ANIMAL STORY

In the desert village of Maikona, in Northern Kenya, a three day journey from Nairobi where my Dog called ‘DOG’ and I lived, the dogs don't wear collars or walk around on the end of a lead. There are no signs reading, NO DOGS ALLOWED.

‘Sit’, ‘stand’, ‘lay down’, and ‘fetch the ball!’ are commands they have never heard. No fences act as barriers between the houses, nor do dangerous cars threaten their lives. This village seems like one giant dog park.

Outside the house where we stayed, a little girl opened her eyes wide with horror when DOG gently licked my ear. Never before had she seen such a thing. In contrast, I did not ever see the black and white shorthair dog that lived next door given water or affection, though he appeared in good health, and someone cared enough to gave him a name, Jake. Like dogs in many villages throughout the world, he and the other community canines are tossed scraps when there are any, but when times are lean, they are left to scavenge for themselves.

‘DOG’ and I wandered along village paths. We always stayed clear of the local packs. They knew we were outsiders. We came across a black dog who had a satchel hanging from a piece of cloth tied around her neck, the only collar in the entire village. When I asked the owners why, they told me “She’s not well, so we put dawa, medicinal herbs, around her neck to make her better.”

As the sun climbed, I watched the landscape unfold as women went about their daily business dressed in a brilliant array of coloured cloth wrapped ingeniously around their bodies. One, who wore a brilliant red robe, passed by a number of times, always with four dogs trailing behind. Her name was Waatu.

In Waatu’s shop, only staples lined the narrow shelves; maize, sugar, tea, soap and other assorted basic goods. Two children slept on empty sacking that read Made in Pakistan.

“Many of the dogs here in Miakona guard the houses, but your dogs, like mine, are guarding you. Why?” I asked her

“They know I care for them,” Waatu replied, adjusting folds of fabric flowing over her fertility goddess hips.

“Is that why your dogs come to work with you? To guard you?”

“They get lonely without me. And I get lonely without them.”

“But other people here have dogs, and their dogs don’t follow them. So why do your dogs follow you?”

“That’s a good question. I try to treat them well. I give them some special food, and meat sometimes. Some people only give their dogs ugali. Dogs don’t like maize. Other people treat their dogs meanly. Dogs don’t like that either.”

I explained where I come from, it’s normal for people to touch and stroke their dogs. “Have you ever seen this in your village?”

“No, never. But me, I touch my dogs. I think it just depends on how people think upstairs.”

We wander outside. A few minutes later while breast-feeding her youngest child, one of her dogs strayed close, too close for her comfort, and she threw a rock in its direction. What did she say about other people treating their dogs? I wondered if it was all a facade, and she was just saying what she thought I wanted to hear, in the hope the ‘foreigner’ would give her something. A few minutes after she finished nursing, as if to put her action into perspective, she swatted her oldest daughter with the end of a cane.

“What do you do about rabies,” I asked.

“If we have a case of rabies, all the dogs in the village have to be killed. And now I have a question for you,” she said. “What can I do about dudu’s, the insects that crawl on my dogs and make them scratch?”

How do I reply? That the only thing that really works costs half the month’s profits from her store! I told her there is a tree called eucalyptus, and leaves placed where the dogs sleep will help. But there are no eucalyptus trees in Miakona. She’s disappointed.

While we chatted Waatu’s brother, Shamou Canchor, walked in. Tall, and with a lean, muscular body, he had a smile that flashed brightly. Around his head was a white turban with a blue and red tassel standing upright on the side. He listened to his sister, nodding his head in agreement.

“I lost my dog once. I was very upset,” he interrupted. Leaning against the counter he admitted, “What makes my home is my dog. My dog is the most important part of my life.”

“May I take a picture of you and your dog together?” I asked him

“Yes, I would like that. He is in my hut.” Shamou replied.

After an hour on foot, we reached Shamou’s traditional nomadic hut, one of ten grouped together on the outskirts of the settled village. His dog, Gourage was near the hut when we arrived. He had been waiting for Shamou, and asked to be petted by wrapping himself excitedly around the tall man’s legs. Shamou looked down at his black dog fondly, but did not touch the dog, who he’d just informed me, was the most important part of his life. We lingered outside a few minutes, before Shamou invited us into his home. Gourage’s place is outside, but ‘DOG’ enters with Shamou’s blessings.

The dome shaped home was divided into two rooms. In the front area, his wife, a girl not more than sixteen, sat over a fire heating milk for tea. Shamou pulled a curtain back and we entered the living room/bedroom where there were two cots made of wood and rope.

“Six months ago in January,” began Shamou, “during the hottest time of the year, we were making arrangements for our wedding. With all the preparations, I didn’t notice Gourage was missing. I looked everywhere. Without him, what would I do? The morning after my wedding, I gave my new wife instructions on what to feed Gourage if he returned,” Shamou said, pointing to a line of hand-woven leather containers covered with goat fat hanging along the wall.

“I figured the place I’d most likely find Gourage, would be the last place we had camped. So I began walking in the direction of the Huri Hills. After two days, I met a man. He’d seen Gourage, lost, and without anyone, and somehow, knew the dog belonged to someone who loved him. So the man had taken him in. I was so happy to find Gourage! But he was very, very weak. He had walked for miles without food or water during the hottest time of the year. I don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d died. My life would not be worth living…”

I often reminisce about those dogs, roaming freely around their village, respectful of boundaries and territorial rights, without fear of being run over, just as dogs did in western countries many years ago. Despite erratic meals, lack of affection and a much shorter life span, they are free to interact with their own kind. If I were a dog, I think I would chose to live loose in a village like Miakona, as opposed to being confined in a house and yard waiting for my people to return from work.

Hopefully, one day, there will come a time when dogs all over the world are both well cared for, and free as well.