Did I ever tell you about Ulysses?
When I was 15 years old, the first house I’d see on the road leading into Sybrand Park on my walk from Park Estate had a diamond-wire fence and two dogs: a beagle and his big brother, a bloodhound named Ulysses. You could hear Ulysses baying as far away as the Red Cross hospital and his beagle would copy him with a soprano howl!

Not everyone admired their full-moon concerts: there was a day when I walked past and they bounced up to the fence to greet me – only, this time Ulysses wheezed with pleasure as I scratched his velvet ears. I found out that he’d had his vocal cords doctored to stop the noise. I know, it’s sad, but he took it better than I did. Let me tell you how I know.

There were a few places that served as the heart and soul of Sybrand Park – one was the park itself, and the other was Pops’ shop. It was like any corner store you’d find back then: the glass cabinet under the counter with compartments for loose sweets (apricots, fizzpops, star sweets, Wilson’s toffees, marshmallow fishes – you know the deal); a fridge for milk, butter and cheese; loaves of bread and loose emergency vegetables; another fridge for ice-cold Cokes and Fantas in glass bottles; bags of braai wood and shelves behind the till with cigarettes, pipe tobacco, matches, lighters, batteries, Grandpa Headache Powders and pretty much anything else you needed.

There was a little triangle of porch in front of the shop with a few stairs leading down to the street, and there were always a few kids perched on the wall or hanging around outside – bumming cigarettes, talking nonsense and just using the space as somewhere to meet. Pops even installed a pinball machine and the “Ting…Ping” became a familiar sound as kids took their shot at becoming a pinball wizard.

There’s a day that’s engraved in my memory: I’m at Pops’ shop for something and Ulysses comes in with his owner. I give him a pat and then turn away, only to hear “Ting… Ping… Ting!” – I look around and Ulysses is on his hind-legs at the pinball machine and he’s pressing the paddles! Seriously, this happened! Ears hanging forward, face rumpled with concentration, that bloodhound was playing pinball.
That’s when I knew: even though he couldn’t bay at the moon, Ulysses was going to be OK.