Growing up in the dusty hood of Kaptembwa, a boy's sense of security and pride was having a dog regardless of the breed. We didn't know fancy dog names let alone about breeds notably since most, if not all, dogs were mongrels: inextricable pedigrees. Popular names were Simba, Rex, Chui and Bosco. If your dog didn't have either of the names then it wasn't of the hood. One of our dogs back then, and the favorite, was named Tony. He was a brown Labrador. His name was attuned to other places than the hood.
As fortune did allow, he lived long enough to taste the grass to grace story of us, as a family, having moved with him from the hood to the outskirt suburbs. From getting left-over meals to having his own kitchen and meals cooked. From scrubbing against fences to getting washed and groomed weekly with shampoo. With time Tony forgot the common hood slang of "Saah!" to command for attack and "Ass Ass" with finger snapping to prompt for calling. Tony refined his vocabulary with "Come", "Sit" and "Stay". In his loyalty, of over a decade, he aged gracefully and on his final dog days, we celebrated a life well lived.
Then came Maya the German Shepherd. With her long brown and black coat, she was worth the purchase. Maya was enrolled in K9 training and her results were astonishing. Her barks would resound in power and intention. Every weekend we would take a walk around the neighborhood on leash to sooth our egos of the stares and intimidation. Sadly, six years later, fate struck that Maya got diagnosed with aflatoxin poisoning and we witnessed her emaciate, wither away, fur shading in season like autumn leaves and too weak to walk, she fell, growled and breathed her last.
As years went by, my brother Shem and I wanted another dog. We thought of a pure female breed to have puppies that we would sell for a fortune. Our papa came in and said, "Worry no more. You know why..." (Abel Mutua fans will know that bit). One evening, at dusk, he drove in with his pick-up truck and hooted us out from the house. "Hebu oneni hii mbwa." We peeped at the back only to see a malnourished black dirty dog whimpering and twisting its head violently to free itself from the chocking sisal rope. Its tail was tucked between the legs and the truck's deck was spotted in piss. This was clearly an abducted stray dog from the streets that saw its life ending in a dark mutura corner. Luckily, it came home. "Nani ataifungulia?" Papa said as he dusted his hands off while getting from the wheel. We looked at each other only for our staff to jump in, dragged it off and quarantined it in the kennels.
Early morning on the morrow, our vet came in with all possible treatments of a stray dog. Our staff tried washing it but over the years the dog was accustomed only to rain water. The greatest challenge came when trying to potty-train in which we miserably failed. This mongrel defecated at random points to wildly proportions that canceled out all digestive mechanisms. Its kennel was ever stuffed with mats, dusters, sticks and paraphernalia that it saw fit to drag in. I guess other dogs were amused as much and cursed out, "For heavens' sake!" many times in their minds. Truly teaching an old dog new tricks to be an impossibility would have been our greatest lesson in which we learnt. At last, we gave up and returned the dog to its natural habitat: the streets.
Months later, while driving to the market, I spotted the same stray dog, now fully vaccinated thanks to us, in a sewer blocked culvert. I slowed down to watch it crawl out, leaving a litter of puppies behind and crossing the road gracefully, its tongue out and mammary glands swinging side to side. It surprisingly seemed contended to go out and fetch left-over garbage for her puppies. "Damn! This bitch got pregnant! In a culvert!" I exclaimed. I drove off in awe and understanding, from all my papa's dogs that came home, that some creatures, including humans, if of the streets, are best left ungroomed, primal and unbothered.
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