My life in dog years

August 22, 2018

My life in dog years

I spent last night lying next to Owondo, trying to comfort him. His back legs shook and he was so zombie-like from the drugs they gave him. His tongue was limp and it scared me to try to give him necessary pills, let alone feed him. The feel of his tongue reminded me so much of the puppy I found in Botswana a few months ago. This puppy was probably between 6 and 8 weeks old, and was roaming around the village with his head stuck in a tin can. He wasn’t much different from Owondo when I first got Owondo, a brown malnourished village puppy covered in mites. Despite trying to feed him good food- tuna fish, milky rice, oatmeal- the poor pup wouldn’t eat or drink and didn’t live longer than 3 days. He slowly began to die in a box in my house. His body was cold, so I thought it might be more comfortable to die warm, under the heat of the sun, and I moved him outside. His mouth began to spasm as though he were going to vomit, and I was glad when he finally stopped showing signs of life. Aunsie, a local vet and friend, thought he might have contracted parvo since none of the village dogs are vaccinated. It made me feel amazed that Owondo spent the first months of his life in much the same condition, but somehow is still alive today.

Laying by Owondo last night, I kept one hand on his head and the other a few inches from his nose. His breath was labored and I thought it might make him feel better to smell me so close in real time. He was wrapped up in the same blanket I wrapped him in the nights I slept with him on the tile floor in my Yaoundé apartment after he was hit by a car (or a motorbike potentially based on how much he hates those) and before the vet would close the wound. The original accident was jarring. Owondo ran away from my house on Friday when I was at work. My housekeeper, a novice to the Western ways of caring for dogs, had let him out of my apartment assuming he’d just follow her to the trash dump. He was unneutered at the time since I couldn’t trust a vet enough to do that procedure, and she called me before I had left the office to tell me that Owondo had run away. I rushed home to find out what happened and assumed he’d come back shortly. I waited, and then decided to take a motorbike around the neighborhood to see if I could find him. I remember telling the mototaximan that I wasn’t sure where we were going, but we were looking for a brown village dog. Needless to say, we stopped frequently but had no luck.

I stayed awake all night, and kept checking every few hours outside the apartment gate to see if he’d returned. I felt afraid going out at such odd hours, but I was sure he’d come back on his own like he did every other time when we lived in the village. By the time Saturday night came around, I called my friends Imoite and Jake, two RPCVS, to come drink with me. I needed to drown my sorrows in beer because I sincerely thought Owondo was never coming back to me. Imoite hesitated before agreeing, feeling sad since he had spent a few weeks watching Owondo when I went on a work trip. He agreed, and left his house with his then girlfriend, Lilian. She saw a dog eating from a trash pile on the busy road and called to it, “Owondo!” It wasn’t Owondo, but at that moment Owondo came forward from the shadows, limping and holding his paw up. Imoite called me. I still remember asking why he couldn’t bring Owondo to me. “It’s bad,” I remember Imoite saying.

I grabbed the first taxi I could and met them on the dark street in front of his house. I don’t remember if they were holding Owondo or just hanging onto him. It was all a blur. Before I knew it we were all in a taxi, and I was cradling Owondo in my lap. His leg was split wide open, down to the exposed bone, and the wound was starting to scab over. His lower tooth looked loose and only later did I realize it was his jaw broken at the edge. He needed a vet immediately. None of us, not the taxi driver, not Imoite or Lilian, or myself, knew where to find a vet open on a Saturday night. Of course there are no vets open on a Saturday night! We drove to the hospital and were immediately turned around, told that no animals are allowed on the premises. We eventually got a hold of a vet in Bastos, a wealthier neighborhood where the extravagance of having a pet is not unheard of. She told me to come back tomorrow, and we went home, happy to have found a vet at all, let alone one who would work on a Sunday. I took Owondo home that night, wrapped him in his green plaid blanket, covering his exposed leg wound, and slept next to him all night.

I remember thinking that night how lucky I’d be if he survived, and a few months later I remember feeling so amazed at his incredible strength of will. I never thought I’d find myself in the same place five years later, comforting Owondo through the ultimate loss of his leg. There’s a beauty to being able to care for an aging or ill pet, a giving back of all the unconditional love and energy that they give us. Owondo has showed me how to be a better care giver this past year following our optimistic arthrodesis surgery, and I get so much relief knowing that this will end his pain and improve his life. This morning Owondo began to show more signs of alertness, licking my hand a little, and waging his tail. I was so relieved when he ate his food and drank water. He’s been out to pee twice, and that has been quite a challenge for a former territory marker. He resigned himself once to leaning on the planter and to squat peeing the second time, stumbling both times. His wound is getting a little leaky with blood, though, and I’m sure it’s just a sarcoma draining. He goes into the vet again today for some laser therapy. I’m still unclear if laser therapy is hogwash or actual science, but if it helps him heal faster or better, it’s worth a shot.