Mostly Obedient

I’ve always loved dogs. That much is easy to say. But like most things in my life, the story gets messier the longer you hang around.

The first dogs I was ever exposed to were Shushu and Louie—two big standard poodles back in South Africa. I must’ve been four or five. I don’t remember much about them except that they were large and poodle-shaped, which was impressive enough at the time.

When we moved to Mallorca, we brought along Candy—a little Maltese terrier that had originally belonged to Briony. She was going through a divorce, and it just made more sense for us to take the dog. I adored Candy. I’d put her in the plywood box she’d been flown over in, stick it in a dinghy, and row her around the swimming pool. She didn’t protest. Or maybe she did and I just didn’t listen.

Then came Honey. My first proper dog. I must have been eight, maybe younger. She was a pedigreed yellow Labrador retriever, registered with the British Kennel Club. Her name was Girl of Iverhill, daughter of Pride of the Valley and Golden Prince of Rosarina. That sort of thing mattered to me at the time—titles, bloodlines, the nobility of dogs. I thought it was very cool.

Honey became a fixture in my life. A comfort. When we moved back to South Africa, she had to go through quarantine—three months, if I remember right. It was awful. But I’ll never forget the day we got her and Candy back. The joy of seeing them again. The way they lost their minds when they saw us. It’s one of those moments you don’t forget.

Niels had a Labrador too—a male called Wellington. He’d raised him from a pup. Wellington had real character. I loved that dog. Eventually, after a bit of strategic lobbying, I convinced Niels to let Wellington sire a litter. I can’t remember the details, but we arranged a breeding—Wellington and some suitably hormonal Labrador bitch. We got the pick of the litter.

That’s how I got Purdey.

She was a beautiful yellow lab. I named her after the English shotgun I worshipped from afar but never actually owned. From day one, she lived in my room. Her basket sat at the foot of my bed. I trained her myself—took her to field classes at Ernest Ullman Park. She learned to walk to heel, sit, stay, all the good stuff. She was incredibly obedient and loyal. She’d follow me around the garden while I shot at minah birds with my pellet gun.

Eventually, after Niels saw me drop a pigeon in mid-air, he agreed to take me on a proper shoot. The first one, Purdey wasn’t invited. But after that, we started going regularly—guinea fowl shoots in the Free State, down near Harrismith, in the winter.

The first time I brought Purdey along, I made a big deal of how well trained she was. Told everyone she’d retrieve like a pro. And in fairness, she’d done it with dummies a hundred times. I was confident. Way too confident.

We were walking a line through the winter mealie fields—stealthy, controlled, everyone watching the flock of guinea fowl up ahead. Then Purdey saw them. And that was it. She bolted. Full sprint, no hesitation. Straight at the birds. I dropped my shotgun in the dirt and chased after her, screaming. The flock exploded into the air and vanished into the distance. The rest of the shooters were... unimpressed. Purdey was never invited again. 

Still, Purdey was a huge part of my life. She was there through everything—even after I got married. When we lived in Jukskei Park, she was with us. She got cancer eventually. By then, Mikey had been born—there’s so much more to say about that and my marriage, but I’ll save it for another chapter.

We had a holiday coming up. I took Purdey to the vet, thinking it was the responsible thing. Left her there. And while we were away, the vet called—on one of those early, brick-sized mobile phones—and told me she’d died.

It’s a big regret. She deserved more than that. I should’ve delayed the trip. Stayed. Been there. I try not to dwell on it, but that one still gets to me.

Purdey had a litter and we kept one—Holly. She was lovely, but I never trained her the way I trained Purdey. We also had Oscar later on, but I’m getting ahead of myself. That’s already way past the Waverley days.

Back then, there was Wellington, Honey—who came back from New York already old and eventually died of cancer—and Candy, who also died sometime during the Illovo years.

I don’t know if this is a proper chapter or just a string of dog memories. Maybe it’s the Purdey story that gives it shape—the way she bolted into that field like a rocket full of misplaced trust. Or maybe it’s the regret at the end of her life that makes it stick.

Either way, I’ve loved every dog I’ve had. Even the ones that embarrassed me in front of armed strangers.