Not the type of dog you bring home to mom

Although I expected to become desensitized to the dire dog situation in Fiji, it never seemed to happen.
And my failure to disregard homeless hounds landed me in my current situation.
A few weeks ago I saw a small puppy wandering down the street near my flat. Upon seeing this sad pup, I regretted my decision to stop carrying dog food in my laptop bag.
A couple of days later I’m looking out my front door and who do I see, but the same little puppy looking up at me with hungry eyes.
I go back into the house and scour the cupboards for something that a dog will find edible. Finding only a can of sardines, I rush back outside.
I give the little dog the sardines, which he ravenously eats, and a bowl of water.
After eating his meal he trots off down the street.
Over the next few nights the puppy keeps returning to my door. I feed him whatever I can find: baked beans, meat, bread – even chips.
I decide it’s time to buy some dog food.
I go to the only pet store in Suva (people in Fiji are concerned with feeding their families, not animals) to buy some dog food. There are only two kinds of dog food available. I ask the clerk if there is a difference between the two types.
“Ummm…one is for big dogs and the other is for small dogs,” he says with a smile, clearly impressed with his impromptu answer.
I go with the kind for big dogs.
A few nights later I hear a noise outside of my window and see the little puppy sitting there.
Excited to give him his new treat, I go to pour the food into the bowl – but suddenly something unexpected happens.
The second the kibble hits the dish, a big, mangy street dog appears out of nowhere and devours the food as the little puppy runs away.
“Who the hell are you, and where did you come from?” I demand. But the big dog isn’t here to socialize; he’s here to eat.
Shoot, I should have bought the food for little dogs.
The next day I look outside my window to see both the little puppy and the mangy mongrel sitting near the food dish.
I go outside with the bag of food and try to shoo the big dog away, but he doesn’t budge. So I give both dogs a separate bowl of food. Within seconds the big mangy brute wolfs down his kibble and goes on to steal the puppy’s dinner too.
“Get out of here!” I say.
As the days pass the little puppy doesn’t appear outside of my window anymore. But that ugly, big brute is there every morning when I wake up.
At first I’m mad at him for driving away the cute little puppy, but then I have pity on the big beast. He’s the definition of a mutt – the product of years of street dog inbreeding. He’s skinny, balding, covered in sores, has a filthy coat of once-white hair, and yet he still has a happy look in his eyes.
I start feeding him regularly.
At night I hear him barking outside of my window, protecting my place from other street dogs.
Every morning he’s waiting at my door for his breakfast. When I come home from work he greets me.
I give him a name: Old Dirty Dog or O.D.D for short.
But then I face a new problem: O.D.D starts following me whenever I leave the house.
When I walk down to the grocery store he faithfully trots by my side. At first I’m embarrassed to be seen with such an unsightly animal. I don’t want people to think that this mangy mutt belongs to me. I’m a man trying to look fashionable in Fiji, and a ratty-looking street dog is not a cool accessory.
But O.D.D just keeps following me wherever I go. He even looks proud, especially when we pass other street dogs.
“Yes, that’s right, I have an owner,” he probably says to the other homeless canines we come across.
One time at the video store O.D.D tries to come inside with me.
“Get out,” I say, motioning for him to leave, which he does.
“What a good dog,” says the girl behind the counter.
“Oh, he’s not even my dog,” I say, feeling embarrassed. Immediately guilt rushes over me for denying O.D.D. I feel like Simon Peter after he denied Jesus three times.
It’s been a few weeks since O.D.D made his first, unwelcome appearance, and I’m starting to find myself talking to him. Also, I’m no longer embarrassed to be seen in public with him.
Even as I type this blog he’s sitting outside.
Now I embrace O.D.D’s company. After all, I’m here in a foreign country with few friends. Who am I to turn down an offer from man’s best friend?