The Dog Blog – Smitswinkel Bay

We started spending New Year’s Eve with friends at Smitswinkel Bay a long time ago. Well, about 1995. Or 1998. They have the ultimate cottage at Smits. Not ultimate for its show-off mod cons, but for its position.


Position, position – position is everything, rapacious estate agents will tell you. Our friends’ Smits cottage is right above the beach, an eyrie from which you can watch everything – everything – that transpires below you upon the sands.


There’s plenty of ‘talent’ to be seen from the Eyrie – curvacious, young and sporty – but our early years there became dominated by a spectacle of a different kind. Not attractive in the normal sense of the word, but we eventually had to agree that SuperBoy held us all in thrall. Both husbands and wives, though the real treat was for the wives.


He was probably fifteen or so when it began. He stayed in the J&B House, a ramshackle, verandahed joint so-called for the flag it flies and which, we are reliably informed by our vet [who holidays there], can accommodate up to 55 persons. Sharing, of course.

The J&B House at Smits

SuperBoy cut right across our admiration for the variety of stunning bathing belles in view. He arrived one day and took over the beach. There was nothing he could not do best. He was the best surfer. The best body-surfer. Boogie-boarder. He thrashed all-comers at beach ball. Beach Tennis. He scuba-dived and crayfish dived and reeled in the biggest yellowtail. He swam further out than anyone [that was before Great Whites hit the headlines]. For the next four or five years he was Mister Smits, and no one could best him. 

SuperBoy – his face concealed to protect the innocent

SuperBoy was blonde, well-shaped, tanned, pushing pecks and bulging biceps. For all we know, he was even starting to shave [that’s a low blow, hey]. He had no rivals; even the best of them took to skulking behind the granite boulders. With most of the belles.


But the New Year came when SuperBoy did not return. We [husbands, anyway] heaved a collective sigh of relief. At last the nubile and curvacious could emerge from behind the boulders. And they did, for a year or two .... until a new threat arose.


Dogs.

1. Ten dogs; five people. 2. Six Dogs; two people.
3. Four Dogs; two people. 4. Four dogs; three people.
I rest my case.

Over the 2011/2012 New Year there were more dogs than people at Smits. Hundreds of mutts, large and small. Our attempts to watch the belles were constantly thwarted by canine antics of all kinds. We began to be extremely thankful that there was a high tide every twelve hours or so; beaches can happily be self-cleansing.

And as the dogs took over, guess what happened? O my god, there he was, dominating every four-footed mutt on the beach ... A sort of German Shepherd mixed with something, maybe [from his woolly flanks] a poodle. Or an Irish wolfhound. Or anything. Black body, very pale brown legs. Dominant, I mean dominant. He was the best bumsniffer. The best ball chaser. The best kelp chewer. The best shallow-water romper. He tried everything that was on heat or nearly so ... he marked the most beach-towels and discarded clothing. He barked the loudest and longest; he scared the Rastafarian fishermen more than any other lip-curling pounder. 

He had the deepest snarl and the longest and the whitest teeth. He lorded it over all the other dogs, and the bitches ... He left the most wee-mail; he could lift his leg higher than any ... he was ...

SuperDog.

Kaartman, Feb-inne-Skrikkeljaar