Musings

Took Orwell to the vet to check the leg. They put him under; they took x-rays. I went to fetch him. As I drove I fretted if the dog would be in a cast. Did they find a thorn or a quill in the joint? Did it take invasive surgery?

'Your dog has a sever double ear infection,' the vet said.

My face expressed my shock.

'Didn't you notice your dog scratching?' the vet asked.

I decided to keep my reply to such a comment to myself. Instead I inquired about the leg.

'Oh, we'll get to that in a moment. But first you need to understand...'

The randomness of this event sums of my present life.

Yes, the dog is healing from a broken leg, an injury that is not as old as supposed. He was probably run over before the SPCA scooped him up. But the advice at this time is only to wait and see over the next six months. He should be as fine as one can be after such an injury if we leave it alone.

The ear infection bit is unrelated to being run over. Nor did it take knocking the dog out and an x-ray to detect it. Yet it is the more pressing concern. I sincerely doubt I'd have noticed something of this nature was amiss till much, much later.

In my younger years I had many answers to the question, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' I had my paleontology phase, the astronaut, marine biologist - all complete with my very young self delving into complicated books on the subjects. I wanted to become a writer, a teacher, a coach, a rancher, a professor and an attorney. There was that time I toyed with becoming a midwife, leading life in PR. And writing.

Never once in my 34 years of life have I ever once professed any interest in becoming a veterinarian. Yet here I am sticking long tube thing into each of my revoltingly infected dog's ears in order to squirt in the prescribed meds. Every morning.

Life laughs at you if you don't keep tabs on it.

Or photographs.

People randomly take photographs of myself and children. For many people I know this is upsetting. While I do not encourage it, I tend not to mind. My children are here, in my physical presence. Their images are not the same as them. So instead of anger these encounters leave me bemused. Or find myself contemplating the courage, or lack of social boundary, that allows somebody to simply take a photograph, or more boldly come up to us and ask.

Sometimes a reason is given, or readily apparent. Such as the time I was stopped in Heathrow airport with Thing 2 strapped to my back. The man was a doctor on a way to a conference. He was intrigued by the method. Impressed with how it calmed the child. He wanted to show his wife. They did not have children yet.

Or the times people photograph my children's eyes, especially my son's. His large wide eyes are an unusual hazel made up of various hues of brown and gold.

Walking with Orwell last week we were stopped by a mother and son on holiday. The mother wanted her photograph with Orwell and I. She insisted the dog must sit at my right. This took a moment to convey to the beast, since he is trained to be at my left.

As way of explanation she said, 'I am from India.'

I wonder what her family will think of such a photograph. She in her modest yet colourful sari, I in a ratty jean shorts and faded t-shirt, tossed over an even older swimsuit.

Where do these photographs go? Is it art? Just admiration? A thing some tourists do? 'This is what real South Africans look like?'

Sometimes the intention of use is not benign. I once discovered my son's image being used in advert. This time I tracked the person down and voiced my objection.

But the rest of them? What compels people to capture other people's moments? Is it akin to writers trying to capture life on a page?

Yesterday we were at the beach. My son was playing in the waves. He was absorbed, worries temporarily set aside, pure joy radiating from his body and face. I regretted not having my camera. Another wave came, and his laughter faintly reached my ears. Then I saw them: two girls, tourists, their strides slowing, expensive cameras around their necks. They stopped and raised their lenses. They did it exactly as I would have done, moving around him at angles that left him oblivious that his personal joy was on public display. I was touched that they understood that if they encroached or alerted my son to the camera that they would destroy the very event they wished to capture on film.

Their accents drifted past me as they walked away. I couldn't place them. A part of me wanted to ask, 'Could I have a copy?'

I remained where I sat.

 

Comments

[Damaria Senne]

I'm intrigued by the guy who wanted to show his wife the pic of you with baby strapped on your back. i wonder what he said to his wife, or if they ever did have babies and implemented what they learnt from you.

[Lori]

They're like children, aren't they? I'm glad Orwell's infection has been found. I'm sorry you're the one having to treat it (yuck).

[tiah]

Damaria, it does leave one with something to ponder. Lori, there are moments where it does feel like Orwell is a toddler trapped in a large body of canine fluff.

[fred]

lost my comment..just was saying picture taking can be surreal..what is it one is capturing?why for our memories when looking creates a new memory..and on and on..but when i see my grandkids...oh, my..camera time..ha