Our guest today is Jenni Gate, who has worked as a
paralegal, a mediator, a small business consultant, and a writer. Born in Libya
and raised throughout Africa and Asia, Jenni’s upbringing as a global nomad
provided a unique perspective on life. As a child, she lived in Libya, Nigeria,
the Congo, Pakistan, the Philippines, and the Washington DC area. As an adult,
she has lived in Alaska, England, and throughout the Pacific Northwest. Her
published work includes several articles for a monthly business magazine in
Alaska and a local interest magazine in Idaho. She has written several
award-winning memoir pieces for writing contests. Jenni currently writes
fiction, drawing upon her global experiences. New adventures abound. To read more about Jenni's adventures around the world, visit her at Nomad Trails and Tales.
In Kaduna, Nigeria, at
about the age of 8, my sister spayed our dog. The scent of wet dog wafted
through the garage as she shaved Tippy’s abdomen, Susie was excited; eager to
find out what our dog looked like on the inside, curious about the organs,
arteries, and veins. She still remembers the coppery smell of Tippy’s blood as
she cut into the abdomen with a scalpel. Our family friend, a veterinarian we
called Doc, was standing nearby, giving her directions. Doc’s son was there
because Doc hoped he would become a vet too. As Susie cut Tippy open, she was
so fascinated she barely noticed Doc’s son running out of the garage to vomit.
The operation was otherwise a success, and Tippy was soon recuperating with a
lampshade around her head to keep her from pulling out the stitches Susie had sewn with such intense concentration. Doc told her she
had done so well, he would teach her how to pierce her ears if our parents let
him. It might seem a little anti-climactic, but she was thrilled.
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| Tippy in Nigeria |
Tippy was a good companion.
Outside during the day, she barked to warn us of snakes and pit vipers in the
grass. When I was 7, and my little sister was 4, we played for hours in our
sandbox or wandered in front of our house through the elephant grass where the
Fulani grazed their cattle as Tippy kept a watchful eye out for us. When we
were evacuated from Nigeria during its civil war, our household staff promised
to look after our dog. We left without saying goodbye to friends, including
Tippy. I don’t know if she made it through that war alive.
We then moved to
Kinshasa, Zaire, now the Democratic Republic of the Congo. As we shopped in the
market one day, struggling to understand the French and Lingala spoken all
around us, my sisters and I discovered a basket full of wiggly, golden-colored
puppies. Mom tried to stop us, but we ran to the box and reached in, petting
their soft fur and feeling their wet little noses. One puppy stood on his hind
legs, tail wagging more furiously than the rest. We worked on Mom and left with
a puppy that we paid far too much for. We argued for days about what to name
him. Sometimes, he walked in circles as if in a daze. He walked into table
legs, ran and chased us wildly only to sit down as if confused. One of our
houseboys called him Futu. We asked what that meant, and he laughed and said
“all shot - crazy.” He thought the dog was a lost cause. So Futu he was. As he
grew into a dog, he developed terrible mange. Mom tried every remedy she could
think of, but his fur fell out in clumps. He never got very big, but he had a
good personality and never tired of playing with us.
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| Futu in Kinshasa |
President Mobutu’s
corrupt policies were already leading to a sense of desperation among the
Congolese people. Every night we had an attempted break-in. We awoke each
morning to find metal filings around all the bars on our windows. Then one
morning, we were robbed at breakfast. Two men showed up at the door showing
false US Embassy identification, pushing their way into our house. Mom’s French
was non-existent and their English was minimal. Mom yelled, “Get out of this
house!” One of them said, “Après vous,
Madame.” But out the door they went, and up the hill behind us, terrorizing our
neighbors along the way. We got Fafner soon after that.
The Belgians used
German shepherds as tools of oppression during King Leopold’s reign, creating
fear and hatred in the Congolese people. Years later, George Foreman gained the
instant antipathy of the Congolese when he showed up for the Rumble in the
Jungle against Mohammed Ali with his German shepherd. Many believe it cost
Foreman the fight because the crowds yelled so loud for Ali, and the hatred of
Foreman was palpable.
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| Belgian Shepherd Dog Photo by Olgierd Pstrykotworca (CC BY 2.0) |
We knew nothing of
this when Fafner came to us, but he was a great deterrent. Built for brute
force, he was huge. He could even kill on command (not that we ever put it to
the test), and he was viciously protective. Trained by his previous owner,
Fafner took all his commands in French. He must have felt like a foreigner in
our English-speaking household. Whenever we had French-speaking friends over,
he listened intently, crawling on his belly to get closer, and looking
adoringly into their faces, nodding at words he seemed to recognize.
My sisters and I often
played in a frangipani tree by the wall in front of our house. One day we saw a
camp site below on the other side. Soon a police sergeant appeared with a
Belgian man asking to check around our yard. The Belgian’s air conditioner was
stolen and the thief’s tracks led to the wall in front of our house. While my
dad led them out to the wall, Fafner ran behind the sergeant and bit his calf.
"Merde!" the sergeant shouted. He
rolled on the ground, shaking a finger at the Belgian. "See, I told you.
You need a dog like this for protection."
What pet memories have
you accumulated in your travels, and have you ever traveled or lived abroad
with a pet?
