Gin - On The Rocks...

My acute obsession with alcohol began when I was thirteen years old but my inability to drink it has since gotten in my way of fulfilling my dreams of getting dead drunk before I turned nineteen. You see, I can’t stand the smell or the thought of a hangover. So I decided I’d get myself a dog – not just any dog… A dog named Gin.

So when my neighbour announced (pink with pride and happiness) that her five year old Fruity (a lhasa-labrador mix) and seven year old Leo (an alsatian-labrador mix) had become proud parents to a litter of nine puppies, I jumped at the chance, in spite of dire warnings from my father.

The litter, at my first glance of them, were gorgeous, plump sausages (with tails that wagged so fast that they made you dizzy) of white, brown, black and chocolate – all fast asleep, save one. The little bitch (no pun intended) was the only one whose otherwise floppy ears were standing up – alert, and her kohl lined eyes seemed to be assessing this strange creature that was staring at her with her head very prettily cocked to one side. Even at two and a half weeks old, she had a presence.

When we brought Gin home for the first time, she was wrapped up in a white blanket to shield her against the rain. When I tried to put her down, she clung to my sweater, digging her tiny paws into my collarbone and burying her red, wet and very cold nose into my neck. That was the closest I ever came to what a mother felt like when she held her child for the first time…

Gin is four years old now. She has no memory of the rigorous hours spent by papa and me to train her. “Heel” makes her snap at the newspaper guy’s ankles because once the newspaper has been rolled up; it is a mean disciplining instrument. “No” makes her jump up onto the bed and settle herself quite comfortably on the pillows (not near them - on them). “Shake hands” makes her look up at us as if we had gone bonkers and were talking gibberish to her. “Vegetarian” is something she doesn’t eat. And the “air conditioner” is something she won’t get into the car without it being switched on.

For all of us, it has come as a bit of a shock to find that the daily menu seems to revolve around the demands of a ball of fur that can’t even give itself a bath (and has an acute fear of water) and though we are very proud of her (for no particular reason), she keeps us entertained and on our toes…

Just yesterday, she managed to grab hold of my wallet from my bed side table (because she taught herself how to open doors) and a rather sharp smack on her flank deterred her from ripping it, and its contents to pieces. A few days before that she had ripped up my dad’s university certificate to such fine shreds that a chef would have been proud… Luckily for him, it was just a colour copy. But the best was when she managed to steal a boiled potato from the kitchen and had my 75+ year old granny running after her…

So this post goes out to the biggest thorn in all our sides… For her fourth birthday.

I just wanted you to know, that even though you behave like a spoilt little brat, we love you for all the laughs and all the ruined slippers and shoes… In fact, we don't even remember how peaceful life was before you came along. Love you loads!