It isn't that I don't like dogs, and it isn't that they don't like me; it's just that we don't get on. There isn't that dogginess, that canine understanding, that 'man's best friend' empathy between us. It just isn't there. But it isn't all dogs that display their reluctance to make friends with me, just most of them. About 99.9% of them. And that's good enough for me to generalise and put ALL dogs into the 'I don't trust you' category.
I have good reason to be wary because last Sunday on my walkabout exploring my new surroundings I was lucky there was a strong fence between me and a bruiser of dog that looked like he must go to the gym everyday for a workout, and his owner was feeding him muscle building steroids! I would have stood no chance and would now be lying in a Hong Kong hospital with multiple lacerations and probably no legs. You might also remember the big mutt that chased me out of the temple in Thamuang a few weeks ago. So now I have changed my mind; dogs don't like me and therefore I don't like them.
However there is one special dog that has just come into my life. His name is Cookie and he belongs to nobody in particular but is welcome in Bung's house (Khamma's brother who lives next door). I have written a couple of stories about how tough it is being a mutt in Thamuang (remember Snow White?) and Cookie's life is all about survival.
Nobody knows where he came from, he just appeared, and nobody can remember when he arrived, he's always been around and that's that. He looks as though he might have a bit of corgi in him, but how likely is that in this part of Thailand? He is a very dark brown colour and his hair on his back looks as though it is growing the wrong way and has a opposite parting effect similar to some of the 'cocks comb' fashion haircuts you see around.
The only time I can remember Cookie from earlier visits to Owerrrouse was the way he would guard his food from the other dogs. One day he was lucky enough to get an over sized portion of chicken bone scraps and he gnarled his teeth at the other dogs in defiance and protection, daring them to come anywhere near his dinner. He ate the lot; bones and all!
During my last visit to Owerrrouse on one fine hot sunny afternoon I assumed a horizontal posture in my favourite sun lounger on the front porch, sipping a cold water (as you do) when I was conscious that Cookie had just sidled up to the chair. I lazily raised my eyes from the book I was reading feeling a little put out by the intrusion, especially from a dog. But the doleful look in his big sad eyes was enough to tell me he wanted company and wanted to make friends. So I went to stroke him and he backed off in a cower as if he thought I was going to hit him. Of course I wasn't going to do that after having seen what he did to the chicken! I gently stroked him on the head and under the chin. I approached to stroke him again, and another cower. He obviously was expecting a beating, but was so enjoying the attention and the TLC he was getting from me, of all people, the world's most reluctant dog lover. I continued like this for ages and after a while Cookie lay down on the porch and fell asleep with a huge sigh of doggy contentment and started dreaming about chicken bones!
The next day Cookie returned in a Pavlovian response to the reward he received the day before and strangely the other four dogs just looked on in mild amusement because either they didn't mind this new relationship was developing, or, they thought they were too tough for such luvvy duvvy antics, or, they were scarred that Cookie would bare his teeth again if they so much thought about coming closer to us.
On the final morning as we were waiting outside Owerrrouse for the taxi to take us to the airport, the other four dogs were scamperring about as dogs do in the general hubbub of a small gathering. But I noticed Cookie had decided to lie down near the road far enough away from the action either because he was tired or couldn't be bothered. I walked over to say goodbye and his big sad eyes met mine as his chin shifted and wobbled as it came to rest on top of his front paw. I bent down to stroke and the familiar cower was evident as I put my hand on his neck. But it didn't feel like the silky hair I stroked before because it was matted, a little warm and definitely wet. I looked down and could see his hair was indeed clogged up and my hand was covered in blood. The poor old mutt had been fighting something and was obviously recovering from the ordeal. We were about to leave so there was nothing I could do to tend his wound. He got up and staggered around carrying an injury of some kind to his back leg. I got in the car and wanted somebody to help him, but it is the way in Thamuang, as it is the way in Thailand - it's tough being a mutt!
But I am happy to say that somehow Cookie is fully recovered and back to his usual self because that is how a mutt survives around these parts.
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