Memorable moments: The bed-wetting bandit

A few years back, my housemates Matt and Sharmista asked if they could get a puppy. In a moment of spectacular lapse in judgment, I said yes. It is a decision I ended up regretting with every fiber of my being.

Enter Milly: a pug-spaniel cross who looked deceivingly sweet but was, in reality, a portable source of immense psychological stress.

Our relationship got off to a literal "crash" start. During her first week, Matt asked if I’d mind her for a moment. I left her downstairs to take a quick shower, only to be interrupted by a haunting howl and a sickening thud. Milly had attempted to scale the stairs, slipped through the gaps between the steps, and plummeted onto the hardwood floor below. I rushed her to the vet, my heart hammering against my ribs, convinced I’d presided over a tragedy. Thankfully, she was fine, but my nervous system was not.

A few weeks later, she escalated her campaign by sneaking into my room and peeing on my bed. Not just once, but several times. I was far from impressed, and Mack—the undisputed Lord of the Manor—found her high-spirited antics utterly "pesky."

The chaos of the household, combined with other factors, eventually led my doctor to prescribe me some Xanax for anxiety. One afternoon, I made the fatal mistake of leaving my bedroom door ajar. I returned to find a scene that looked like a canine rockstar's final hotel room: Milly was sprawled on my bed, surrounded by an open bottle and pills scattered across the linens.

For the second time in a matter of months, I was racing a "horror of a dog" to the vet to have her stomach pumped.

I have never felt a sense of relief quite like the day Matt, Sharmista, and their pharmacological-adventurer of a dog finally moved out. Mack and I watched them go, finally reclaiming our quiet sanctuary.

And just like that, peace returned.

Mack resumed his rightful throne, I resumed my sanity, and somewhere out there, Milly continued her experimental research into pharmaceuticals—now, thankfully, under someone else’s supervision.

Memorable moments: Lord Muck of the Manor

A short while after Ally and I separated, an old friend moved into the spare room. He was a steady presence, paid his rent on time, and I appreciated the extra income. But as it turned out, he wasn’t just paying rent; he was also conducting a six-month sociological study on the power dynamics of my household.

One afternoon, he handed me a book. The title was blunt: "What to Do When Your Dog is the Alpha Male in Your Relationship."

I flipped it over and saw a quote by Martha Scott that felt like a personal attack: "Don’t make the mistake of treating your dogs like humans, or they’ll treat you like dogs."

I was, to put it mildly, a little affronted. Why on earth would he buy me such a thing? Mack and I were perfect equals! We shared a life, a vibe, and a mutual respect. I tossed the book onto my shelf in a huff, refusing to give it the satisfaction of a single turned page.

A few weeks later, I finished brushing my teeth and walked into my bedroom, ready for a peaceful night’s sleep. I stopped dead in the doorway. There was Mack, positioned exactly where my head was supposed to go. He wasn't just lying there; he was perched atop my pillow like "Lord Muck," surveying the room with a haughty, regal air that suggested I was merely a guest in his executive suite.

He didn't move. He didn't wag. He just looked at me as if to say, "I believe your spot is at the foot of the bed tonight, human."

I stood there staring at his "proportional" ego and realized the truth. I slowly backed out of the room, walked over to the bookshelf, and pulled down the manual. It turns out that when you treat a Zen Master like a king for long enough, he eventually decides he needs a throne—and in my house, that throne was a standard-sized pillow.

Memorable moments: The dog-flap dilemma

Every morning, I would head out early to my job as an English teacher, leaving Mack comfortably ensconced in the warmth of my bed. Our daily hand-over ritual was clockwork: around 9:00 AM, Liza would arrive, knock on the door, and belt out her signature summons: "Mack, Mack, Mack, Macketty Mack Mack!"

Usually, this triggered a joyful, high-speed sprint as Mack thundered down the stairs and burst through the dog flap for a blissful reunion. But one morning, the wind conspired against the routine and blew my bedroom door shut.

When Liza arrived and gave the call, Mack found himself a prisoner. He went from "Zen Master" to "Houdini in a panic" instantly, barking with a frantic intensity that could be heard down the street. Liza, hearing the desperation, immediately assumed the worst. Mack was injured. Mack was dying. Mack had somehow succumbed to the "sucker" appendix genes of the Myburgh line.

In a state of total maternal panic, she tried my mobile, but I was in the middle of a lesson with my phone switched off. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Liza decided the only way into the fortress was through the dog flap.

Now, Liza is not a large woman, but she isn't exactly "canine-proportioned" either. She dropped to her hands and knees and committed to the entry. She managed to get her head and shoulders through the portal before the laws of physics intervened. She was stuck—wedged firmly in the doorframe, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.

It was at this exact moment that my housemate arrived home. He walked up the path to find a pair of legs and a bottom waving in the air, while the rest of Liza was inside the house, still gamely yelling, "Mack! Mack! Mack!" into the hallway. All the while, the "victim" continued his operatic barking from the safety of the upstairs bedroom.

It takes a special kind of person to prioritize a barking dog over the basic laws of physics and personal decorum. Liza didn't just want to save Mack; she was willing to become a permanent part of the house’s infrastructure to do it. My housemate’s arrival was the only thing that saved her from a very long morning of "Macketty Mack-ing" into the carpet. After that, we decided that a spare key was a much more "proportional" solution than Liza attempting to shrink herself to the size of a spaniel.

My gorgeous baby possums

I got some wonderful photos of my baby possums. The very next day they left for another nest. So lucky to get these as a beautiful memory of a very special experience. It was such a priviledge to watch them grow up on my balcony. Hopefully mum will come back next year. In the meantime, another young possum has moved in. He is living inside the wooden frame that covers my air conditioning unit. 

Memorable moments: The remote betrayal

During my university years, my Cape Town housemate Oliver and I shared Willow Road with Andre. To us, Andre was ancient—at least thirty-five—and he spent his post-divorce life cycling through girlfriends with the speed of a professional sprinter. He was determined to be the one doing the dumping, often juggling three oblivious women at once.

Naturally, Oliver (a serial prankster) and I decided it was time to humble him.

Oliver told Andre he’d acquired a "juicy" adult video that had to be seen to be believed. Andre, ever the connoisseur, was immediately intrigued. Oliver started the film, handed Andre the remote, and gave a stern warning: "Don't fast-forward, or you'll miss the best part."

Oliver then "slipped away" to the bathroom, and I retreated to the kitchen to "make coffee."

Right on cue, Oliver’s sister and her friend used a spare key to barge into the lounge. Panic-stricken, Andre hammered the "Stop" button. Nothing happened. He hammered it again. Still nothing. We had, of course, removed the batteries.

In a desperate, last-ditch effort to save his reputation, Andre launched himself over the coffee table like a heat-seeking missile. That is exactly how the girls found him: sprawled on his stomach, frantically stabbing at the TV’s manual buttons, while a symphony of very loud, very explicit "adult antics" played out directly above his head.

Andre may have been a master at juggling girlfriends, but he was no match for a TV that refused to take orders.

Memorable moments: The midnight hero of Willow Road

Life at my house on Willow Road was rarely quiet, but one night, the silence was shattered by a series of high-pitched, blood-curdling female screams.

Convinced a violent crime was unfolding right on our doorstep, my "hero" instincts kicked into overdrive. I bolted from my bed and sprinted down the corridor, fueled by pure adrenaline. I burst through the front door and into the night air, ready to confront the attacker—only to realize two things simultaneously:

First, the "victim" wasn’t being attacked; she was in Andre’s outside room, and she was having a spectacularly good time.

Second, in my rush to save a life, I had completely forgotten to put on any clothes.

I retreated in a state of naked humiliation, but the vocal performance continued in an impressive ebb and flow well into the early morning. I eventually managed to fall asleep, though my "heroic" ego was severely bruised.

The next morning, Andre sauntered into the kitchen with the grin of a man who had won the lottery.

"My god, Graeme," he beamed. "I’ve found the girl for you! We met at a bar and had some great fun last night, but I’m moving on today. I’ll put in a good word; you’ll stand a very good chance."

I looked at him, my midnight sprint still fresh in my mind. "No thanks," I said firmly. "First of all, I don’t want to catch anything. Second, I like to get to know a girl before I shag her. And thirdly... what if she doesn't scream for me?"

I think I’ll stick to saving people who actually want to be rescued—and preferably while wearing trousers.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road welcome

When Oliver moved into my home at Willow Road in Cape Town, I was on high alert. He was a friend’s brother and a notorious prankster, so I knew I had to establish dominance early. I helped him settle in, offered a warm welcome, and retreated to my room with a simple: "Shout if you need anything."

Half an hour later, there was a frantic knock on my door. Oliver looked genuinely shaken. "Oh my God," he stammered, "there is a huge spider in the bathroom!"

I followed him in, bracing myself. I’ve lived in Cape Town a long time, but I have never seen a spider like this. It was massive—easily the size of a small rat—clinging to the wall like it owned the mortgage.

My internal instinct was to scream and move to a different continent, but I managed to keep my face completely deadpan. I looked at the beast, then back at Oliver with a shrug.

"Oh, Oliver," I said casually, "that’s actually a really small one for this house. We tend to leave the little ones be. But look, if you see its daddy, let me know and I’ll help you move it."

The look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face was the greatest housewarming gift I could have asked for.

Memorable moments: A paste-y complexion

After a lifetime of skin neglect, I decided it was time to embrace a "new me." I bought a haul of all-natural products and committed to a daily moisturizing regimen. Being a beginner, I figured more was better.

Early one morning, still navigating the bathroom in a sleep-deprived fog, I squeezed out a heroic amount of cream and began vigorously massaging it into my face. I rubbed and I waited for the "glow."

When I finally looked in the mirror, I didn't see a rejuvenated man. I saw a frightful, opaque sea of white. My face looked less like it had been moisturized and more like it had been professionally plastered.

I squinted at the tube on the counter. It wasn't the high-end botanical lotion. It was the brand-new, all-natural toothpaste I’d bought the day before.

I may still have the wrinkles, but at least my forehead is now 99% protected against cavities.

Memorable moments: The searing truth

I had just finished scrubbing my balcony with a cleaning agent so potent it probably required a permit. Naturally, when my housemate Sharmista mentioned she’d left a bowl of popcorn for me in the kitchen, I dove in with both hands—completely forgetting to wash them first.

One handful later, my mouth was an inferno.

A searing, localized burn spread across my tongue. My heart hammered. I’ve done it, I thought. I’ve seasoned my snack with industrial toxins. I bolted for the bathroom, frantically rinsing my mouth over and over, bracing for the inevitable call to Poison Control and a very embarrassing hospital admission.

Eventually, the "chemical" fire subsided. I crawled into bed, relieved to have survived my own negligence, though certain I’d scorched my internal organs.

The next morning, I bumped into Sharmista in the kitchen.

"Did you enjoy the chili popcorn I made?" she asked with a grin. "That spice really gives it a kick, doesn't it?"

What a cutie!

The three baby possums are starting to climb confidently now. Soon it will be time to leave the nest.

 

My possums are growing up fast

They are so gorgeous. I'm in love with my little family.

It was pouring with rain so I put up an umbrella!

Possum with 2 babies nesting on my balcony

 I couldn't be more thrilled!  They are so gorgeous.

One of the babies peeking out

As you can see, they are nesting in my pot plant!

Beautiful possums on my balcony

 I woke up to find two adult possums and a baby lazing on my balcony.

Painted rocks on my balcony

When I was in Cape Town, I bought some rocks from Mikaela, a very talented friend of Jo's,  to add to my collection on my balcony. Aren't they beautiful!
 

Mikaela, the artist

The Boting family home

Jo and Antony's beautiful home where I stay when I visit South Africa.

Mum and Mike's home at Woodside Village

 Lots of lovely artefacts and paintings make it into a beautiful home.