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I have two dogs. I love them. They are my most loyal friends. To them I rock in every conceivable way. They are the kind of dogs who rule the sofa, climb through windows to go outside (who needs a door) and lie beside me on my yoga mat looking on in incredulity. Shock and horror. Gasp. No, I do have dog boundaries. I don't feel compelled to take them out for dinner and I don't feel guilty about leaving them at home alone. And I let them play outside without a chaperone. Not everyone has boundaries like I have.
John52 had two dogs. He loved them. They were his most loyal friends. To them he rocked in every conceivable way. However, John52 and I differed in the dog boundaries department. John52 took his dogs on his dinner dates. To restaurants. John52 also had a paid dog-sitter for those occasions when it was not feasible for dog accompaniment. Dinner was feasible. Visiting the likes of his advocate was not. John52 would also not allow the dogs out into the garden unaccompanied, the staff had to accompany them if he was not at home. You see, what if they fell in the pool? These dogs actually climbed into the pool when we were swimming so they can swim, just saying.
The third last date John52 and I had was spent at a wonderful farmer's market. We arrived early on a glorious summer's morn for breakfast. A hearty earthy country-style breakfast was in sight. I was excited. I had never visited this market. John52 carried one of the dogs from the car to the market. Sadly, this dog had a medical condition and John52 was afraid any exertion would deal a fatal blow to the said pooch. So he was carried. A lot. Even from the patio to the house. Up the four stairs.
Once inside the enclosure, we headed straight for the foxy coffee stand. Coffee is an important element of the start to my day and John52 knew me well enough at this stage of the game to target that destination. John52 needed the loo so I took the leashes and waited at a table, leashes tied around my wrist, coffee in hand. It was quite a man-magnet having the dogs attached to me. If it was geriatric men that I was after, I would have been in a lucky position. Every old fellow stopped to pet the pups. And to chat, of course. To me.
"What would you like for breakfast?" asked John52 kindly. "I like sweet breakfasts so a muffin or croissant or muesli and yoghurt or such would be lovely!" I replied. We wandered about the market. John52 and the dogs ahead. Me in tow.
We stopped at the mushroom stand. I held the leashes. John52 ordered about R500 worth of exotic mushrooms. And two braai'd mushroom kebabs. He passed me one. "Oh, shall I hold this for you?" I asked. "No, its for you" he said. "Oh, thanks" I said on autopilot wondering if I had inadvertently ordered a mushroom kebab. I like mushrooms. But, in the morning? I don't think so. But I am obedient and obliging and I ate my kebab.
I was to carry the big bag of mushrooms as John52 had the dogs. We also picked up some other bits 'n bobs along the way which I held as John52 had the dogs. Like fresh vegetables, enough to feed a family of hungry Somalians. And bottles of strange looking things, like artichokes in mint and turnips in sage. Bottles can be heavy to carry. I was running out of shoulder space and hands. And strength.
Next we stopped at the raw juice stand. John52 ordered four shots of singularly disgusting brightly coloured raw juice. I am sure it is very healthy, but I am sorry, I will stick to vitamins in a bottle for now. "Go on, drink up!" said John52. "Drink up what?" I replied. The juice he had ordered appeared to be for me, too. So drink up I did. Ever-obliging and ever-obedient. A shot of orange and a shot of green. I was sweet to the stall owner and enquired about my beverages with interest, knowing full well that I would not be purchasing any of her liquid vitamins anytime soon. John52 bought a lot of juice. It was heavy to carry, too.
"Do you want a chicken kebab?" John52 asked me as we continued our stroll. "They are from the Greek stall. You love Greek food." Indeed I do. But a chicken kebab was not what I was after at 9am. "Thanks, but I am looking for something sweet like a muffin or croissant or muesli and yoghurt or such" I seemed to be repeating myself. "Take the dogs and go and find a shady spot outside to sit down. It must be a shady spot. For the dogs." So, armed with the various bottles, vegetables, juices and whatnot I took the leashes and headed outside.
A long quarter of an hour later John52 bounces out with a paper plate filled to the rim with bits of chicken. "That's a funny looking kebab!" I comment. "It is not a kebab. It is chicken for the dogs. Now, break off small bits, no bigger than a centimetre, and feed it to the dogs bit by bit, taking turns." Off John52 skipped back to the Greek stall. I looked at the plate of chicken. And the droopy eyes of the dogs. And broke off centimetre-sized bits and fed such one by one by one by one by ... to the very happy dogs. "Why did you give them so much?" John52 exclaimed in horror once he returned with the chicken kebabs (Greek ones). "They will be sick!" I did not respond. I looked at John52. I gave him a look I have mastered over the past 19 years. I learned it from my firstborn. It is called "the f*ck you look".
On our way out we bought just about all the flowers the flower seller had on hand. Buckets and buckets and buckets of flowers. The flower man had to lend a hand. I had no hands left. And John52 had to carry the dog with a medical condition.
John52 and the flower man battled to fit the buckets in the back of the car. I intervened. They fitted. Obviously. We hopped in the car. The pup with the medical condition was at my feet. I had to feel his nose every kilometre or less to determine if he was cool enough. "Yes. He is cool enough. The air conditioner is on and my feet are frozen." John52 was fretting. I suggested he stop the car and come around to my side and check the dog's nose for himself. He did. The dog was cool enough.
I had a muffin later that day whilst watching my third born play water polo. And a croissant when I watched my son play cricket. And coffee. Of course.