A slightly shorter version of the following piece appeared in the September 2015 edition of the Foreign Service Journal. I prefer this longer version.
We acquired Mogi in Bangui. He was a feisty little puppy,
part Shepherd, who grew into a fifty pound dog.
Admiring his size our Yakoma neighbors advised that he was safe on our
eastern side of the city, but had we lived south, “those M’baka” would put him
in the pot.
Late on a Friday, the chargé
got a call from former foreign minister Joseph Potolot advising that he was
being sent (by irascible and unpredictable President Jean Bedel Bokassa) on an
urgent mission to Washington, leaving the next morning. I checked the files and discovered that the
minister’s visa had expired so I went along to the meeting, collected his
passport and promised to deliver it, visa included, at the airport the
following morning. I went home grabbed a
quick bite, tossed the passport on the coffee table and headed to the airport
to meet a visitor on the evening flight. When I returned some hours later,
Connie met me with bad news, “Mogi ate Mr. Potolot’s passport.” She held up a well chewed soggy mess with
teeth punctures through several pages.
I envisaged my imminent departure from the country, if not
from life itself. Bokassa’s government
was not to be messed with. I called the
chargé to explain
the issue. I said, “We have a problem.”
He heard me out, paused and replied, “Bob, you have a problem.” I hunkered down with a hair dryer, some
cardboard shims, glue and an iron.
Before long I had a more presentable, if obviously mangled
document. In the morning I put a visa
in it and took it to the airport, thinking the minister could either laugh or explode.
The latter possibility had me worried, but he took it in stride. He did not
want to have to explain to his boss why he was not traveling as ordered. I
assured him the visa was valid and I would notify U.S. authorities that he was
on his way. Subsequently, I sent a cable
describing the situation, asking for courtesies at the port of entry and noting
that the minister’s passport had been “slightly mutilated by the Vice Consul’s
dog.”
Two weeks later Potolot sent over a brand new passport for a
visa.
Unfortunately that was not Mogi’s only brush with
officialdom. Later he got through the fence into a neighboring compound and
killed at least one rabbit that was being raised by the woman that lived
there. The lady in question was one of
Bokassa’s mistresses and her security was provided by the army. Two armed soldiers appeared at the door
holding a dead rabbit and demanding restitution and retribution. Thankfully an adequate payment resolved the
matter. We got Mogi out of country
before further mishap.
Years later in Kampala, when I came home for lunch the
gardener carted over a big trash can for my inspection. I assumed he had killed
a snake, but instead he had a scrawny, filthy little puppy. He explained that a
mother dog with two pups snuck through the fence to drink out of the pool. One
fell in, but when he investigated the commotion the others ran off. We had a new dog. She was terrified of the world so we held her
constantly, when put down she disappeared in a flash. So that became her
name. She grew into a wonderful pet,
happy, loving and friendly, who rarely barked.
Too soon, before we could act, Flash became pregnant - by
the Marines’ dog, a fact of which they heartily approved - and had eight
puppies. My son Mark named them all;
most with Greek mythological names that he was studying in school. We kept Nike
who most closely resembled his mom. Mark
gave Cerebus to a friend, who obviously was not paying attention in class,
because he renamed his dog Reebok.
Upon leaving Kampala in 1991 and uncertain of our next
posting, we found a home for Flash and Nike with a Peace Corps staff
family. However, upon my return to
neighboring Rwanda five years later I contacted the family and offered to take
the dogs back, when/if they might need a new home. Subsequently we did a dog
exchange at Mbale in southern Uganda. I
know that Flash recognized me.
So Flash,
Nike and Mash, another part ridgeback, joined us in Kigali. I quickly learned to tell folks that these
were Ugandan dogs, i.e. they had not been in Rwanda during the genocide when
local dogs went feral and ate corpses.
Nonetheless we penned the dogs up during events at the residence. During
one July Fourth reception as the crowd quieted down for my remarks, Nike,
hearing his master’s voice over the loud speaker, joined in - howling until the
end.
Dogs were part of our lives, and despite the hiccups,
usually a bonus in interactions with the communities around us. We were blessed
for having them.