My pre-schooler recently chose not go to school because I poured milk on her oats.

Yes, you read that correctly. I am apparently a slow learner because, three kids in, I still don’t understand the gravity of the morning cereal construction process.

Never add milk before consulting upper management. The same goes for cutting sandwiches (diagonal, square or uncut, crusts on or off), opening bananas (do I peel it or do you?) and handing out cutlery (pink or blue spoon?). In fact, anything you assume should be done one way – say butter before honey on toast – is a sure sign you are walking into a trap.

Once the milk hit the oats, there was no coming back. I apologised, tried to start again and even attempted a system reboot with cuddles on the couch. The crying and gnashing of teeth, however, returned undeterred.

Finally, I calmly told her that if she refused to have breakfast and get dressed, she would have to miss school, a fate apparently worse than death for my school-loving two-nager. By then, her older brothers were already waiting in the car.

When she realised we were actually leaving her behind, the regret erupted with volcanic volume. (I often wonder what the neighbours think when bloodcurdling screams erupt from our kitchen at 7am.)

Nevertheless, I held my line and left her with her Papa. Apparently she calmed down as soon as our car was out of sight! Two stories later, the repentant tot was helping her nanny wipe up the oats now spattered across the floor and walls. Add yellow tape and it was a crime scene. The oats never stood a chance.

***

The mess took me to sadder thoughts. The food scattered across my kitchen floor used to be the happy domain of our dear pointer, Flash. She was a huge fan of the arrival of our laatlammetjie, chiefly because she knew, from experience, that it would mean food raining down once again.

Positioning herself at the foot of the highchair, she quickly trained Esti Rose to deliver the choicest morsels, much to our daughter’s delight, as Flash snapped them up before anyone could even attempt to say “five-second rule.”

Flash was the first dog my husband Pieter and I owned together, arriving at our home 13 years ago as a tiny bundle of black-and-white fur. While she never quite mastered walking to heel, being more of a natural sled dog than a promenade companion, she was a gentle, long-suffering hound who endured the chaos of three toddlers using her as a climbing frame without so much as a flinch.

She had a knack for lying exactly where you were most likely to trip over her, and for finding the most questionable things to roll in at the park. I made many empty threats to leave her there, but never followed through – so the lesson never took hold.

Her favourite place, though, was the beach. In her younger years she would run for kilometres, a streak of black and white, hence the name, chasing birds along the shoreline. Later, she took up fishing, planting herself beside unsuspecting anglers and waiting patiently for a catch. This behaviour used to astound anglers and she featured in many a seaside selfie.

Last week, after a long illness, we said goodbye. It was heartbreaking for all of us.

And this morning, as I wiped oats off the floor, I felt the quiet space she used to fill, and how deeply she is missed.

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