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The Pond ( Johan Sioen) 29-11-2006
An “In Memoriam” is supposed to be solemn and sad. I cannot do that, not for him. He wasn’t like that. Far from it, rather a mirror image: a “Bonvivant” first class, bigger than life, Aristocrat and Burgundian all in one.
Crazy is sleeping next to me, on the couch. Or she is pretending to. Her eyes closed, she’s watching me. Sensually slow she will stretch herself to accompany me for a walk, even before I will have considered standing up. Her eyes are big, round and curious.
Her grandfathers’ eyes. Her grandfather who died yesterday.
That’s what grandfathers do, they die, eventually. Even the greatest.
Guus and Eef – his breeders, his family – decided the time was right to deliver Django,
- Champion Franklin-Django van de Matenhof -, from his pain.
On a much too warm autumn evening, November 28th 2006.
An aggressive tumour on his stomach would have destroyed him within days.
The decision was courageous, the gesture merciful. Django would have appreciated it.
A Boxer that kept the honour to himself, always: proud, self-confident. For more than ten full years.
Do not expect words of sadness. Not for a life that full, that intense as Django’s was.
As a youngster, Eef and Guus had presented him on several Dutch expositions. The outcome varied.
On one of these occasions – the result wasn’t terrific – Ingmar had spotted him and he was delighted when, months later, a call came: Guus had, reluctantly, decided it would be a smart move to let Django stay with us for a training session leading up to his IPO working certificate.Ingmar was to train him.
I recall the moment he arrived. A tall, square, brindle male. Shiny coat with a touch of gold.
Old-Dutch, round and strong bone. Beautiful cat feet. Excellent angulations, correct shoulder, superb chest, high with
an impeccable top line. But this was not just another Top dog.
This boxer, three years young, on the verge of adulthood entered our kennel, a strange kennel to him, with this
unlikely elegant self-confidence of his, with a proud, investigating eagerness and with big, round dark brown eyes
glooming with anticipation.
I knew instantly I would never forget those eyes, that entrance.
He was King without ever have been Prince. And he knew it. The innocence of the really great.
It was utterly impossible not to get attached to him. In the morning Ingmar and Django went biking along the IJzer while in the evening they used to disappear for hours, walking the beaches between Middelkerke and the French border.
They succeeded in passing the IPO trial in a record breaking eleven weeks and that was the jumpstart for a journey
through Europe that would last nearly two years.
Few judges could resist his presence in the ring, still less the expression of sheer pleasure in his eyes.
And yes... they made some enemies along the way. But that never bothered Django – maybe Ingmar –: he enjoyed
his travelling life along the old and the new capitals.
The showring only took a moment: outside there was a whole world to be enjoyed.
A Swiss mountain creek, a dive in the Mediterranean Sea, rabbits on a freshly mowed Polish
corn field, a sleepy balcony in an antique Czech hotel.
At the end one of the walls in Eef and Guus’ place was covered with frames: Jahressieger in both Poland and Czechia,
German, Belgian and International Champion, and in between shows: the German ZTP and UV.
Django was four years young when, in Portugal under a German judge, he succeeded in winning the title of ATIBOXSIEGER 2000.
The Grand National of the Boxer world.
No Fado at the time, some Vintage Port... well yes! although Django liked his drinks still sweeter.
Six years later, in the very same astonishing country a fawn grandson of Django would gain that title once again.
Some way to reach the status of grandfather.
Guus and Eef moved from Berkel en Rodenrijs to Sellingerbeetse and so did Django and his pack.
He came to a roguish kind of rest in the newly conquered countryside in the northeast of Holland.
But he didn’t mind the regular visits of boxer ladies. For Europe had discovered his charms – and so had the Dutch breeders.
I checked and gave up: it’s hopeless to start an enumeration.
There is, on European soil, hardly a title – and these days they seem to multiply overnight - that hasn’t been won
by one or more of his children, grandchildren or grand grandchildren.
From Oslo to Athens and from Moscow to Faro: his name keeps popping up in pedigrees.
More importantly: today, in any given showring one is able to spot his descendants right on – without catalogue.
The expression in their heads, the type gives them away. Always.
Django has become what the French like to call “un Raçeur”, a real marker of the breed.
Very few have that potential. From the males in his generation, on the continent, I need less than the fingers of one hand.
But he, the Tyl Uylenspiegel from Sellingerbeetse, couldn’t care less.
A trophy, however big, is hard to play with and children, grandchildren how admired they may be...
well, they don’t visit very often, do they?
But re-adjusting the big motorbike with Eef, inspecting the ever amazing edges of the forest with Guus and
playing with the youngsters in the garden: that’s live!
And if my old friend and trainer Ingmar comes to visit me and my pack and I manage to seduce him into our old show act – me and him against the world – well, how much better can it get?
Then it’s time for me to get a nap on the terrace or to stroll to the bank of the pond and muse.
Watching the ripple on the water. As it comes, as it goes. Again and again.
Till – I know – with a profound satisfied sigh, I will fall asleep.
Crazy is awake by now, and very much so. She looks me in the eyes, impatiently. I look back and I see him.
Django can rest in peace on the bank of his beloved pond.
How could I mourn the soft death of a friend who has never left our house, our harts, and never will?
Gratitude is what I feel towards Eef and Guus who have allowed Django to become a part of us, and maybe:
us to become a small part of Django.
A fuller and more fruitful Boxer live than that of Django… I cannot imagine.
Although …although I should be careful in making that kind of statement, for he might see things quite differently….
And stubborn, trust me, stubborn: that he was too !
And now I’m taking his granddaughter for a walk for she hasn’t stolen her name either.
Apples and threes: a long story.
Johan Sioen
& Ingmar Sioen & Mariette Poppe
