approx. 30 km from where we were. We called as soon as the clock struck 8 am and spoke to a receptionist that was baffled by our request. I suppose the need for euthanasia does not feature high on the daily to do list here. We asked when we could see the vet and plan our way forward. Briony & I loaded Hazel into the back of the Goanywherevehicle, made her comfortable and in silence we drove to the 30km. I should actually be used to this part of my life as I have had many animals and my view is to never let anybody suffer. It does not get easier. The more you love, and I do so with wild abandon and all my heart, the more you hurt.
We arrived at this very rural practice, and the vet came to the car. He spoke so nicely to Hazel, comforting her and making sure her last moments matched the rest of her life. She just went so peacefully, lying in her favorite spot in the Goanywherevehicle, and I was so very grateful to this man I didn’t even know. We wrapped Hazel in her favorite blanket, and then the vet asked if we wanted to bury her on his premises. They had no access to cremation services, and that was the best he could offer. We thanked him profusely, but there was no way we were going to leave our Hazel behind. We were going to find a cremation service, even if it took us the whole day.
Off we set, the Goanywherevehicle now playing hearse, and as we drove back down the highway, Briony started calling every vet practice down the coast.
We found one in Ballito and told them we were on our way. Once we arrived there, we huffed and puffed to get Hazel (now wrapped but still weighing in at a hefty 50 kg) into the vet. We gave them all the details, paid, and asked that the ashes be returned to us via our home vet in Gauteng.
It took Hazel’s ashes nearly 3 months to get to us. Apparently, she went on a countrywide tour. Typical Hazel, having fun even in her ashen state. Today, her ashes are buried on my farm. Each animal that has colored our lives with their antics and love now rests there. I have taken the ashes of each dog/cat and written a little story about them, which I put in the wooden box that the ashes came in. I dug a hole for each one, stuck the box in the bottom of the hole, and planted a rosebush in each “grave.” My garden on the farm is a beautiful festival of fragrance and color. They continue to grace my life, their presence unseen but felt sometimes when I sit quietly watching the sun go down. There is always that rustle and whisper in the wind. I call it the magic hour. That’s when they come to me. I mean, how can you love so much and then it just goes away when they die? Impossible. I just close my eyes and I feel them by my side.Love knows no bounds and survives for eternity.
