Street Dog

My sister Mrs Ryan packed up her family yesterday to hightail it home thanks to Crapstar Airlines, where the hosties are surly and the dunnies flood. She left her daughter behind, my 8 year old niece to act as a buffer between the two Woogettes, a job in which her easygoing demeanor is essential.
But Mrs Ryan left also behind a problem. A adorable tiny puppy with a broken leg had followed her home the other day and she fed it. And gave it water. Which I would also have done, but then I would have to blame myself for it hanging around.
Now when I say adorable, I mean like Yoda adorable. Ugly Cute. So mangy and scruffy and limp. It followed me around yesterday as I went in search of an owner. Knocking on doors of fancy villas and run down Balinese Family compounds. And the attitude was all the same. “Street Dog” “No one care about that dog” “Just kick it away”.
And each time I looked down at this little creature, it wagged it’s tail and sat next to me. I was careful not to touch it (although I was desperate to show it some love) but it also had a rather nasty looking skin rash. I walked back home.
Balinese are all about the cat. Cats have mythical god like status and you must always respect them. No one ever harms a cat here. Dogs are a different story.
Last week I was travelling back from Legian in a taxi when I squealed at the driver that there was a dog on the road. He said it was a “Satay Dog and did not matter.” He went on to tell me that dog meat made good satay, and was hot and spicy. And made for good lovemaking.
There were too many shocking facts in those few sentences. I understand the differences between cultures and I can respect most, but I cannot get my head around eating dog. I am probably not the only one?
On the beaches in Bali, it is like Cesar Millan’s Ultimate Workshop. You get your mixed breeds with collars and full belly’s (showing they had a family who fed them somewhere) and then there are the Fluffy Imported Breeds that the ex-pats bring over with them and get the hired help walk them on the sands.
And then there are the street dogs, who are left to roam and scavenge and breed. They look like a cross between a full dingo and a half dingo. Very Dingoy.
In Bali, the Government gives a new motorbike to every man who has a vasectomy, in an effort to kerb the population explosion. I cannot help but think there should be some incentive to control the dog population explosion as well. And it would not be as expensive.
But back to my little pal.
I spent an hour on the Internet looking up vets and having some seriously frustrating conversations with the help of my phrase book. I wanted a vet sent out to me, or me to go to a vet, but everything seemed impossible. I eventually found one that was not 2 hours away, but of course it was closed.
I figured I would spoil this little puppy for a day before I took him to the Vet, most probably to be euthanized, a thought which bought me to tears but the alternative was worse. I talked to him, gave him a box with a towel to sleep in and fed him until he could no longer eat.
This morning I got up and went to get Made to take us to the vet. But the puppy was gone from the car port, along with the box, the towel and the bowl. And I can only assume someone from the village had gotten rid of him, thinking they were doing me a favour.
This post today may be lacking it’s usual punch.
Mrs Woog xo