Trigger! C'mere, boy!
*****
One of the most popular sayings that I’ve observed is “gone to farm.” It means just that - that whomever you’re speaking of has left for the day, traveled out however many miles to their farm, and won’t be back for a little while. It can also mean something else - but I should start from the beginning.
I think I’ve mentioned my dog Trigger a few times. I got him with the intention of him being something to mess with when I had no real work to do. I had these visions of training him to dance and do tricks and show people just how fun it was to have a dog that wasn’t a mangy mongrel who growled and ran around with their tails between their legs. But I wasn’t gonna get attached - oh, no. Not me. I was going to keep my heart at a distance to steel myself from his inevitable, untimely death - as most volunteer’s dogs are wont to experience.
But Trigger would never have a chance to be a distant dog. Who was I kidding? I’m someone who puts my pets in t-shirts and buys them a small French fry at the drive-thru on our way to the park.
The love-hate relationship of my life is an adequate depiction. I loved having a dog - just…maybe not that dog. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a male dog and I wasn’t prepared for how feisty they are. No matter what I did, that dog wouldn’t stop biting. Me, the kids, anyone who tried to play with him. He was play-biting, of course, but his teeth were sharp. Not to mention his love for eating poop. Human poop. I’ll stop there, but let it be known that I did not accept kisses from my precious baby angel.
At the same time, I loved to come home and see someone - even a dog - so incredibly excited to see me. It was reminiscent of Juneau and my grand entrances after the morning shift at Starbucks - although, her enthusiasm had more to do with the fact that her eyes were about to float away because she had to pee so badly. I loved that time of the evening when he was tired and just wanted his ears scratched, no biting involved. He’d sit next to my chair, lean against my leg, let his eyes drift closed and put his paw on top of my foot. He really was a good dog - he was just…still a puppy.
After I came home from about two weeks away (at IST - our in-service training, and visiting my homestay family in the south) I could tell something was wrong. Instead of running loose as he always was when I left him in the care of my landlord, he was tied up and sitting on the porch, looking like, well, a kicked dog.
Turns out Trigger had eaten a chicken and a guinea fowl while I was gone. Not to mention the other chicken and baby goat I caught him eating and hid from my neighbors, the probable owners of the deceased. Everyone lets their animals run free here, so you’ve got a bit of a…petting zoo feel when you walk around. This poses a bit of a problem because everyone’s dogs roam loose as well. To solve that potential issue, people just beat the dogs when they come close. This keeps the dog loyal to the family it lives with - and that family only. They’re scared of everyone else and wouldn’t dream of trying to catch one of the baby chicks that are tripping all over themselves making a pitiful effort at trying to escape.
Trigger…well, he got a slightly different upbringing. No one beat him because he was my dog. He feared no one, everyone was his friend. He was bigger than any dog his age and gave the older, grizzled ‘street’ dogs a good scare. O mali yaa. He has strength.
Already the cards were stacked against him. All the kids played with him - tentatively - so when they’d try to throw a stick away from him to deter him from eating tiny chicks, that…didn’t actually work. He assumed they were now playing fetch, his favorite game, and he’d get right to that after he finished his snack.
Now when an animal is killed (by a lorry or motobike, for instance), the person who is at fault is expected to find the owner of the animal and reimburse him for the loss. It’s something I’m still trying to figure out since, if everyone kept their animals in pens, then an unsuspecting motorist wouldn’t have to worry that he’ll hit a lamb jetting across the dirt road. But anyways, that’s not how it goes here. When I was told he’d eaten a chicken and guinea, my heart dropped. That’s…a LOT of money to pay back. And people knew that he’d been terrorizing other animals beforehand.
The way to deal with animals who do that is to “send them to farm” - all dogs go to heaven-style.
I was able to translate this much of what my landlord said: because my dog had eaten the animals, they were sending him to farm.
In my head, all I could think was “Why did you have to wait to do this until I got back? Why couldn’t you have killed him while I was gone and said that he ran away?”
So the next thing I translated was “is that okay?” As in, is it okay that we ‘send your dog to farm’?
I had no idea what to say. I knew it was the only option - Trigger was beyond teaching. He’d gotten the taste for meat, for killing, he wasn’t about to stop when his other option was to eat corn porridge. And I couldn’t afford to pay for all the animals he had and would kill. But at the same time, I couldn’t just say “okay” to them killing my dog.
So I pleasantly ignored the situation, naively hoping it would go away. For two days, I was in knots. I was torn between ignoring Trigger, making it easier on myself when he was taken away, and playing with him, showering him with affection to give him some happy last days on earth. I ended up doing a mix of the latter. When I couldn’t ignore him any longer, we’d go for long walks and I’d let him tramp through the bush and do his best to catch lizards (apparently a lot more difficult to bring down than a guinea fowl, which flies). He started sitting every time I gave him the command, even started lifting his paw when I told him to ‘greet.’ It was horrible.
Then the time came - Sadi said he was going to farm ‘tomorrow.’ I made my decision. I left the entire day, doing work in a community about twelve miles away, to ensure that I wouldn’t be there when they came to take him.
I thought about it all day. The long bike ride and instrumental mix on my iPod didn’t make the miles go any faster. The lulls in the afternoon when teaching was done and I was waiting for the sun to lower were unbearable. I just knew Trigger’s body was somewhere in the bush, beginning to swell with the heat and maggot larvae.
I got home that evening, sweating and exhausted from the ride - and he was still there. They’d decided not to go to farm that day. By this time, I was just a wreck. So my friend Amina came over that night and I asked her to ask my landlord when they would go. He said whenever the guy was going to farm, he’d come and get the dog.
I asked why Sadi wasn’t taking him.
He didn’t want him - the whole point was to get rid of him.
But aren’t you just gonna…(I ran my fingers across my throat)?
O_o <<
The next day I had to go into town to get some work done, but when I came back, the dog was gone, as expected. I was slightly sad, but still felt the relief in knowing that he’d be alive and doing something he loved to do. I had already started to mentally separate myself from him - to not associate the corner of the porch as ‘his place,’ to toss the balls I’d made him out of duct tape and plastic bags into the rubbish pile.
And then he came running into the compound.
The boys followed about five seconds later, out of breath and exclaiming that he’d seen me walking down the road and broke free of his chain.
I had a moment of pride in knowing that, in the four short months that I’d had him, he knew that I was his. Balima and Boinaayong (our local names) were inseparable.
Sadi said he’d come back the night before, too. He knew where his home was.
But it wasn’t his home anymore. He had new owners who weren’t going to feed him rice or give him pills when he got wormy. They wouldn’t carry him to the shower room so he could get out of the rain. But he was going to be trained and finally be able to run free - something I could never have given him. So I patted his head, told him to sit and rubbed his ears one last time. He put his paw into my hand and looked so, so pleased with himself when he did it. I helped the kids put the collar back on him and he was smiling, in the way that dogs do, as he trotted happily out the gate, following the pull of the leash, just as I’d taught him.
One of the most popular sayings that I’ve observed is “gone to farm.” It means just that - that whomever you’re speaking of has left for the day, traveled out however many miles to their farm, and won’t be back for a little while. It can also mean something else - but I should start from the beginning.
I think I’ve mentioned my dog Trigger a few times. I got him with the intention of him being something to mess with when I had no real work to do. I had these visions of training him to dance and do tricks and show people just how fun it was to have a dog that wasn’t a mangy mongrel who growled and ran around with their tails between their legs. But I wasn’t gonna get attached - oh, no. Not me. I was going to keep my heart at a distance to steel myself from his inevitable, untimely death - as most volunteer’s dogs are wont to experience.
But Trigger would never have a chance to be a distant dog. Who was I kidding? I’m someone who puts my pets in t-shirts and buys them a small French fry at the drive-thru on our way to the park.
The love-hate relationship of my life is an adequate depiction. I loved having a dog - just…maybe not that dog. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a male dog and I wasn’t prepared for how feisty they are. No matter what I did, that dog wouldn’t stop biting. Me, the kids, anyone who tried to play with him. He was play-biting, of course, but his teeth were sharp. Not to mention his love for eating poop. Human poop. I’ll stop there, but let it be known that I did not accept kisses from my precious baby angel.
At the same time, I loved to come home and see someone - even a dog - so incredibly excited to see me. It was reminiscent of Juneau and my grand entrances after the morning shift at Starbucks - although, her enthusiasm had more to do with the fact that her eyes were about to float away because she had to pee so badly. I loved that time of the evening when he was tired and just wanted his ears scratched, no biting involved. He’d sit next to my chair, lean against my leg, let his eyes drift closed and put his paw on top of my foot. He really was a good dog - he was just…still a puppy.
After I came home from about two weeks away (at IST - our in-service training, and visiting my homestay family in the south) I could tell something was wrong. Instead of running loose as he always was when I left him in the care of my landlord, he was tied up and sitting on the porch, looking like, well, a kicked dog.
Turns out Trigger had eaten a chicken and a guinea fowl while I was gone. Not to mention the other chicken and baby goat I caught him eating and hid from my neighbors, the probable owners of the deceased. Everyone lets their animals run free here, so you’ve got a bit of a…petting zoo feel when you walk around. This poses a bit of a problem because everyone’s dogs roam loose as well. To solve that potential issue, people just beat the dogs when they come close. This keeps the dog loyal to the family it lives with - and that family only. They’re scared of everyone else and wouldn’t dream of trying to catch one of the baby chicks that are tripping all over themselves making a pitiful effort at trying to escape.
Trigger…well, he got a slightly different upbringing. No one beat him because he was my dog. He feared no one, everyone was his friend. He was bigger than any dog his age and gave the older, grizzled ‘street’ dogs a good scare. O mali yaa. He has strength.
Already the cards were stacked against him. All the kids played with him - tentatively - so when they’d try to throw a stick away from him to deter him from eating tiny chicks, that…didn’t actually work. He assumed they were now playing fetch, his favorite game, and he’d get right to that after he finished his snack.
Now when an animal is killed (by a lorry or motobike, for instance), the person who is at fault is expected to find the owner of the animal and reimburse him for the loss. It’s something I’m still trying to figure out since, if everyone kept their animals in pens, then an unsuspecting motorist wouldn’t have to worry that he’ll hit a lamb jetting across the dirt road. But anyways, that’s not how it goes here. When I was told he’d eaten a chicken and guinea, my heart dropped. That’s…a LOT of money to pay back. And people knew that he’d been terrorizing other animals beforehand.
The way to deal with animals who do that is to “send them to farm” - all dogs go to heaven-style.
I was able to translate this much of what my landlord said: because my dog had eaten the animals, they were sending him to farm.
In my head, all I could think was “Why did you have to wait to do this until I got back? Why couldn’t you have killed him while I was gone and said that he ran away?”
So the next thing I translated was “is that okay?” As in, is it okay that we ‘send your dog to farm’?
I had no idea what to say. I knew it was the only option - Trigger was beyond teaching. He’d gotten the taste for meat, for killing, he wasn’t about to stop when his other option was to eat corn porridge. And I couldn’t afford to pay for all the animals he had and would kill. But at the same time, I couldn’t just say “okay” to them killing my dog.
So I pleasantly ignored the situation, naively hoping it would go away. For two days, I was in knots. I was torn between ignoring Trigger, making it easier on myself when he was taken away, and playing with him, showering him with affection to give him some happy last days on earth. I ended up doing a mix of the latter. When I couldn’t ignore him any longer, we’d go for long walks and I’d let him tramp through the bush and do his best to catch lizards (apparently a lot more difficult to bring down than a guinea fowl, which flies). He started sitting every time I gave him the command, even started lifting his paw when I told him to ‘greet.’ It was horrible.
Then the time came - Sadi said he was going to farm ‘tomorrow.’ I made my decision. I left the entire day, doing work in a community about twelve miles away, to ensure that I wouldn’t be there when they came to take him.
I thought about it all day. The long bike ride and instrumental mix on my iPod didn’t make the miles go any faster. The lulls in the afternoon when teaching was done and I was waiting for the sun to lower were unbearable. I just knew Trigger’s body was somewhere in the bush, beginning to swell with the heat and maggot larvae.
I got home that evening, sweating and exhausted from the ride - and he was still there. They’d decided not to go to farm that day. By this time, I was just a wreck. So my friend Amina came over that night and I asked her to ask my landlord when they would go. He said whenever the guy was going to farm, he’d come and get the dog.
I asked why Sadi wasn’t taking him.
He didn’t want him - the whole point was to get rid of him.
But aren’t you just gonna…(I ran my fingers across my throat)?
O_o <<
The next day I had to go into town to get some work done, but when I came back, the dog was gone, as expected. I was slightly sad, but still felt the relief in knowing that he’d be alive and doing something he loved to do. I had already started to mentally separate myself from him - to not associate the corner of the porch as ‘his place,’ to toss the balls I’d made him out of duct tape and plastic bags into the rubbish pile.
And then he came running into the compound.
The boys followed about five seconds later, out of breath and exclaiming that he’d seen me walking down the road and broke free of his chain.
I had a moment of pride in knowing that, in the four short months that I’d had him, he knew that I was his. Balima and Boinaayong (our local names) were inseparable.
Sadi said he’d come back the night before, too. He knew where his home was.
But it wasn’t his home anymore. He had new owners who weren’t going to feed him rice or give him pills when he got wormy. They wouldn’t carry him to the shower room so he could get out of the rain. But he was going to be trained and finally be able to run free - something I could never have given him. So I patted his head, told him to sit and rubbed his ears one last time. He put his paw into my hand and looked so, so pleased with himself when he did it. I helped the kids put the collar back on him and he was smiling, in the way that dogs do, as he trotted happily out the gate, following the pull of the leash, just as I’d taught him.