As the worm turns…

CHRIS BENNETT has been mulling over things canine.

SOME months ago, while staying with friends in Cape Town, I was introduced to a collection of African violets, which one of my friends had nurtured for many years. I had seen them many times before, but had never noticed them.

This time was, for reasons I shall doubtless never know, different.

When the time came to leave and start out on the long drive home my friend pressed into my hands an old plastic ice-cream box. It contained three small plastic plant pots, which, in turn, contained three small (but not plastic) plants. They were African violets.

It has always been a tendency of mine to give names to anything with which I develop a good working relationship, be it a person (who usually comes already supplied with a name), my car (Mildred), my last dog (Maisie Wiggins) or three A. violets (Elizabeth, Margaret and Rose).

Having been assured that they would not mind travelling 1 800 kilometres in the back of a small blue car, I set off.

That was April. Now, in July and on the cusp of spring, more or less given that in this climate it is difficult to tell, they sit smiling on my kitchen windowsill, where I work. I work in the kitchen, not on the windowsill.

The plants were given to me by a friend who had known the late MW for a considerable time. When MW died in June last year I thought there would be no more dogs; my friend suggested talking to the A. violets, but their reaction times leave something to be desired. Six weeks is a long time for a yes or no.

Then other things began to happen. I was thinking more and more of the next dog. I hadn’t the faintest idea what it would be or from whence it would come, but I was sure that when the time and circumstances were right, the dog would find me.

Contemplating the circumstances I realised that a fair amount of fence mending, literally, would be in order to contain the newcomer. Having had the fences mended on my behalf I then realised that my cottage has no lawn. Little girl dogs like to wee on lawn. And who am I to argue?

My cottage has, or at that stage, had, more than its share of hideous concrete. The fence mender, again on my behalf, attacked the concrete, which seemed to be about fifty centimetres thick, with gusto, while I repaired to the local pub to watch the football. I never watch football but it beats watching your yard being wrecked. And there is beer.

When the dust settled I prevailed on the charming tenant of my former home and had removed (on my behalf) a large chunk of his LM lawn; he was remarkably understanding. The sods were transported, in the boot of the aforesaid small blue car, to my cottage where they were welcomed by a ready made bed containing lots of compost and something with worm eggs in it. The mind wriggles.

The lawn looked lovely and had softened the aspect of my cottage. But something seemed to be missing. So I planted a tall iceberg rose in the middle, for the convenience of any gentlemen callers who might visit my new dog.

All I need now is the dog; and that, in the fullness of time, will happen.