It’s a month since my human, the second one, decided to put me down, but she’s procrastinating. The moment she made the decision she gave off a stench of self-loathing and guilt. She wept to herself, stroking me, apologising until I licked her: I’m ready, stop being selfish. They’re dead to our senses. I try to keep away from her pain for me but she won’t let me alone. Her grief is killing my relief. It’s the same scent she and her sister emitted just before they put Orora down. We were happy they had come to their senses, but their misery was unbearable. Unfortunately, they didn’t take me along to the vet for Orora’s passing. I would have liked to feel her go. Then perhaps the human stench of bereavement would have been bearable. The previous night we said goodbye, me and Orora. We squeezed onto my couch. She kept telling me to stop missing her because my scent was keeping her awake, that I should wait till she was gone. She hoped then that our humans would put me down soon afterwards. That was two years ago. Selfish, that’s what it is.
• • •
The day Orora came to visit at the vet’s clinic! I felt her the minute she leapt out of the car. Orora was a breed, no fault of her own, but she had a heart bigger than my mother’s, the bravery of a wolf, the determination of a dingo, the persistence of a jackal and the cunning of a true fox. No truer canine. When she felt me alive, she bounded into the clinic, upsetting humans and their pets, jumped all over me, yapping as if someone had taken her pups and returned them. You have no idea what a familiar scent of a dog does to you when you come back to life in an animal clinic with pets odd and weird staring at you, in a strange country where you’ve been subjected to bizarre things like shampoo baths. We licked each other until our mouths went dry. I tried to get up but wooziness brought me down. Orora yapped, They didn’t put you down, they didn’t put you down. I said, But they did; look, I’m right down on the floor. She said, You’re in England. I said, England is outside reality; look at the creatures you call dogs. Why is everyone so meek?
Shhh, she laughed, they’ll hear you!
After that day, we were inseparable. Even during walks, when pets laughed Look what Orora dragged in, she stood by me. And I confess it wasn’t easy, because I didn’t know how to hide my contempt for pets.
I don’t know what happened at Manchester Airport when we landed. I was comatose. Later, Orora told me that our human had special arrangements with friends in Customs. Whenever his trunks from Africa were deplaned, they were identified by the friends and diverted to a warehouse without going through the proper channels. In fact, Orora told me, she had never been through customs because they quarantine pets returning from abroad.
When the human discovered me in the trunk, he almost died of shock. However, Orora fussed so much her human drove me straight to the vet. For me, I was yesterday’s dead. I was resurrected in a clinic by a vet caressing my hocks. Two other vets came around and smiled and made noises as if I were a pup again. Resurrecting to the vicious smells in the clinic, I thought humans are lucky they’re smell-dead. There were artificial concoctions grating my nostrils. Metallic flavours stinging my rhinarium. Then the smells of pain, of fear and of the animals passed on. I was still working out how I felt about being resurrected when I started shaking so violently my vision went. When I woke up again I was in a cot, like a human pup, only on the floor.
• • •
Our human carried me from the vet’s clinic and laid me on the back seat. Orora jumped in with me. She licked me. It’s fine, car rides are fine, just relax, you’ll get used to it and start to enjoy them. She couldn’t stop bouncing on the seat, yelping, My world isn’t torture, just different, there were things she couldn’t wait to show me, she couldn’t wait for me to meet other pets. Me, I was busy sensing out the pariahs in Manchester, plotting how soon I would escape and find a pariah family. I needed to locate where, what and who was who so I could map myself on the territory, but I was getting nothing. The air felt so dry my nose was parched. At first, I thought it was the medicines the vets had injected into me. I feared they had killed my senses. Finally, I confessed: Orora, I think I’ve lost my sensing, I don’t feel this place.
She laughed so hard she fell off her seat. You’ve not lost your perception, compared to Kampala, which—with all due respect—is an assault on everything sensory. Manchester is tame.
So how do you find your way home in case you ran too far in the night?
Why would I run too far in the night?
When you’ve been out exploring because humans are sleeping or you run into hostiles who chased you far from your familiar.
Orora looked at me funny then laughed. It won’t happen. She must have seen the worry on my face, for she added, Maybe the car’s moving too fast for you to register things? You’ll soon get used to the sights and sounds around our area, don’t worry.
We arrived at the house. Car door unlocked, Orora bounded out. I stepped out unsteadily. Orora was already impatient at the entrance door. Our human opened and Orora bounded up the stairs. Me, I lingered below, looking up. Orora, up on the landing, said, Come on. I claimed wooziness but I was lying. I wasn’t woozy. I was entering pethood. Our human lifted me and we went up two flights. Once again, Orora was impatient at the door.
But once inside the house, my pariah instincts kicked in and I nosed every inch of the house. It was carpet, carpet, coats hung. Only one human scent. Door, carpet, carpet, chairs, table, wall, sofa, gadgets, wall, carpet, carpet, linoleum, bathroom—humans drop dung in a bowl indoors! Strong sleep scents in the bedroom. My nose led me to the last room. Another trunk, empty but distant smells of snake, rhino horn, lion, cheetah, elephant lingered. Before I could say I would love to sleep in this room, Orora pulled me out by the ears: Never, ever go sniffing in that room again.
Apparently, one time our human saw her sniffing and gave off the foulest fear. Then he sniffed everywhere comically. Then he sprayed the house with that nauseating stuff. You won’t believe what humans call air-refresher, she said, Most revolting.
I returned to the living room and Orora showed me my couch. I laughed because I couldn’t believe her. I abhorred becoming a pet, but I looked forward to sleeping on that couch. Then I went to the kitchen, which I’d been putting off all this time. I walked nonchalantly as if I wasn’t fighting my nose, which wanted to raid the bin there and then. I already knew that the bin, hidden in the corner and a paradise of meats, was forbidden. Pets in Uganda used to say If you want to see a human go dingo on you, tip the bin over. I stopped. For the first time in my life, I won the battle against my nose.
Afterwards, our human sat down on his sofa with a can of beer. He burst the top, took a swig and then snapped his fingers at me. I stood up, took reluctant paws towards him.
‘Sit.’
Orora sat. I flicked my tongue: I’ll sit when I’m ready, but Orora whispered, Sit on your hinds, please. I sat.
‘Right,’ the human said, pointing at me, ‘you need a name.’
My tail swept the carpet. In Uganda, pets have such original names like Police, Simba, Askari. I thought, maybe this human was more creative. I could see him thinking. A name arrived in his head and his eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers and pointed.
‘Stow, for Stowaway.’
I looked at Orora: Really? She said, Aww, I like Stow. Others don’t have to know what it means. I just walked away, curled up on my couch and put my head down.
• • •
One day I lost it.
Dogs in Britain had never heard of a Namaaso. The blank faces when I explained what a pariah is. They understood one thing only: stray. I laboured the fact that there was no pet blood in my family but the dogs thought I was just ignorant. As I explained myself, this pug laughed, Stow, you’re so anonymous you don’t even have a breed!
See, this was the pug who bragged about his pedigree. I asked him, And what has being a thoroughbred done for you? That lazy nose? I turned to the basset hound who had joined in the laughing and asked him, Were you a seal in your former life? Even
that couple of spooky ghost dogs—they call themselves Irish wolfhounds—had been sniggering. I said, And you, why don’t you find a broom, fly in the moonlight and find yourselves a witch human? The bull terrier started going all goody-goody on me: Stow, you can’t say things like that, we’re all beautiful.
I said, Not you, sweetheart. You should sue the humans for what they did to your nature.
She said, I’ve never been subjected to such prejudice in my entire life.
I said, Somehow I don’t believe that. Unless cats in Britain have lost their tongues.
A Persian shouted, Leave felines out of it.
Poor Orora. She apologised, saying that I didn’t mean what I said, that I didn’t understand the nature of breeds, that it was those differences that made all dogs unique and beautiful and wonderful. She didn’t talk to me for days. Maybe I was a bit of a dingo then.
• • •
The day I arrived we stayed indoors all day, all night.
I had never known a night so dead. No insects, no lizards, a few birds and squirrels. I thought the silence would kill me. I was restless. Night was calling. The following day I asked, Orora, when do we skip outside to explore? She said, In this country, we stay indoors. It can get very cold outside.
I could not believe it; the house was a cage. Only you were not let out at night. I climbed up onto the sofa below the window and gazed outside. It was not cold when we arrived. Orora sensed my turmoil and said, It was a good day yesterday, but you can’t just go outside without a human. You can’t run around unsupervised in this country. You need to be put on a lead.
The L-word. Orora saw my fur standing on end and added, Only during walks.
I desperately needed to run around the village and sniff out the canine world—who is the alpha, who is his favourite, who is in season, what kind of males has she pulled, who has become roadkill, who did not return last night, who was attacked, who has been outcasted?
On our first walk, I couldn’t believe this world. Dogs as fat as meat-makers. Even cats. I thought cat and lean were synonymous. Arrogant pigeons. No fear at all. They wouldn’t even fly out of your way. You growled, they orhooed right back. Squirrels so contemptuous they laughed if you threatened. When I dropped dung, our human picked it up. Embarrassment showered under my fur. Was I not supposed to drop a dump?
But there was no anger in our human. I thought, this is messed up in more ways than a hyena. Then I saw Orora being picked up after and I relaxed a bit. In Uganda, cats called us foulers because we don’t dig a hole to do our business and bury it. It’s the one thing that makes us insecure. Now I imagined the contemptuous things British cats said behind our backs and the following day I tried to bury, but Orora said, Don’t bother, you only make it harder for our human. I saw other humans picking up after their dogs and left it. I had travelled to so far outside reality my nose would not find my way back even if I tried.
As for food, what can I say? At first, I was given those pebbles in a bowl. Then a bowl of water. When I tasted them in Uganda, they were good as a snack, but I’m sorry, pebbles and water simply do not constitute a meal. For pet food, I could tolerate mashed sweet potatoes in peanut butter sauce mixed with mukene fish or posho soaked in the juices of a lamb joint, preferably salted and raw. But pebbles are a joke. Dog biscuits are fake food. Luckily, the bin in the house was always bulging. Our first human loved chicken drumsticks and thighs. Often, they went out of date and he threw them away. Sausage, salami, bacon, gammon, burgers, hot dogs, cheese oh heavenly cheese, venison, elk, turkey and milk. I felt like a pariah again foraging in the bin. At first Orora was disgusted as I crunched chicken bones—Stop it, Stow! You’ll be sick. I’d point at my stomach: I have a crusher in there. By the time she died, sausage and salami were Orora’s favourites.
When the first human found out I ate out of the bin, he started sharing his food. I must confess steak, rare, salted, dripping with blood is the ultimate. I needed to drink a lot of water after a gammon or a pork shank. Hooked me on salt. The best times are at Christmas open markets when farmers bring meats straight from slaughter on their farms onto the fire. All forms of human cooking, BBQ, charcoal muchomo, grilled, baked, breaded and fried, cured; it’s a madness of flavours. The human, the first one, would buy a lot of meat and we would eat together. Even Orora started to look forward to it. Even when we were taken to the dog sanctuary the first human told them: ‘Stow, the big one, eats meat cooked with salt. Orora, the Pomeranian, eats dog food.’
• • •
I’d never seen so many different natures of dogs in one place as I did in Manchester. I asked Orora, Are you all native to Britain? She said, We’re native to the world. I looked at her because now she could say whatever she wanted to me. However, humans call us breeds. Then she told me how humans create breeds by selection. I was revolted. But she said, Oh, it’s not like Dolly the sheep. I’d never heard of Dolly the sheep.
The first time I saw a Chihuahua, I thought it was a battery-powered toy. Eyes too large for the face, ears of a large dog, took tens of steps to keep up, squeaked like a two-month-old pup. I thought, this can’t be right. I whispered to Orora, Did humans do that to her? She bit my ear and I kept quiet. But because British humans love travelling with their pets, I warned the Chihuahua, Don’t ever let your human take you to Uganda: a kite could swoop down and carry you off for dinner.
The Chihuahua burst into tears, claimed it was traumatised.
• • •
The day humans took our first human away, we sensed nothing at all until it was too late. He didn’t travel to Uganda any more. But empty trunks kept coming and going. However, on this night, I don’t know what possessed him. A trunk with animal bits arrived. I suspect that the smell of hides and skins threw my now blunt nose off balance because I didn’t smell anything until too late.
We were asleep when I felt the agitation of strange foxhounds. Two of them downstairs, too close to our block. Then strange humans, non-residents. I sat up and listened. Their anticipation was mixed with worry and uncertainty as if they were going on a hunt. I nudged Orora. She said, It must be the neighbours downstairs; they do drugs, and went back to sleep. But I hadn’t lost my pariah instincts entirely. I told her, They’re coming for us, and went to the human’s door. I scratched and whimpered until he woke up. When he opened the door, I ran up and down the house. Orora was irritated. The human turned on the lights and the agitation outside surged. I raised my voice, but he shushed me and ordered me back to the couch. I slid under his worktable, tucked my tail in and skulked. He understood. He turned off the light and listened. Then he peered behind the curtain. It was like a trigger; humans outside crept up the stairs. Instead of out of the house the human ran to his bedroom.
The house was blitzed, humans shrieking orders, blinding torches, boots stomping like soldiers at the airstrip on Uganda Independence Day. The savages forced our human onto the floor and handcuffed him. Orora tried to disappear into me. The contemptuous foxhounds nosed the house like pariahs taking over a new territory. They laughed as they told us the human was a wildlife smuggler.
Lick him goodbye, you’ll never see him again.
Yep, prepare for the impound.
As the humans dragged our human away, he told them that there were two dogs in the house; that if we were separated neither one would eat.
The trunk was carried out.
Humans were everywhere turning everything upside down, knocking on walls and listening. The house was under their guard for the rest of the night.
Later in the morning when the impound humans came for us, I saw Orora terrified. She was leaving her home forever. I had no such attachments, as long as Orora and I were together. At the sanctuary we were put in the same room. We huddled together day and night.
Orora became a star to prospective humans. She performed. I could not perform adorability if I tried. Dogs said I was grumpy and morose; I was ungrateful because they would give anything for a human like the one we had.
I was holding Orora back; I should just be put down. I said, Bring it on; better than being a pet. Orora went, Don’t be like that, Stow. He pretends not to miss him, but he warned our human; didn’t you, Stow? I flicked my tongue, Me? Miss a human, ppu!
But then humans became interested in our refusal to be separated. One day, two men came and took pictures and watched us through their cameras for a week. After that, we were overwhelmed by attention. Even my grouchiness seemed to charm the humans. Eventually, we were matched to a couple of elderly sisters. We’ve been together nine human years now. And when Orora died, they never bought another dog. But then one of the sisters died too and it’s just the two of us now. Luckily, I am passing on soon. My human will live another two years maybe and she too will go. Her liver is dying but she has no idea.
• • •
I’d not been in season when I arrived in Manchester. And I must confess there were some magnificent breeds; I thought I would be spoilt for choice when my season came. Orora didn’t even know what being in season was. I told her it’s the happiest time in a female’s life. Twice a year you are bathed in this fragrance that sends males so crazy they must fight their way into your presence. Strong males within scenting radius hang around you hoping to be the lucky one. As many as fifteen males around you all day, all night making sure no one touches you. The love and worship showered on you for just a sniff and a lick! You stand up, they all stand up, you trot, they trot, you stop, they stop, you lie down, they sprawl around you.
In preparation for my first season, I drew a list of natures I could mate with. First, no dogs smaller than me. Corgis, terriers, spaniels, not even collies—too shaggy, they remind me of sheep. Don’t mention Chihuahuas. Poodles? No thank you—too vain. Call me a bigot if you want, but flamboyance turns on she-birds, peacock tails and all, not me. Even greyhounds were off the menu—too skinny. No dachshunds either. I think in the beginning of time dachshunds aspired to be crocodiles but ended up half-reptile, half-canine. I couldn’t bear the melancholy of the bloodhound. No Australian cattle dogs either, those dogs are glorified foxes.
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