So it was late when we arrived home. So the dogs needed a walk. So we took them out for a quick wee. So we didn’t bring the leads. So we didn’t –we couldn’t– foresee what would happen.
The reason for moving to a house in the country park was simple: we adopted a dog. Ordinarily this sort of commonplace thing means an adjustment of some sort, perhaps in daily habit, but this dog was different. He came as a pair.
To make this clear, I must explain that before the move to Hong Kong, we kept a beautiful (and rescued) Irish Wolfhound whose head was above my own when standing on his hind legs. He was a bounder—a real sight hound who enjoyed tearing off to the opposite side of a field because a hare had lazily lolloped beside a hedge. I can recommend no gentler nor more family-friendly a dog than a Wolfhound. When word came to us that an English Mastiff in the Sai Kung Country Park was similarly in need of rescuing and of proper care and attention, my interest was piqued. How many other people in Hong Kong had the experience necessary for large dog care?
I drove over to meet the Campbells, a missionary couple who were about to leave Ko Tong Ha Yeung to carry out work in Cambodia. They had seen 'Buster' hiding in the surrounding forest; this emaciated ghost-like apparition hid from all human contact. He had injuries, was scared witless, and would only approach the village houses in the dead of night and then only to drink from stagnant water and rummage for scraps. In the evening these kind souls left him food, each time a little closer to the house, until eventually they succeeded in trapping him into the enclosed space behind the gate where he immediately succumbed to their kindness. I was moved by their compassionate story, patting as I did so the other dog of the house, Batty. She was a very bright lanky and hairy ginger thing who, I was to find out, was to be taken along with Buster. The Campbells incidentally enquired if I liked any of the furniture they were thinking of leaving. And what about the house? Before the afternoon was out, I had acquired a mastiff, his ginger matey, some second-hand furniture and a new house way out in the wilds of Hong Kong!
Buster and Batty were good for each other: she was bright and intelligent and a more sociable dog I have never known, whereas he was scared of sticks, umbrellas and newspapers, thunder, Chinese people and sudden noises—in fact, he was an emotional wreck. It must be assumed that he had been severely mistreated. On top of that, he had severe heartworm, suffered poor blood condition and required fattening up. Our new life in the country park unfolded into a wonderful experience and with six months of care and trust things had also become much better for him – just in time for another addition to the family.
Brenda had been angered by seeing another smaller female English Mastiff that had been kept in a cramped pet shop window cage for some months. It was about time this poor animal was released. With the assistance of a good local vet and neighbour who promised all sorts of animal welfare trouble should the irresponsible pet shop owners not quickly sell the animal on the cheap, Bella was brought home. A soppy pup, she quickly grew into Buster's tan-coloured female companion, enjoying the same love of open water and stinking dead fish and was eager for soft affection. For a little more than one year the three dogs were happy together. And then two more turned up.
The domestic helpers in the village had been feeding two pups located beneath the roadbridge. Their swollen little bellies were suffering from too much kindness. And so whether they wanted it or not, the black and white pair were rescued, de-flea'd and formally introduced to Buster, Batty and Bella. We had difficulty naming them, but for some reason the names Squiddly and Diddly stuck. The two pups were semi-feral and required a little seasoning and training. But now we were 5. And all, except for Batty and Buster, were inexperienced youngsters.
Perhaps I should also mention at this point that at this time we had in addition acquired 4 cats!
The combination of animals in the family home certainly made for a lively time. The dogs suited long walks by the rivers and beneath the trees of the park, but their sociability together also formed them into a pack. Being naturally chauvinistic, they handled better under dominant hands, but whoever held the five leads had to content with other pets and pet owners. They had already met, and scrapped, with another well-meaning couple's five dogs that lived in the next village. Thus, the bad blood had been drawn: historical antipathy for canines is never far from the surface—without socialising, they just don't forgive each other.
So the night came at the beginning of the Christmas holidays, when these two packs found and fought each other. Amid the cacophony of barks and yells, I held onto big Buster as Brenda sought to intervene. Unfortunately, the other pet owners also put their hands in and were severely bitten by Bella intent on wiping out the opposition to her cherished new pack. Once fur had flown and blood had been spilt, I ran to meet them and apologised. It seemed there was little pleasantry to be said, and I felt there was only one course open to me: Bella had to go.
To keep a large dog is a responsibility. To keep a large dog that has drawn human blood is to invite condemnation as an irresponsible dog owner—quite apart from my own issue of trust. Why wouldn't she do it again? It was her job to protect the pack.
With a heart heavier than lead, I drove with her the next morning to the vets in Sai Kung and held her in the treatment room as the injection was administered. At the very last moment, she looked quizzically into my face: what was I doing? Was this a punishment? She was only doing her job...
I had to have a brandy to steady myself. I had taken away her life, the one that had been rescued, and for what? Things are simple in the mind of a dog, and her actions, although condemned by humankind, were natural and normal for her own. The next day, Christmas Eve, I took all the dogs for a long walk to the end of the Wan Tsai peninsula and sat alone taking in the view and weighing my actions of that night. If only we had brought the leads. If only we had left 5 minutes later instead of rushing out. And I sat to weep copious tears; for her, for having been irresponsible, for my betrayal, and for my stupid sense of duty.
New Year's Day the following year, Bella's ashes were scattered at her favourite place on the Wong Ma Tei hilltop above Wong Shek pier. And I love her still.
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