A Tale of Two Dogs
Rose Zwi

I was about six years old when my father brought Ruby home. He had found the whimpering pup in the lane behind his shop, starving, rheumy-eyed. Before my mother could say dog’s mess, I had installed him in the laundry, on my doll’s blanket. The stiff, expressionless kewpie doll was no competition for the warm, brown-eyed pup who looked at me with trusting, soulful eyes.
Ruby had the long body and short, bowed legs of a Dachshund, and the head of a Beagle. As a puppy he tripped over his own ears. Stupid dog, was the family verdict. I knew better. When the lights went out, and everyone was asleep, Ruby crept quietly into my room, and slept at my feet till dawn.
We were inseparable. He ran with me through the veld; sat on the pavement while I skipped with my friends; waited at the gate for my return from school. After my brother was born and I lost my place at the heart of the family, I clung to Ruby more fiercely than ever. He too had been abandoned, and thrust into a cruel, uncaring world.
Dogs are dirty, my mother said as she brushed Ruby’s hair off the couch or carpet; the baby will get asthma or ringworm. I haven’t got asthma or ringworm, I argued. And he sleeps on my bed every night, I whispered to myself. Babies are different, my mother said. I became aware of whispered conversations, during which Ruby’s name was mentioned. But I did not suspect treachery, not even when I saw my mother talking earnestly to the man who sold live chickens in wire mesh cages from the back of his cart.
One afternoon, on my way from school, about a block from home, I recognised Ruby’s agitated bark. My heart iced over and I began to run. As I turned the corner, the chicken man pulled away from our house, all his cages empty. Except one.
I was inconsolable. Promises of another dog drew fresh floods of tears. I don’t remember how long my grief lasted, nor indeed whether I fully regained my trust in people. For a long time I remained wary of giving unconditional love again. Until I got Spike, and he wasn’t even ‘my’ dog.
After our children were born, we had a succession of much loved cats and dogs, some of whom lived to a reasonable age. Others were lost to traffic or disease. After the death of Satan, a gentle Alsatian who had been a reject from a school for guard dogs,
I said, no more dogs. He had lived for fourteen years, but in his declining years, he had suffered from a degenerative hip disease which almost crippled him.
Satan hadn’t been dead two months, when my daughter requested a dog for her birthday. An Alsatian, she specified, like Satan. Only if you all take responsibility for walking, bathing and feeding him, I said. All three children promised, and they probably meant it at the time.
We found an advertisement in the newspaper for four Alsatian pups with an impressive pedigree, but no guarantee against hip disease. Our choice was unanimous: the cheeky pup with floppy ears who approached us boldly, grabbed my handbag, and ran off with it. A robber baron. To deflate pretensions to canine aristocracy, we called him Spike.
He was a most egalitarian dog. His best friend was our domestic help’s baby, Michael, who was born a few months earlier. Spike and Michael crawled and ran all over the house, squealing and yapping with delight in one another’s company. Spike even allowed Michael to eat dog biscuits out of his dish, the equivalent, perhaps, of breaking bread with friends. When they were older, they followed Michael’s mother, Joyce, to the shops. Don’t worry, Michael would tell black people who associate Alsatians with the police, Spike’s a good dog. He doesn’t bite black people.
All this happened in South Africa, during the worst years of the apartheid era. Because schools in the cities were closed to black children, Michael went to a church school in the country, where the dormitories smelled of urine, and meals were served out of aluminium tubs. He lost his English accent — chech, he said, not church — was badly taught, and consequently did not do well at school. He spent every holiday at our house with his mother, and maintained his friendship with Spike.
While Michael was away at school, Spike accompanied me to my study every morning. He lay down near the desk, resting his chin between his paws. Spike, I would say occasionally, what’s a better word for . . . ? He’d flick his tail, indicating in no uncertain terms that I should stop fooling around and get on with my work. Sometimes we’d sing. I’d do a melodious howl, he’d repeat something very near it, and soon we’d be harmonising. At other times I’d say, don’t look so solemn — he had slanted markings above his eyes which gave him a whimsical look — smile! He’d roll on to his back, and open his mouth in a wide grin. He was a loving, much loved dog.
Spike died when he was twelve years old. Like Satan, he suffered from that painful hip disease. He grew weaker and weaker, and eventually could not climb down the stairs to my study. When Michael came home during school holidays at the end of the year, Spike greeted him joyously, but could no longer follow him across the field to the shop. Early one morning, several days after his return, Michael found him stretched out on his blanket in the laundry, dead. He wept inconsolably as we buried Spike under a deodar at the far end of the garden.
Seven years later it was we who wept at Michael’s funeral. He had been arrested by the police one night for an unspecified ‘crime’ by the police. They beat him up, locked him into the boot of the police car, and he was dead on arrival at the police station.

Rose Zwi was born in Mexico, lived in London and Israel but spent most of her life in South Africa. She has lived in Australia since 1988. Author of five novels, she has won several prizes for her work, including the 1994 Human Rights Award for her novel Safe Houses and the 1982 Olive Schreiner Award for Another Year in Africa.  Her latest book is a collection of short stories, Speak the Truth, Laughing, and it was shortlisted in the Steele Rudd Award. Her memoir, Last Walk in Naryshkin Park was published in Australia in 1997 where it was shortlisted in the biennial NSW Premier’s General History Award, in 1999 and when it was published in Chinese by Chongqing Publishing it received the Asia Pacific Publishers’ Association Award.

From: A Girl’s Best Friend: The Meaning of Dogs in Women’s Lives
Eds. Jan Fook and Renate Klein
pp 186-187

Website: http://www.spinifexpress.com.au