Brett Davidson
LIFESTYLE
At 5pm, Jo Stein heads for De Waal Park, with her dog, Lola – a cute cross- Staffie-Jack Russell. “Lola likes the park best,” she says. “More than the beach, more than the mountain. This is where all her friends are.”
The park, nestled on the lower slopes of Table Mountain, is a few blocks in size. In the evenings it starts filling up with dogs and their two-legged friends.
They form a distinct subculture. There’s the doggy jargon: names of species, types of pedigree and the like. There’s a set of norms: don’t worry too much about mud or poo, but no fighting. The owner of an aggressive dog will be snubbed. There’s also a clear “in” and “out” group: very simply, standing on four legs is good; crawling on legs and arms is bad.
The story’s like this: A few years ago, the park was a crime-ridden no-go zone. Slowly, the dog owners claimed it back, their regular presence scaring away the junkies and criminals. But now that it’s safe, the baby owners come here too, and they’ve complained that the dogs are a health risk for their kids.
The dog people resent this, and claim a two-fold right to the park. Not only did they make it safe in the first place, but De Waal himself bequeathed the park to dogs.
It’s suspected the baby people are behind some disturbing new developments: there’s a notice up, renaming the place Community Park, and poop-scoops are now compulsory.
One of the park’s “historians” is Penny Pistorius, who belongs to a handsome French poodle named Tosh. Pistorius explains how the park had fallen into neglect because the local council had no money for maintenance. A group of dog owners cleaned up, fixed things and waterproofed the fountain, which dates back to the 1890s. They still organise work parties.
While the dogs sniff each other’s bums, the owners discuss the land-grabs in Zimbabwe, or confide more personal matters. “It’s like a big informal group therapy session,” says Stein. “Everyone unwinds and shares their problems.” Even so, most of those here know each other by the names of their dogs. “Oh, there’s Lola’s mum”, or “Leroy’s owner says .”
“Dogs are a Zen thing,” says journalist and comedian, Marianne Tham, the “mother” of a disabled dachshund. She observes that “dogs just aren’t called Fido anymore. It’s Leonard, Simon or Colleen.”
She suddenly points ahead. “See that guy? He’s the mad Zairian.” He has a sleeping bag in the colours of the South African flag. Sometimes he wraps himself up in it, holds Long Walk to Freedom as if it were the Bible, and preaches loudly in Lingala. “And his sense of personal space is completely different from the middle-class whites who’re walking their dogs. Sometimes he gets really close to talk, and as they edge slowly backwards he keeps moving in.”
There are exasperated sighs at the sight of “the Skateboarder”. He’s a fortysomething, former hippie who turns up faithfully each evening, and tries to ramp over a plastic crate. Infuriatingly, he never ever makes any progress. He falls off every time, day after day, week after week, year after year. “It’s a Zen thing,” says Stein.
Among the other regulars there is a psychology professor and an anaesthetist who worked on Chris Barnard’s original heart transplant team. The manager of the cable car is a dog person too, and sometimes he organises mountain trips for the dogs and their humans.
One of the park’s stalwarts is Jannie, who runs a dog crche for working “parents”. She can be seen twice a day, walking ahead of her 15-odd charges, like the Pied Piper.
When it’s time to go, Stein decides she’s missed this daily get-together. Like a prodigal churchgoer she promises to mend her ways: “I’m going to start coming again, guys.” As she walks from the park with Lola reluctantly at her heels, the skateboarder takes another tumble.