My goats bigger than your goat! I was not aware of this, but there is a hand sign that indicates that someone thinks their goat is bigger than your goat, and this hand sign is universally known and widely used! The hand sign in question is performed as follows: The person who is making the claim about their goat, holds their hand with the palm down, horizontal to the ground, at a height that represents the height of their goats shoulder from the ground, this said height being greater than the height of your own goats shoulder. A somewhat rude variation of the sign is to hold one hand, palm down, horizontal to the ground at the height of the goat that is being compared to, and then move it upwards, keeping the hand horizontal and palm down, until the claimed height is reached. At the same time, the other hand is used to point towards the goat that is being compared to. The more obvious the pointing, the ruder the comparison. I was not aware that this hand sign was so widely known, until I came across it being used several times by different men during our therapy groups monthly visit to the local flea market. There are a couple of facts that we need to take cognisance of here. The first is that the hand sign is used almost exclusively by men. I suppose it is in a way like comparing the cubic capacity of ones jock strap to that of another, or pointing out that ones shoe size is greater than someone else’s. Not usually the type of behaviour that women engage in, or so Ive been told. The second fact is that it would be considered very rude indeed to ask for actual proof of the size of the goat. In fact, this would not only be considered rude, I have to add that it would be seen as offensive by some. And finally, goat comparison is not the only use that this sign is now put to, it would seem that the sign has now also been adopted by a large number of men for use when comparing the height of other creatures as well. Creatures such as, for instance, dogs. Perhaps the reason that I have not been as aware of the use of this hand sign before now is that I do not now, nor have I ever in the past owned a goat. I might have been envious of those that have, but I have never owned one myself. On the other hand, Jana and I own four beautiful dogs, and even though two of them have beards like goats, they are definitely dogs. And two of them are active therapy dogs to boot. Which, in a round about manner, brings us back to the flea market, and the official therapy group visit that brought to my attention the use of the goat related hand sign. Now the flea market visits are an essential part of our therapy dog training. They permit new dogs to be placed in a fairly busy and stressful situation, where they can be taught to deal with large numbers of strangers. They permit training in an environment where the occasional growl or backing off will not have seriously negative consequences. They create a set of situations where our group leaders can assess dogs and trainers without being in the more critical hospital or care home settings. They permit socialisation of the trained dogs so as to keep them well balanced and better able to cope with the stresses of the job, and finally, they are a fun way to spend a few hours with your pets and introduce the public to generally well mannered and well behaved dogs. The down side of these flea market visits is that they also create a situation where goat comparisons can be made! Now we have been visiting the flea market with our dogs for a very long time indeed, far longer in fact that the time that we have been involved with the therapy group, and in that time we have made some really tremendous friends. These are not people who would compare goats, these are lovely human beings who have an enduring love for dogs, and a genuine affection for our bunch of hairy hooligans, even though there is not a goat amongst them. One of the problems of being part of the therapy group on visits to the flea market is that it can negatively impact on the amount of time that we can spend with the people that we have made friends with over the years. So when Jana and I received the SMS reminder that there was to be a flea market visit, we started to make plans to somehow or other make time for the visit, even though we both had a mountain of work to get through, as the visit would give us the opportunity to see our friends. We were in luck! The gods of homework were obviously smiling down on both of us, as we found ourselves with extra time on our hands on the Sunday morning of the flea market visit. This was fantastic, not only would we be able to join the group, we could go to the market a half hour or so early, and take some time to visit with our friends. So we pulled on our therapy group handlers golf shirts, loaded Wallace our male Irish wolfhound and Chelsea our young female Great Dane into the back of the Range Rover, and of we set to visit the flea market. I should at this point probably explain that the flea market is held every Sunday, rain or shine, except if Christmas were to fall on a Sunday, on the grounds of a primary school in the town a few miles to the west of the city where we live. The school has set up a large number of roofed outdoor spaces where the stall owners rent space to ply their wares. The flea market has been going for quite some time, and is now quite a large flea market, with a reasonably high quality of goods on offer. As a result, it is often very busy indeed, and therefore an ideal place to train the dogs. One problem, from Wallaces point of view at least, is that in order to catch the bigger crowds, the therapy groups flea market visits are typically scheduled for later in the morning, and the temperatures are often higher than Wallace enjoys, a problem that becomes progressively worse as we move into the height of summer. When we arrived at the parking area that serves the flea market, it was obvious that the day was going to be a very hot one. The parking area used by the public who are visiting the flea market is situated across from the main entrance to the school, and this parking area is owned by the local municipality. Fortunately, there are no parking meters, or any collection of fees for parking in this area, and there are quite a few large trees both around and scattered throughout the parking area. These trees provide wonderful protection from the heat of the sun if you can find one that does not already have its full quota of cars parked underneath its shady branches. Since it was a hot and muggy day, I was hoping to find parking under the shade of a tree. And we were very fortunate to find a spot in the shade of a very large tree at the edge of the parking area a fair distance from the flea market. To take advantage of the shade, I had to park the Range Rover on the grassy slope outside the actual parking area, a manoeuvre that earned me a disapproving glare from Jana as I climbed the vehicle over the high paving at the edge of the parking area. “Because I can!” did not make matters any better. Once we were parked in the shade, and the dogs were on their leads and out of the car, we headed towards the entrance of the flea market, which was already bustling with crowds of people. To get from the parking area to the entrance of the school/flea market entails crossing two double lane roads with an island of grass about fifty metres wide separating the two of them. By the time that we had crossed the first double lane road and were on the grass island, it was obvious that this was going to be one of THOSE days. Normally the people who go the the flea market are your nice, ordinary run of the mill citizens, the type of people that you would expect to find in a shopping mall or supermarket. But just occasionally, not often, but every now and then, the weird bunch turns up. I dont know what the signal is, possibly an unusual phase of the moon, or a strange planetary alignment, but when it happens, all the weirdos, nut jobs and other assorted social misfits crawl out from under their rocks and congregate at the flea market. To give you some sort of idea, the entrance to the flea market looked as though it was packed with the entire cast of extras from Lord of the Rings, as well as though a whole bunch of characters from Star Wars. This type of crowd usually means that Wallace and I are going to be swamped, as Wallace seems to be a weird magnate! Well, we did not even have to wait until we were inside the flea market, we had not even made it across the second set of dual lanes when Wallace and I were accosted by a family that looked as though they had been kicked out of the hill-billy community for excessive inbreeding. They asked what type of dog Wallace was, was he aggressive, how much he ate, how much a puppy would cost, and where they might get one on the cheap. They were obviously unimpressed by the fact that he was not aggressive, did not eat a sack of food a day, and that a puppy would cost way, way too much, if one was available at all. It was then that I was introduced to the goat comparison hand sign for the first time that day, although it was in this case obviously being used to compare Wallace to another, not present, dog. The father of the hill-billy reject family looked at Wallace, and proclaimed through the gap where once his front teeth had been that they had owned a dog that was considerably bigger than Wallace. With that said, up went the hand, palm flat and parallel to the ground, fingers straight and on the same plane as the palm, thumb held tight to the rest of the hand. Then using only movements of the arm and wrist, he moved the hand from level with Wallaces shoulders to a level at least six inches (fifteen centimetres) above Wallaces shoulder line. He then stared at me as though to dare me to contradict him, grinned his toothless grin and shuffled of with his motley clan in tow. At this point, I would like to share a few basics facts about Wallaces size and weight. Wallace is by no stretch of the imagination a huge dog for an Irish Wolfhound. However, he stands a very respectable and sturdy eighty six centimetres (thirty four inches) at the shoulder. He also weighs in at a reasonable seventy one kilograms (one hundred and fifty six pounds) a pretty good weight for his height and build. So if you take Wallaces height, and then add another fifteen centimetres to it, you land up with one hundred and one centimetres, and that is a problem. We know the two people who own the tallest Irish Wolfhounds in South Africa that the club knows about at present, and neither of these dogs are anywhere close to being fifteen centimetres taller than Wallace, more like half of that. The same is true of the Great Danes that I know of in South Africa. There are a few of them who stand over ninety centimetres at the shoulder, but not much over ninety centimetres. And I doubt that any of the registered dogs at present are close to, never mind over a metre at the shoulder. However, I never argue that point, besides which, the goat comparer had left. Wallace and I crossed the road, entered the flea market with a mind to making a quick sprint to catch up with Jana and Chelsea, and were immediately waylaid by not one, but two families who wanted to know whether Wallace was a Bouvier, how much he ate, was he aggressive, and did we breed these big dogs. Neither family had heard of Irish Wolfhounds, and when I explained that the breed was on average taller than the Great Dane, making it the tallest breed of dog in the world, out came the goat comparison hand sign again. I was informed that one family had an uncle who had a dog that stood at least that tall, the hand meanwhile hovering a good three to four inches above Wallaces shoulders. Not a metre plus I will concede, but still more than likely a current South African record! Once again the stare, followed by the quick shuffle to get out of range. And while this was happening, a fellow and (I think) his girlfriend walked past, and the fellow quickly deployed the goat comparison hand sign at solar-plexus height. The (I think) girlfriend looked impressed. I wonder if she took it as a metaphor? Once again Wallace and I started of in an attempt to catch up with Jana, weaving in and out of the crowd of people, followed by shouted comments that often as not included words like “saddle”, “horse”, “poop”, and “pony”, to name but a few. We finally caught up with Jana and Chelsea as they reached the Fancy Food Stuff stall of people we are friends with. The couple that run the stall are originally for the UK, she from England, he from Ireland, and they both have an enduring love of Great Danes. After their last Dane passed away a few years ago, they decided that they were both getting a little too old to get another Dane, but they miss the dogs terribly, and when we come to the flea market with one of our Danes, they dote on dog as though he or she was the last one on the planet. They are lovely people, and they do eventually get around to saying hello to Wallace, but there is no question that their first love is for the Danes. While Chelsea was being hugged and generally made a huge fuss of, I happened to see another of our friends at her stall three away from the Fancy Food Stuff stall. She is a baker, and although she lost her husband of many years fairly recently, she is always friendly and happy to see us, and delighted to see Wallace, who she would take home with her given half a chance. I could see that she had her left wrist wrapped in a bandage, and decided to go and talk to her and find out what had happened to her wrist. Now although Wallace and I had only a few steps to take to get to her stall, it probably took a full five minutes to travel that distance, as we were mobbed by people wanting to say hello to Wallace and pet him. Wallace as usual took all of this in his stride, totally unperturbed by this level of attention. When we finally reached the stall, I found out that our friend had grabbed a tree branch as she slipped, and had damaged the tendons in her wrist. We were talking about how best to protect it when a fellow and his very pregnant wife came over and asked if Wallace was a Borzoi, and why he had such a funny muzzle and such strange colouring. I started to explain that he was in fact an Irish Wolfhound, and that the while Borzoi was sometimes known as a Russian Wolfhound, it is not the same thing, although one could think of them as being distantly related. He looked at me incredulously, and told me that he had never heard of such a dog, the implication being that I did not know what I was taking about. He then continued that someone in his family had a real Borzoi, and it was much prettier and a lot bigger than Wallace. Again the goat comparison hand sign was brought into play, this time two to three inches above Wallaces shoulders. I bit my tongue, they left, and our friend burst out laughing, sore hand notwithstanding. At that point Jana arrived. She told me that our other friends wanted the opportunity to say hello to Wallace, and that I had left too quickly for them to do so, so would I mind taking Wallace back. I turned to get Wallace up and when I turned back, I saw Jana glaring at the back of a very fat woman as she waddled away with a toddler clutched to her ample side. It is difficult to provoke Jana to make an angry outburst (unless you are married to her), she has a sweet character and a forgiving nature. However, it turns out that as I was busy with Wallace, the woman had walked over, and without so much as a by your leave, had tried to put the toddler on Chelseas back. Chelsea is not short, but she has a light build, and this would undoubtedly have resulted in her being hurt. Jana obviously put a stop to it, and probably not in quite the friendly manner that she usually employs to converse with people in public! By the time I had taken Wallace back to say hello, and had a short conversation, it was time to join the other members of our therapy group at the assembly point. Once more we struggled through the crowds, people either petting the dogs or, in a few instances, getting out of their way, met the other members of the group, and got on with the visit proper. I have to say, the rest of the flea market visit went more or less without a hitch, and we met some more of our old friends, and bumped into a number of very nice people who petted the dogs and made the whole day a very worth while experience. At the end of the visit, when we all met up again in the assembly area at the side gate, I had more or less forgotten about the earlier incidents. We always meet up again at the end of a flea market visit, to discuss any matters of importance that have come up during the visit and say goodbye. As Jana and I were standing talking to the group leader, a gentleman in his late twenties to early thirties came over and asked if he might interrupt us with a few questions. He asked what we were doing, and who we were, and was told about the therapy group and what it did. Our group leader also told him about the puppy and dog school that she runs. This seemed to interest him quite a bit. He said that this was useful information as he was looking for a school to take his dog to, and that he was having problems controlling the dog. He then turned to me and asked me what type of dog Wallace was. I told him that Wallace was an Irish Wolfhound, and that they were on average the tallest breed of dogs. He interrupted me and told me that Wallace was no where near the height of the Great Dane puppy that he had got from a breeder just up the road. Out came the goat comparison hand sign, this time with the hand in the middle of his chest. Since this fellow was about the same height as I am, that would have made the height of the dog at the shoulders well over one metre and thirty centimetres (fifty one inches). Before I could say anything, our group leader, who was obviously very interest by this, asked him where exactly he had obtained the dog from, and did he know the name of the breeder. It turned out that he did, and that the breeder was in fact a puppy farmer that the SPCA had managed to shut down shortly after he had bought his puppy. I politely asked if the hand was an indication of the height of the puppies shoulders or head, and was assured that we were talking about shoulders. Since Jana was about to kick my ankle, I bit my tongue. We all encouraged him to bring his dog along and join the classes, he took a business card and said he would think about it, and left. Shortly there after, so did we. On the way back to the Range Rover, I was thinking about the multiple uses of the goat comparison hand sign, the possibility of having discovered a new world record dog, and how it was fantastic that our little part of the world was producing such magnificent giant dogs. And then I looked at Wallace, who could not care, and who was much more worried about getting out of the sun and of the hot pavement. Wallace has the right attitude, after all, in the dark, all goats are the same height!
Posted on: Mon, 25 Nov 2013 12:02:23 +0000
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