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?

Forgotten but not gone

I’m an animal lover. I always have been – and I always will be.
As such, I’m having a difficult time dealing with the sad situation of stray dogs in Suva.
I remember my first few days in Fiji, seeing dogs casually trotting down the sidewalk without a leash or even an owner in sight. I initially thought it was kind of funny to see these animals walking down the sidewalk as if they were human beings running errands. I noticed all the dogs seemed to have two things in common: they all appeared to going somewhere specific and looking for something along the way.
Now I know exactly what it is these homeless hounds are looking for – after all, I searched for the same things when I first landed in Fiji: food and shelter.
Everywhere I go I see stray dogs – big ones, small ones, old ones, young ones. Some are in pretty rough shape. Just the other day I saw a pack of dogs running down the street, and one of them was hopping on three legs because its front right leg was broken.
Other dogs are clearly starving to death, with rib cages and spines protruding from their emancipated bodies. Most have open sores and many others barely have fur.
Feeling completely powerless I decided to go buy some dog food from Suva’s one and only pet store. I figured I could carry the food around in my bag (which I take everywhere) and this way I would be able to give food to some of these dying dogs.
My roommate came home and saw the bag of food on the counter.
“Oh no, you better not have,” he says.
I should mention that I have previously talked about taking in a dog.
“Relax; I just bought the food to give to some strays,” I assure him.
“Do you think you’re going to solve Suva’s stray problem armed with your one bag of Kibble?” he says.
But for me it isn’t about solving the problem, although I would love to do that, too. I just can’t bear to see the shape some of these canines are in.
Soon after buying the food I encounter a new challenge: the dogs are terrified of everything. Whenever I throw the food towards the dogs they just take off running. After all, I’m sure these animals haven’t exactly been treated well in their lives. They have been conditioned to fear humans.
I start to feel even more powerless.
A famous quote from Ghandi comes to mind: “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”
But I can’t help but disagree with the Mahatma on this one, because the people in Fiji have been nothing short of amazing since I’ve been here. They are friendly, helpful and welcoming.
Nonetheless, the stray dog issue is a big problem in Fiji. Most Fijians cannot afford to get their pets spayed or neutered, and there seems to be an alarming lack of respect for animals.
Lately the newspapers are running columns, stories, and letters to the editor about the stray dog problem. This is a good sign because it’s bringing awareness to the situation, but the problem needs more than just attention – it needs action.
As a journalist I took action the way I know best: I wrote and article about a primary school that raised $1,200 for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, Fiji’s only animal rights organization. The school's principal said he wanted to teach his students about the importance of treating animals with respect. Stories like this give me hope that things are moving in the right direction, but it’s hard to ignore the near-death dog looking at me with broken eyes as it hungrily hobbles past me on the sidewalk.