Perils of a cuddle
HERE'S yet another story of a hunter being shot by his own dog. It seems to happen with regularity these days.
A French hunter – his name is given only as Rene – was out in the wilds with three Blue Gascony basset hounds in the Dordogne region when one of the dogs affectionately jumped on him "for a cuddle". The dog unfortunately pulled the trigger on his master's shotgun, which blasted his right hand.
Rene was helicoptered to hospital in Bordeaux where his hand had to be amputated. But he doesn't blame the dog. "I should have had the safety catch on." He still describes the dog as "adorable".
There's a moral here. If you're going to cuddle anything – a woman, a dog or whatever – make sure the safety catch is on.
Another case
THE ABOVE recalls another amputation story involving firearms and dogs. A man known as the Poison Dwarf – with whom I played club rugby – was on a guinea fowl shoot at Otto's Bluff, outside Maritzburg.
He was using an old-fashioned hammer shotgun. They were taking a tea break and the Poison Dwarf was leaning on the butt of his gun, the muzzle pressed against his boot, as he swigged from a mug of tea.
Somebody walked past wearing a chunky jersey. The jersey caught on one of the shotgun hammers, lifted it then – Wham! – the end of the Poison Dwarf's boot was blasted
They managed to get the boot off him. The middle toe was severed completely. Throwing the severed toe into the back of a bakkie, they rushed him to Grey's Hospital to see if a stitch-on job was possible. As the bakkie pulled off, the Poison Dwarf's faithful bull terrier bitch jumped on the back.
They were haring into Maritzburg when the driver glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the bull terrier swallowing her master's toe.
Amputation complete. And in this case also, nobody doubted the love and devotion of the dog.
Linwood Villa
KIM McCARTHY, of Amanzimtoti, is looking for information from the 1950s about that neighbourhood just off Smith Street where the old Hotel D'Urban still stands.
Her 82-year-old Dad is writing his memoirs on Koh Samui island, Thailand, where he now lives, and recalls his early 20s when he lived in Smith Street in an establishment called Linwood Villa.
It was already a heritage site in the 1950s, located across the road from the Hotel D'Urban. It was owned by a Mr Green and had apparently been built by the Cato family.
"Could you direct me to somebody knowledgeable on old Durban history who could tell me exactly where this place is, or was, so that I can give some feedback to my Dad on its current status?"
These memoirs should make good reading. Which chapters will be the more vivid – Smith Street in the 1950s or contemporary Thailand?
Can anyone out there help Kim with information about Linwood Villa?
Tailpiece
THIS fellow dies and goes to hell. In the netherworld he discovers there's a different hell for each country. He decides to choose the least painful to spend eternity.
He goes to the German hell and is told they put you in an electric chair for an hour. Then they lie you on a bed of nails for another hour. Then a German devil comes in and whips you for the rest of the day.
He doesn't like the sound of that so he moves on. But it turns out the American hell and the Russian hell are much the same.
Then he comes to the South African hell. There's a long queue. He's told they put you in the electric chair for an hour, then they lie you on a bed of nails for an hour, then a South African devil whips you for the rest of the day.
"But that's the same as all the others. Why are so many people queuing to get in?"
"Because Eskom is struggling and there's never current for the electric chair. The nails were paid for but never delivered, so the bed is comfortable. And the South African devil is a government employee. He won't come to work until he gets his 12% increase, which of course will never happen."
Last word
I don't give a damn for a man that can only spell a word one way.
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