His Master's Voice

Dear Mr Duke

I am hoping they get LitNet up in heaven. For if you are hearing this it means that your story has made it on to the webpages of LitNet! And I am not sure if dogs can see photographs, or if the angels have cleared your cataract-afflicted eyes, but the photograph accompanying your story is of a dog listening to an old wind-up gramophone – you know those large things that used to play music in that shop in Pilgrim’s Rest. (The town with the Golden Labrador on the red stoep?) It looks just like that large funnel the vet placed around your neck to stop you scratching your stitches after the … (Well, it’s a happy day today so let’s not dwell on bad memories, my little fat man.)

You know Duke, I always thought you were the most literary dog in South Africa, so I am hoping you will understand the symbolism of the title. Yes, there will be some who will argue that Sir Percy FitzPatrick’s Jock of the Bushveld is the most  literary dog in South Africa. But you tell me. Did Jock ever travel with a carload of books to start Booktown Richmond?  Did Jock visit the farm where Olive Schreiner wrote The Story of an African Farm? Did Jock visit Breyten Breytenbach’s house, Grevilleas, and lift his leg against the tree from which the house gets its name? Did Jock ever sit in on (okay, snore through!) numerous talks at literary festivals? I think not! You, my boy, are the most literary dog in South Africa. Why, the real Jock never made it to the big screen. You at least were on Kwela and kykNET. Maybe they will even get Desmond Tutu to do your voice if some day they make a movie about you!

Duke, I hope you are not snoring again, my ol’ mutt? I need to explain the symbolism of the dog and gramophone to you. It is based on a famous painting known as His Masters Voice. It was used by the inventors of the gramophone to market their wonderful invention. It was painted by a painter from Liverpool, Francis Barraud, who had a brother named Mark.  Sometime in the late 1800s, after Mark died, Francis inherited what is known as a cylinder phonograph recording of Mark’s voice. And most importantly, he inherited Mark’s dog, a fox terrier named Nipper. Francis observed that whenever he played the recordings of his dead brother’s voice, the dog would run over to the phonograph and listen intently. Thus he painted a scene showing a faithful dog, listening slightly confused, with its head tilted, to “his masters voice”.

What do you think, Duke? Do you think the readers will be impressed? Do you think we’ll make it to the short story finals if we were to enter the competition? Don’t get your hopes up yet, old boy. You must understand those judges would never have encountered a love letter written by a dogbedonnerd man to his beloved hound before. They might deem it frivolous doggerel!

Oh, how I miss you sitting at my feet while I type away at the laptop. Everyone at home misses you terribly, Duke – 14 years is a long time, you know. I can still remember that picture of you sleeping right next to Kiara on the bed in our old Pietermaritzburg house a few days after she was born. You and Patch were the brothers she never had. (How is our Patchie boy? Tell him we miss him. And tell him thanks for sending the money my way!)

But I digress. A sarcophagus of the heart. Ask Henry to cook you some of your favourite phutu if you can guess who inspired this title.

Basil Mills from NELM with Duke at the ruins of one of Olive Schreiner's houses

But before I get there, I must apologise for the one time I wronged you – when we all wronged you. I am not sure if Shadow is in heaven, because after attacking you on no fewer than ten occasions, I fear he might have been sent straight to hell. And I don’t know if you wanted us to give Shadow up for adoption, or have him put down after he started attacking you. But we could never bring ourselves to do that. Our love for him made us too weak to make such a difficult decision. Please forgive us. And you saw how terribly I would beat him whenever he attacked you. But he never learnt. We just assumed that Henry’s death brought on some deep trauma in that St Bernard. After all, he started attacking you only the day Henry died.

Whenever I listen to my favourite Elvis Presley song I see you in my mind’s eye and my eyes well up with tears:

It’s impossible to take the stars out of the sky

 It’s impossible to tell a baby not to cry …

We live with the guilt that you, a mere baby, had to learn not to cry when you fell down the stairs, or someone trampled on your toes accidentally because Shadow would sink his fangs into your neck if you squealed. I understand abuse from both sides now, my little boy. My gentle little boy, with not a mean streak in your soul. Why did you have to endure this? But your suffering is now over.

But did you guess who inspired the title of this love letter to you, Duke? It was the writer Olive Schreiner. Yes, the one who lived at Gannahoek, the same farm you visited. For Olive Schreiner could never have children, you see. Her beloved Nita was the four-legged child God sent her way to fill the void of not having children. And when Nita died, Olive Schreiner had her buried in a special coffin. And in her will she stated that when she dies, she must be buried on top of the mountain range Buffelskop, with her dog Nita and her husband Cronwright in a dome-shaped sarcophagus built of stone.

I, however, do not own a Karoo farm, my Dukey-mutt. So I will build a sarcophagus in my heart for you. My memories of you will form the rocks of this shrine. Sadly, memories can sometimes be a mangy dog, I am afraid. I am afraid I can never forget the attacks you endured from the St Bernard. I am afraid I can never forget how the seizures tried to shake the flicker of life from your frail body in your final hours. And I am afraid I will be haunted by your loud cries at the very moment after the vet inserted the needle to put you down.   

But a smile possesses my face like a glorious sunrise over the Karoo when l remember the day I took you home from the Pietermaritzburg SPCA. I will remember the times you chewed my books. I was angry then, but I smile now, for I know now that as a literary mutt you needed to devour words. I will remember how those chubby paws would hop from rock to rock in the Umngeni River. I will remember how your loud hound bark would echo in your ears and cause you to shake those large ears in utter confusion.

And I will laugh. When I visit Mossel Bay, I will forever hear the sound of those long nails on the wooden floors. When we drive through Meiringspoort my nose will inhale the scent of fynbos and I will remember your long snout sniffing the air from the boot of our hatchback. Whenever we stop in Clarens in that beautiful avenue of poplars, those yellow pencils in the sky will surely write: ‘n Groot boom het geval!

And I will beat my chest to chase away the tears, your tears, oh flesh of my flesh. For you lie buried in the sarcophagus of my heart. And I will carry you in my heart for the rest of my days on this earth.

Your master’s voice

Darryl Earl David

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