Asad

(He's asleep...)

Animals in Africa are a difficult thing, especially for those of us who dare try and make them into something akin to pets. You would think I would have learned that from a childhood of funeral services beside popsicle stick crosses in the backyard, or, even more recently, an unfortunate incident with a dikdik. But even as an adult on this continent, I still find myself trying to squeeze into some non-existent space, seeking balance on a violently swaying playing field.

Not long ago I overheard a friend of ours, a vet from this area, remarking on the cans of pet food he had seen at a neighboring organization. “Dog food!” he spat out with disgust. “They are bringing in food for their animals when there are hungry people all around! These animals aren’t meant to be fed. They are self-sufficient!” And though I cringed at the time and kept my mouth shut, I felt a flicker of guilt. This was coming from a man I have also heard berate donkey owners for beating their work animals. He does not tolerate animal cruelty so his words hit a soft spot on my heart. I suppose when there isn’t enough mercy to go around for all the people who deserve it, showing any to animals does seem a little misplaced.

When my mother in law came to visit us, she fell in love with our cat, Nimir, and dog, Asad. Her cats at home get ice-cubes in their filtered water so I felt my fears at how she would respond to our animals' North African lifestyle were well-founded. But generally, I was relieved. I only caught her trying to slip them the “clean water” once. It wasn’t until her second week here that she proposed we bring them back to the States with us when we go home for a visit. My snort of a response apparently didn’t go over very well and we found ourselves in an intense conversation about the responsibilities of pet owners to their animals. These animals get treated better than any other in this state, maybe this country! I argued. Just because other people treat their animals badly doesn’t mean you can settle for treating them half-way badly. Is what I heard in response.  Round and round we went, getting nowhere.

That afternoon a donkey cart with a barrel of water came by. Against my better judgment, I set out Asad’s bowl of food while the man emptied his buckets into our tanks. As soon as I set the bowl of rice and scrap meat in front of Asad, I regretted my decision to feed him right away. The man’s eyes were wide when he asked, “What is he eating?”

“Just leftover food that people were finished with,” I hedged awkwardly.

“He eats all of that?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Every day?”

“Mostly.”

“Rice and meat?”

“Well, he doesn’t always get meat…” I said stupidly, though of course, at that point it didn’t really matter. The whole time the man filled up our tank with his dirty water, his eyes didn’t leave my dog licking up every last grain of rice from his own personal bowl before lapping up the water this man had just hauled across town so that people could bathe and cook. 

On Friday Asad attacked a goat. He had killed one last month and even though the owner had been compensated and the dog punished, we all knew what it would mean if the incident repeated itself. A dog in America couldn’t get away with robbing banks either.  This time the goat survived with some serious scratches on his backside (thank you Dan for stitching him up) but we all realized what had to be done. Poor Asad looked remorseful tied up under the tree next to his water bowl but the blood all over his muzzle kept him looking anything but innocent.

Maybe I have learned something over the years because my goodbye with Asad wasn’t terribly emotional or well marked. I just holed myself up in the house while the police, whose mandate to maintain public peace apparently extends to eradicating dogs who are a public menace, lent their services. It was over with very quickly and Bryan tells me they were both professional and surprisingly apologetic about the situation. It’s too bad you have to kill your dog. But we understand. Today it’s goats, tomorrow it might be a child.

A neighbor’s offering of homemade cinnamon rolls went a long way towards easing my sadness and a week later, my emotions have already faded a bit. But one thing still lingers faintly, and that is a sense of guilt. Guilt for trying to love a thousand years of wildness out of a North African mutt, expecting him to sit down and roll over like a good dog. Guilt for treating him too well. Guilt for not treating him well enough. Guilt for feeling a little bit relieved that I am no longer the foreigner with an unclean animal. Guilt for missing his wagging tail when we come home.

I say animals in Africa are a difficult thing. But really, if I think about it, I realize that what is so hard is really probably something much bigger than that.

P.S. Thank you Mama Dona for letting me use our conversations to process my own private feelings in this somewhat public space! Your words are such a good catalyst for thought. Love you.