You can take the dog out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the dog.

August 27, 2018

You can take the dog out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the dog.

We're 7 days out from the surgery today. I'm relieved that the healing is progressing. The lymph and blood that started to form liquid pockets around his chest, that jiggled and moved like a fatty breast, are now draining, much like a lactating breast. I find myself changing his shirt daily. At first I thought the shirt would help prevent him from licking or scratching the surgery site, but now I am glad for the absorbent powers of 100% cotton. The jiggling of the sarcoma has decreased as it drains little by little, and the incision site is healing really well.

Owondo just isn't himself, though. The drugs make him sleepy, and he's just become this helpless little dog, uncertain of his movements. I know he's just undergone a major surgery, but I can't help but wonder when I'll see his old personality return. Looking back on this past year, even though I've been away for most of it, I feel nostalgia for when Owondo was a disobedient dog, full of spirit and free-will. I wonder if he'll return to that dog once he's all healed up, off the drugs, and completely mobile and newly confident on three legs. It's almost like he's a new dog since the first surgery last year, and I'm wondering if the pain he's been in is the culprit. This is what I'm looking forward to finding out once the healing is done and we can start building up his strength and stamina.

I keep finding myself locked in bouts of sadness- a sense of loss not just of Owondo's leg but of the fabric of who I am as a person. I love Owondo for what he means to me now, but especially because he's so much a part of my identity and past. I love him so much that I put a peanut tattoo on my back. Now looking at it, the plant has three leaves, three peanuts, and three root stems, and I recognize the symbolism in that.

I'm sure it's the nostalgia, but I consider one year, in particular, to be one of my favorites and most formative. When I finished my second year of Peace Corps and moved to my post for the third year extension- a beach site right across the river from Equatorial Guinea- I had my then boyfriend drive us as far as he could. I remember feeling concerned for how I would transport Owondo to Kribi, the nearest city to where I would live for that year, and I felt relief when my boyfriend agreed. I don't remember how long I stayed in Kribi before heading down to Campo, but maybe we stayed with my friend Emily for a night or two before getting a ride with the WWF down to my house. I remember everyone was worried about Owondo riding in the 4x4 with them, and I agreed to put him in his cage for the drive down.

The agroforestry assistant for Peace Corps helped pick out my house that WWF rented for me, and I remember being bewildered when JP, the driver, dropped me off in front of a beautiful duplex out in the far reaches of the neighborhood behind town hall. The owner of the house, Oscar, divided his time between Douala and Campo and stayed next to me when he was in town. Oscar became my friend over the year and I grew to trust and admire him for his commitment to Campo. He really loved Owondo, too, and would feed him fishbones and scraps from his food whenever he was in town.

I loved my year in Campo, not just for my personal and professional growth, but for the environment and people. It was a small town, and I'd walk each evening to the beach for a swim. The roads in and around town were so bad, often muddy from the rains, that I let Owondo be a true village dog for the first time in his life. He slept in the house with me, and sometimes he'd walk me to my office, about a half hour walk towards the forest. Sometimes he'd stick around, but once we lived there for long enough and he was no longer afraid that I'd leave without him, he would walk back to town all by himself. On the weekends, I would take him on long bike rides through the forest, and he'd follow me the whole way, stopping only to drink water from the streams and to mark trees or greet dogs we'd pass on our way through small villages. We'd return home in the early afternoon, and he'd lay down, exhausted from a long run, panting from the heat. I would always leave my doors open to keep the house cool, and I assumed he'd be too tired to go anywhere. But after half an hour, I'd be busy making food in my kitchen, or washing clothes, and I'd turn around to look for him, but he'd be gone- straight out the door following a neighbor's dog to a different part of the village, or chasing a large lizard through a felled log in the backyard.

Owondo loved his year as a village dog. Some Peace Corps friends stayed with me, and reported that they saw Owondo at the car station (it wasn't a bus station since only Toyota station wagons with 4x4 could get there) where women sell beers and grilled fish and food from tables. Owondo was seated in front of a man eating fish, staring at him, obviously begging for food. "Ok," said the man. "I'll give you one piece of fish if you go away after." Apparently the man was negotiating his freedom from Owondo's hungry eyes, and eventually shared almost half of his food with him, as my friend reported to me. Other people weren't so fond of him. When it was the height of the rainy season, people had to navigate their way through the deep mud down paths that were slightly elevated above the road. These footpaths were still slippery and there was a guarantee you'd make it to work at least partly covered in mud. I wound my way around people, negotiating passage, and Owondo ran bravely through. "Eikiye!" some older women exclaimed angrily. "This dog thinks he's better than people, using our paths!" I tried not to think about how many times he was kicked for doing nothing, or loved for being slightly trained. I was just always glad that despite the occasional threats of being turned into someone's dinner, no one had made any real attempt to eat him.

Owondo's biggest fan was a man named Ayo. I struggle to remember some people's names, but I will never forget Ayo. He was mentally ill, and he'd do piece jobs- cutting grass outside the Catholic church- for food. He was slight of figure and wore yellow-stained, torn up clothing and cheap flip flops. He spoke with a stutter sometimes. Ayo loved Owondo so much. A few times a week in the early mornings, right as the sun was rising, he'd come to my door, and call to Owondo through the slatted glass windows at my front door. Owondo would jump from the bed and run to see who was there. I ignored him when it was too early, but would sometimes answer the door and try to understand whatever it was he was trying to tell me.

On days when I had to travel for work, I'd leave Owondo attached to my veranda outside my house with a long chain. I'd leave plenty of water and sometimes his food if he hadn't eaten much before I left. The first time Owondo went missing, I went to do a soy training in a village out towards Kribi, and was on my way home on the back of a motorbike in the early evening. In the village just at the entrance of Campo, I saw a man high up on the hill outside a house. It looked like he was talking to a dog, and even though we were going quickly down the road as I was in a rush to get back to Owondo, I thought that the dog outside that house looked different from other village dogs- this dog looked assertive and brave with people. I asked my motortaximan to stop, and we looked back to see Ayo running towards us with Owondo on the chain. I got off the motorbike and was in shock to see them all this way from my house. Ayo, it seemed, was concerned for Owondo and he decided to keep him with him all day. We agreed that he'd meet me back at my house, and just twenty minutes later they showed back up. I'd later learn the shortcut he used to get back to my house so quickly, but this was the first of three times that I know of that Ayo "kidnapped" or dogsat Owondo without my knowledge. I grew to learn that whenever I'd come home to find a chain with no dog on the end, I needed to look for Ayo.