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In
the run-up to the commemoration of the 9/11 attacks, there were numerous
documentaries, which I avidly followed. Of the many moving accounts I listened
to, I was particularly drawn to the one about Salty, a Labrador Retriever. He was a guide dog that guided his visually
challenged owner, Omar Rivera, who worked on the 71st floor of Tower
1 of the World Trade Center to safety. Also playing hero at the time of the
attacks was Roselle, another Labrador Retriever who also led her owner, Michael
Hingson, to safety. Read here for detailed accounts of the dogs’ heroic antics.
There
are countless stories of dogs doing awesome things that will just bedazzle you.
Because I love canines so much, their stories always catch my attention. I recently
read about the tear-jerking story of a pregnant dog in Chile breastfeeding a
starving 2-year-old, and another dog rescuing a newborn baby that had been dumped in a bin.
In light of all the wonderful things that dogs do, I don’t understand it when
people describe things that have
deteriorated as having “gone to the dogs”. Going to the dogs should actually
be a good thing as there is a lot to be emulated from these four-legged
friends. People also describe misery as “a dog’s life”, and a messy situation
is described as looking like “a dog’s breakfast”. In my mother-tongue, among the
worst insults you can ever get from anyone is to be called “Imbwa yemunhu!”
Let
me get back to my own dog story. On the days I came back home from university
after a long time, Winds would run for me and fall short of tripping me with
joy. He would then gently take my wrist between his jaws and walk with me to
the house. This he did to avoid any of my parents’ lodgers shaking my hand in
greeting. If anybody dared, woe betides! When I was heavily pregnant and had to
go home to visit my hospitalized mother, I was sure winds would not remember
me, but lo and behold he was still madly excited to see me. Winds was the
epitome of home. If any of my sisters went home, we would all ask after Winds’
health. He was a crucial part of the family. At around the age of three or
four, my son, Victor, was a cry baby. If I sneezed, sometimes he would start
crying in annoyance and if we asked what he was crying for, he would say, “Ndiri kuchemera madzihwa.” Loosely
translated it means I’m crying for your mucous, but he actually meant he was
annoyed or upset about my sneezing. One day he sneezed and I started imitating
his wailing. Winds was sitting next to me, and immediately started howling with
me in the same manner. It was the most mind-blowing moment of my relationship
with the dog. My mother was sitting with
us and was equally tickled by Winds’ behaviour. Funny as it was, it just showed
me Winds’ empathetic side, something I have failed to get from some human
beings I’ve met in the walk of life.
Winds’
compassion didn’t end there. About two years after the crying incident, my
mother took ill and could not get out of her room for some days. Winds was very
perceptive and knew this was unheard of. Mum was always hustling and bustling
around the yard and never went down with anything. Dogs in our household were
not allowed to come and sit in the house, but Winds too his chances. He would
make his way to mum’s room and just sit on the floor, watching her. No one
chased him away because they could all feel his pain. Another time when
exceptions had to be made was during the festive season when fire crackers
would go off during the night. He would get into the house, tail between his
legs like a new son-in-law and curl into a miserable ball at our feet. Winds would be so petrified it was sad to
watch. Sometimes, however, we would find him sleeping on beds with his head on
the pillow, like the pigs in George Orwell’s Animal Farm even though there were
no firecrackers.
My
son was a handful sometimes, and to get him to co-operate, I had to threaten
him with a stick. Winds did not stand for that. As soon as he saw me with the
stick, he would come for me guns blazing! He would bark angrily until I dropped
the stick. One day I defied him and he bit me on the left foot. He was also
very intolerant of people treading on his tail.
All hell would break loose. Unfortunately he liked sitting in the dark
passageway where trampling his tail was inevitable.
Winds
was trained to go to the back of the house if he needed to relieve himself.
Like any naughty child, however, sometimes he would just drop it at the front
of the house where his little heap would be the first to greet visitors. My
brother, upon seeing it, would ask, “Winds, chii
icho?” (Winds, what is that?) Winds would melt away to the back of the
house with the Greg Focker of Meet the Parents hangdog look after he was caught
out on bringing home a fake Mr Jinx.
Everyone
in my family has their own sweet Winds story. When my father called to let me
know that Winds had died, I wept quietly. He was a part of our family and
showed us that it’s quite possible to love another species more than members of
your own. I prepared a good meal in his memory, and asked my husband and son to
bow their head as we observed a moment of silence in respect of our dearly
departed shaggy friend and almost brother.
This
was a long and winding version of my supreme respect for dogs, which look out
for the interest of humans, and my consummate revulsion of fellow human beings
who torment both animals and those of their own ilk. I feel sick to the pit of
my stomach when I see pictures of trophy hunters and hear news of senseless
killings around the world. This past weekend Paris was attacked and at least
130 people were killed. Not too long ago, Garissa University in Nairobi was
attacked and at least 147 students killed. It has become a daily occurrence. People
get murdered, raped, and abused in all manner and former by fellow human
beings. What happened to being your brother’s keeper? May God intervene.
