Attitude need not come with size. It is actually best that it doesn’t, as in the case of Fuzzy. We would have to send out a public warning if Fuzzy was a big dog. As Keagen has often stated… If Fuzzy was as big as a Rottweiler, we would be spending our days in court.
True story, I kid you not.
Fuzzy is a mixed breed terrier-type dog that has no inkling that he is small or a dog for that matter. He has all the attributes of being a ‘Faf de Klerk’. There is not a scared bone in his little body, and he thrives on throwing the other dogs into a constant state of terror with his bolshiness. He rules the dogs at home with an iron paw, making sure nobody steps out of line.
His absolute pet hate is the gardener, and that’s not because the gardener did anything to him. No, we have had many gardeners over the years so it has to be a job discrimination thing. The little snob.
Then there is poor Lennie. He is the most patient and animal-loving person I know, but Fuzzy is permanently looking for ways to bite the living daylights out of his heels. Every soul working in the garden has to be issued standard safety boots with ample ankle coverage because Fuzzy has a few stealth movements up his sleeve. He can infiltrate any unwanted ankle area and do serious damage. Lennie is still quite forgiving, but my gardener, Thomas, has had enough of his racist behavior. It is a constant war. When I call Thomas, I have to make sure where Fuzzy is because he will undoubtedly cause mayhem. This little dog has entertained our family with his antics for more than 14 years. Here is how our paths crossed.
January 2010, late afternoon on a Friday, I quickly go to the SPCA to drop off a few things. The weekend is looming, and I am in a hurry. Briony is with me as we stop at the office. We hop out of the car, and immediately the most high-pitched, shrill yap penetrates our ears. Briony goes off to the kennels to go and investigate, and I go to the office. Not two minutes later, and Briony is standing in the doorway with a minute little puppy in her arms. It seems the little guy had a voice that didn’t suit his small stature. “Please, Mom, please…” I look at Briony and say, “No”. It’s a definite no.
vThe little guy goes back to the kennel and after checking that he has a bed fit for a king, toys, food, and water, we leave. Briony is somewhat somber.
All went well until Monday afternoon. I was driving home from Keagen’s swimming lessons when I said to him, “We quickly have to make a detour and stop at the SPCA.” I stopped, got out, and finished my business with the office. Then I turned around, got into the car, just to be met by Keagen holding the same puppy in his arms. The little thing was quivering, and so was Keagen. That’s how we adopted Fuzzy. We went through the motions of adoption and brought him home. Years later, I still have to listen to the music because I refused Briony and caved when Keagen asked. It is what it is. All three of them wore me down.
Fuzzy just slipped into our lives and has entertained us with his antics since day one. He has had to find his footing in a household full of big dogs. This has not deterred him. If they have attitude, his just gets bigger. Finally, all the dogs have a healthy respect for the little Napoleon, and they try not ruffle his feathers too much.
Briony and I had great plans for Fuzzy. He is small, so there would be no problem taking him anywhere. We thought we could cart him off to all our fundraisers and the local fetes. The cuteness of the little guy would undoubtedly melt people’s hearts, and they would donate generously towards our cause. Not so, as the little shit had other ideas. He was feisty and would bite any hand that came to stroke him. Adults and children were all treated with disdain and aggression. He actually let our fundraising ideas down due to his bad behavior, so he was fired. We couldn’t have a little dog ruining our reputation as children left the stall crying and adults had a decidedly bewildered look about them.
He wasn’t keen on taking any tablets or medicine either. Even now, we have a huge fight on our hands when we have to give him medication. He screams like a girl when he has to have his yearly inoculations, putting us all on edge, vet included. He does have a love for Rimadyl tablets and weed, though. This has brought our family name into disrepute with the vet as well, tarnishing me with the ‘bad mother’ brush on many occasions.
I have a very bad habit of leaving any medication on my bedside table. I leave it there so I can remember to give the next dose when needed. Out of sight, out of mind, and this has caused me to skip many prescribed doses. Fuzzy has found my bedside table to be a wonderland of drugs, and he has not been scared to help himself, getting his stomach pumped many times for overdosing. He has an opinion when we have to give him drugs, but when they are freely available, he becomes an addict.
Our first brush with overdosing on Rimadyl (a painkiller for dogs) tablets was a close call. I had left the packet, consisting of 16 XL tablets, on my bedside table by accident and received a rather perturbed call from my father-in-law. We were transporting the horsebox at the time, and I had to turn around and race home because Fuzzy had ingested all 16 tablets. We made it to the vet in time, and Fuzzy had his stomach pumped for his adventure.
Two weeks later, the same thing happened. Now, the vet was giving me the side-eye, and Fuzzy had used two of his nine lives up. But do not despair… there is more to come.
One Sunday, Briony and I left early in the morning for Kyalami. Unfortunately, I forgot about the stash on my bedside table. Amongst all the paraphernalia, there was a small bottle of painkilling weed oil that I used for my old dog, Hazel. I would give her a drop every night to help her with the aches and pains that came with being an oldie. These cannabis drops were so concentrated that only one drop from the dropper was enough to knock a 50kg dog out for the night. Liquid gold at a liquid gold price. A little bottle that ensured that my old dog could sleep soundly, so very much an item to be treasured.
Coming home late on Sunday afternoon, we were tired and really fed up. I had hardly walked in through the back door when I was confronted by a Fuzzy doing the Tennessee Two Step. He looked drunk. I looked at Briony and said, “Fuzzy has been poisoned!”.
Without further investigation, I called the vet and told him we were on our way with a suspected case of poisoning. The finality in my voice must have made Dr. Hennie move quickly because he was already waiting for us at the vet practice when we arrived. I noticed a large enclosed trailer attached to his car, but I didn’t think to ask what was inside. We hurriedly brought Fuzzy into the surgery room, and Dr. Hennie immediately started checking his vitals. By this point, I was hyperventilating, but the vet seemed puzzled. He took a blood sample, left for a moment, returned, and still looked rather perplexed. Turning off the light in the examination room, he checked Fuzzy’s pupils, and then looked at me, asking, “What do you think is wrong with him?” I could feel my sense of humor leaving me and with a little sassiness I replied, “You’re the vet, you tell me.”
“Nothing” he said.
“It can’t be, he was walking like a circus pony when we got home. Legs high in the air, stumbling around…” now my voice is faltering a little and Fuzzy is showing signs of being fed up with the poking and prodding. He wants to eat the vet.
Well, we left there none the wiser. Fuzzy had made a miraculous recovery, bit the vet twice, and I could see a little ‘tightness’ in the vet’s attitude. Driving home was a quiet affair; Briony and I were at a loss for words. Fuzzy had run up a nice after-hours bill, got an injection, and was looking decidedly happy with himself.
I have very little to say about the next chapter in this story except that upon arriving back home, we were greeted by two very high-stepping dogs, Grace and Belle. Both dogs were displaying the same symptoms that Fuzzy had, and suddenly the penny dropped… I raced through to the bedroom to find the evidence on display, the broken dropper was found lying on the one bed, the bottle on the other and there was nothing left inside. The dogs had had a lovely party. Three out of five dogs were stoned. Great.
There are moments in your life that you feel like you are the world’s worst mom. This experience even took that statement to a new level. Imagine having to confess to your vet as he called to check up on his patient.”Hennie, I know what happened to Fuzzy…
“Tell me” he says ( probably thinking here comes Dr Wilde with her nonsense theories.
“My dogs are stoned. They got hold of the cannabis drops that I was giving Hazel. I have three dogs down”.
Hennie:” Ok, just keep them away from the pool, they will sleep it off.” The man was ever so professional but I know that deep down he was cursing me.Fuzzy nearly got airlifted to the vet, and we broke all the rules of the road to get there in time. I got a massive vet bill, and I had to go buy another bottle of cannabis drops for Hazel. To add to my mortified state, my vet told Briony that he was busy darting and sorting out wildlife when I called, and the trailer I had seen had a kudu in the back. Fuzzy had disrupted the vet’s entire afternoon with his shenanigans. Little thief.
The towel incident
My husband is a serious guy. Very serious. He has a no bullshit meter and can detect a story from a mile off. His sense of humor is also very different to mine. I am loud in all aspects of life. Loud when I cry, loud when I laugh, love or just being me. He hides his emotions well and sometimes I have to go digging for them which is very frustrating. On the rare occasion he will show his feelings and whilst it is impressive to see it can also be quite intimidating. Even the dogs pay attention when dad goes into controlled rage mode.
There are certain moments though that I see a little madness enter his eyes.
I am well known for just grabbing the first thing that comes to hand when there is a mess in the house. Lets face it I am no stranger to mess. I have had babies, puppies, kittens, horses and they all shit. The thing is how quickly can you clean up that shit before it becomes a family row or an embarrassed moment with a guest. My philosophy is that I will patch up the secondary mess made by the first mess once I get the first mess sorted out, quickly.
My only indulgence in my otherwise animal driven décor at home is white towels in my bathroom. I love them. They remind me of hotel rooms and waiters and room service so I only have white in all my bathrooms. Having so many dogs has its wonderful moments but you also have to sacrifice a lot. No white bedding, no fluffy carpets ( as they all want to crap on it and lifting poop from a fluffy carpet can be a challenging thing…) nothing really nice but for the white fluffy towels hanging high on rails in the bathroom where no dog can get to them. The luxury of drying yourself in those billowy fluffiness of a muchness makes your day or night.
Occasionally things go a little wrong. One morning I overheard my husband complaining to our daughter:’ There is nothing like coming out of the shower and wiping your clean face on a towel that has been desecrated by your mother’s arse!”
My word…I make a hasty retreat to go and see what the offending towel has to say for itself. Much to my consternation I find the white towel strung out over the side of the bath with the yellowy stain featured on the side like it is a hunting trophy. The reels in my mind start clicking and I recall my actions earlier the morning. Fuzzy came running in from outside, bum skiing on the carpet as if he was trying to extinguish a fire. I picked him up and saw that he had what we would call a “cuddle” of poop stuck on his bottom. Nothing that a piece of toilet paper wouldn’t remove which I duly did and then for good measure I plonked him in my basin and sprayed his bottom down. Now my predicament was a wet dog in hand and no dog towel to dry him so in true Yvette fashion I grabbed one of my white towels and rubbed his bottom dry. Somewhere I must have missed a teeny-weeny spot of bum juice and the towel found it. We got involved in other things and didn’t even give the towel a second thought until… until…
The true end to this story is that Dad does not know that he dried his face with the towel that I used for Fuzzy’s arse. He has said that he would like to read this book before it gets published but I have my doubts that it would happen. There are a few things that are going to be quite a shock to the man. This chapter is one of them….
I have to ask? What would be worse – Fuzzy’s arse or Mom’s arse. That is the question.We leave this just here….
As I write this, Fuzzy is lying at my feet. He is fawn-colored, so there are no gray hairs showing, but I see changes in him. We have both aged. I think he has lost a little bit of hearing because I can now walk right up to him when he is asleep, and he doesn’t hear me.
He rides shotgun in the Goanywherevehicle, sitting on the front seat, like the king he is. The other dogs know their place and don’t compete with him. He is quite a force even in his old age but sometimes he allows Belle access and shares the front passenger seat with her. Only sometimes.
He is the choir master when we sing the happy birthday song. He leads the other dogs, and they howl to their hearts’ content. There are also a few peculiar ways when it comes to food time. He refuses to eat all his food in one sitting, preferring a little morsel when all the other dogs get fed. But his main meal is at night, on our bed just before we put the lights out. I am sure he does it just to show the other dogs how superior he is. He eats every block slowly and with his eyes closed, savoring the food and also the fact that he has a salivating audience. He is a vindictive little bugger, and he makes me laugh.
There are days when Fuzzy decides no dogs are allowed on the bed. He patrols it like a drill sergeant would, with Belle and Aboo adhering to his decree. He doesn’t mind Stinky because Stinky is small and doesn’t challenge him. On these days, Fuzzy just needs a red beret, and then he could be an EFF member dictating to the masses. He has seen so many animals being nurtured and cared for in our home. He has a taste for birds, though, so we keep him away from anything that has feathers.
In 50 days, Keagen and Hannah come home for the Christmas holidays. It has been 468 days (to date) since he has seen them. Fuzzy loves both of them, but he has a soft spot for Hannah. How do you know if your son has chosen the right life partner? You ask your dog.
Who would have thought that little bundle of noise would turn out to be worth his weight in gold providing our entire family with so much enjoyment throughout all these years?He was found discarded in a box on the side of the road as a puppy. The person that found him brought him to the SPCA. Our paths crossed and we never looked back.There is truth in the age old saying of one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Fuzzy surely is the gem in our family crown.
Friday 22 March 2024, Fuzzy got his wings.
He is riding shotgun at the Rainbow Bridge with Grace and all his other homies that have left us.
He is so missed. For something that weighed 6 kg he certainly left a huge hole. Christopher and I have been laughing and crying the whole weekend. We laugh when we remember his antics and cry thereafter.
We buried him next to Grace. The spot under the tree is filling up nicely, soon I am going to have to make a plan. I keep putting out 4 bowls when I feed the dogs and then sadly I remember. Life is hard sometimes and these animals certainly make it better but when they leave this earth its bloody painful.
Such is life. We come and we go. Looking on the bright side I won’t have to buy Lennie and Thomas high ankle boots anymore. The only reason they had to have these boots was that Fuzzy would bite them on the ankles when I spoke to them. It was always a war.
Belle now has the front seat of the Goanywherevehicle to herself, we have a little more space on the bed and there is nobody escaping through the catflap at night and playing patrol-patrol in the garden.
We know when we get them that they are on borrowed time. Angels without wings on earth and then they graduate, get their wings and leave us.
