When I was about seven, my family lived in Constant Springs on Waterworks Road. My father was at the US consulate. Jamaica was a British colony back then and I remember the name of the governor, Sir Hugh Foote. He used to come to our house for cocktail parties as did all the Jamaican politicians who are now on bank notes. My mother particularly liked Alexander Bustamante. She loved the impressive sound of his name and I think he must have been a very witty man. My father had a friendship with Michael Manley and they corresponded for years until they had a falling out over Cuba and Fidel Castro. (My father was a bit naive about the US government.)

Constant Springs was "country" back then and we got a mongrel dog, "half mongrel and half labrador retriever" we would say proudly. We named her Pamela Olive after Palmolive soap. Ironically, we got her to protect us from the Rastas. Our maids, Gertrude and Icey, were scared of the Rastas.

It is my theory that the “mongrel dogs” that they have here in Jamaica, are an actual breed. They all look the same and there are loads of them and what else makes something a breed? Or perhaps they are a basic generic dog, the original dog that all the other dogs stem from, like your basic apple that all the various apple varieties are grafted on to. Some local NGO concerned with dog welfare calls them “pot cake dogs.” Apparently, they came over to Jamaica on ships and got that name because they ate the food caked at the bottom of the ships’ cookpots. Maybe they originated from India because the dogs in Goa, where I used to live, look just the same. In India they are called “pariah dogs.” (So, you can imagine how highly regarded they are over there.)

In most poor countries, dogs are not petted or coddled very much. They have a job, and they are expected to perform it well. In return they get sheltered and fed. For the most part, their job is to bark and let us know when people are near. It is considered poor form to give them too much affection. (Although I know plenty of people are secretly very fond of their dogs.)

I read somewhere that dogs, through evolution and hanging out with humans, have developed the muscles over their eyes which allow them to do the begging, “I’m starving, please, please feed me!” look. Once, I was standing outside Lanza Lawn, the dancehall in Port Antonio where they play reggae “oldies” every Saturday night. I was with a tough little Quebecoise and we were looking at a bunch of female street dogs who were doing that “I’m starving” thing. “Those poor dogs,” she said, “All they do is get pregnant all the time and have their health ruined!” An interesting perspective! They looked to me more like a bunch of rather fat dogs who were doing exceedingly well.

In Goa, where I lived for many years, pigs lived all about us in the village. In fact, the toilets were outhouses with a little ramp out the back where they would come and clean up people’s poop. This was apparently a sanitary system put in place by the Portuguese and worked because there was no trichinosis in Goa. All I know is I ate sarpotel like everybody else and have lived to tell the tale. I will add that pigs, despite their atrocious food choices, have clean bathroom habits and always poop in the same place.

When the Goan fisherpeople, wanted to catch a pig they would call in a professional with specially trained pig catching dogs. These dogs look identical to the mongrel dogs here. The dogs would chase down the pig in question and hold it fast by an ear until their handlers could come with a knife. All the village children, including my two, would stand around and watch while, to the sound of fearful squealing, the poor beast was dispatched.

Bobo and I started off our dog relationships with Mexico, a runty mongrel puppy. Bobo was exasperated with his bad habits because he would poop and pee inside our place on Cottage Lane. I figured out that he was too small to get down the stairs and Bobo’s attitude towards Mexico improved after that. We also got Josephine, an honest-to-God pit bull puppy from Bobo’s friend up on Titchfield Hill.

When we moved up to Sherwood our dog situation was going well until Bobo unwisely procured 2 more puppies from the man who owns the marle pit and sells cement. He has a huge house up on a hill surrounded by walls and patrolled by a pack of feral dogs. He was delighted to give us two puppies…no charge… the first two he could catch and put into a box. One was pure black like a lab and the other had that black and tan configuration. Their breed, he explained, was half Jamaican mongrel and half “that kind everyone is scared of.” Josephine, the pit bull, alas, took a terrible dislike to Flexxie, the female and tried to kill her several times. When we had to leave for the States, we gave Josephine to someone to care for and he claims he sold her to a friend for $10,000 Jamaican. I miss her. She was a wonderful dog. But although she only seemed to show aggression to other dogs, it is probably not wise to have a dog with jaws like dinner plates when you run a guest house

The two puppies, Flexxie and Black Boy had a traumatic childhood experience of being starved that first summer we were away. After that there was a certain desperation and panic in their behavior around food and they would practically take your hand off when you offered them anything. Bobo claimed that this was due to a flaw in their character, but I maintain that it was the childhood trauma. Black Boy would escape the yard and come back covered in chicken feathers, too.

We were able to “rehome,” them (as they delicately put in in the States.) Turns out the chicken killing flaw in Black Boy’s character is an advantage for an owner that wants a dog that hunts, and we were able to give him to such a person and now he will work for his keep. We gave Flexxie to a Rastaman who was delighted. She is certainly a good barker, and she had just been dewormed, flea proofed and bathed. Also, he already owned one of her puppies. I hope she is adjusting to her new life, and, as Dimple pointed out, she is with one of her own children.

After that we acquired two new puppies. They were supposedly half pit bull and half some low slung fellow with a beard. They were very nice puppies but after returning from our summer in the States, they had developed to where it was plain that they do not contain a drop of pitbull. The shopowner who sold them said bring them back and she will refund the money. But it is unlikely that she has it anymore and anyway we are just going to keep them.

A while back, I wrote a story “Mexico, Dog of Talent.” He has got grey in his muzzle now and does not try to escape the “yaad” as vigorously as he used to. He still does from time to time, though, and comes back and waits outside the gate to be let in. While we were gone a goat owner (a hereditary enemy of dogs) gave him a good slash with a machete and Dimple had to get the vet who charged 10,000 dollars to sew him back together. The wound did not completely heal and he developed an abscess. Overcoming considerable grumbling from Bobo, I got the vet back. He said it is not good news and looks to be a bone infection which will just continue to be a chronic, ugly problem with lumps and oozing. We could take him to Kingston and do xrays and the whole nine yards but that is not going to happen. We are going to try long term antibiotics to see if that does the trick but the vet said it probably would not.

I am happy to say that Mexico’s new health situation, although unsightly, does not appear to cause him any distress. He continues undaunted. The antibiotics have made him better and I hope the vet was wrong with his prognosis. He still bolts out the gate every now and then and the other two dogs race after him if they get the chance. God willing, he will get into no more trouble and not eat any poisoned bait set out by angry chicken owners. Bobo threatens to tie him up but so far, he hasn’t. I hate to see dogs tied up but I am considered hopelessly naïve and gullible. Perhaps, but still not to such an extent that I mistake a restaurant dog for victim of male hierarchy.