Unexpected expectations

I THOUGHT I was a good father. We’ve raised two reasonably decent kids and now, in dotage, she’s dragging the family name through the mud. Literally.

Tiggy. The cross-Staffie-cross-Collie-cross-who-knows-what-all.

I’m reminded, as I sit in the vet’s waiting room, of the most recent embarrassment prior to this. I was walking down the hill with the satisfied air of someone who’s stuffed himself with great food and drink, and has enough hours left on a lazy summer evening to carbo-load on even greater TV.

I spotted her in the neighbour’s yard. They (the neighbours) were opening the door for guests and this big discussion ensued about Tiggy. Understand, this is Rondebosch, a pretty decent part of the city. The neighbours, whom I’d not yet taken time to get to know, are likely to be professional types or academics, certainly animal lovers, activists even.

And there she was trying to duck out of their front door with a child’s toy in her mouth. They knew her name – and ours – because, having done what we believed was the right thing for conscientious parents to do, she has those personal details on her collar.

Apparently, according to the snippets of conversation I gleaned as I hovered at their gate, Tiggy was stealing toys, their dog’s and their child’s.

I knew it was true, she having gone through a period of collecting all our daughter’s toys with eyes – dolls and stuffed bears and other cuddly creatures – and hiding them under the bed. She had issues then about toys with eyes, but I had hoped lots of caring had helped her deal with things. Clearly not.

I knew what the neighbours were thinking. Irresponsible owner, that’s why the poor dog comes into their house and steals things.

All thoughts of stepping forward gallantly and claiming her vanished from my mind. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow my satiated butt.

But that bit of embarrassment pales into insignificance now, as I sit here with my 10-year- old cross-Staffie-whatever, knowing the charge of responsible ownership is about to be re-visited.

It started with the sickening realisation a couple of days ago that my girls – the one with issues and Molly, the beautiful Alsatian – were struggling up the hill on our afternoon walk.

Usually, they would drag me up to the field of birds, the one not wanting to be a nose-length behind the other. But, this time, there was Tiggy huffing and puffing like she’d already chased the hadedas for a full hour. And Molly now dawdling just within nudging distance of her, apparently having given up the desire to get ahead of her (it’s a dog thing).

Eyes wide open now, I noticed Tiggy was a little bit rounder than before, even though she had been off her food. It called for a visit to the vet.

“Why is the dog here?” asks the receptionist from her desk across the room.

“I think she’s pregnant,” I say quietly under my breath, the shame almost overwhelming me.

“Sorry, I can’t hear you – why?”

“She’s pregnant,” I mumble again.

“Huh?”

“She’s pregnant,” I shout, almost adding “the bad slut bitch is pregnant and are you happy now that the whole world knows this and thinks me irresponsible even though it’s not my fault she got herself knocked up?”.

And the mutt looks up at me in that tentative way she has when she’s not sure if she’s the most gorgeous, most loved dog in the world.

It takes the vet about two ticks to confirm that the little tramp is packing, but not before he’s wrung out of me that I neither know which hound did the deed or when and where it happened.

I try a bit of humour: “It’s a little bit unexpected – her being expectant.” His response is more of a grimace than a laugh.

And my feeble “I thought we’d zipped her up years ago” does little to exonerate me.
He’s giving me a look that says he suspects I’ve been a delinquent parent and that he really feels sorry for her. Damn this dog.

Much later, Tiggy crawls back from another sortie outside – I have to fix the fence between us and the back neighbours to avoid another oops.

I imagine her this time running through the neighbourhood, sniffing at lampposts and house gates, for a hint of the brute who forced himself on her, who shamed her in her old age.

Or maybe she doesn’t feel shamed. Maybe she’s happy to have done what dogs do.

Maybe it’s we humans who have to deal with embarrassment and humiliation and shame, who have to take responsibility for unexpected expectations. And rightly so.