The Bali dog can be a hell-hound when encountered on a dark street at night, but is a remarkably gentle and intelligent pet when well-treated. Bali dogs, which are said to be the Australian dingo's closest surviving relation, come in a variety of what could be very loosely termed 'breeds'. I've observed woolly white Kintamanis like Samoyeds, slim long-haired black dogs with bushy tails and a stocky white variety with puddles of brown skin showing through its short white hair. Kipper is one of the latter, also manifesting a strong throwback to some mysterious Pit Bull ancestor.
He came to me as a rotund, nearly hairless teenage pup with a wrinkled brow, huge paws and a voracious appetite for absolutely everything. Shoes, books, coasters, candles, newspapers - nothing was safe for the first few months he was with me, and to this day we can't leave the patio cushions out unguarded. This enthusiasm extended to everything he found in his food bowl.
He quickly grew into his paws and became a massive, chesty chap with a cheerful disposition. New to dog-owning and painfully aware of Indonesia's poverty, I decided to try and raise a meatless dog. Tinned food was out of the question; I couldn't justify feeding more protein to my dog in a day than many Indonesian children consumed in a week. Besides, where could I recycle all those tins? Kipper got plenty of protein raiding the duck enclosure, sometimes consuming all the new eggs before I got up in the morning. (He always seemed astonished that I knew what he'd been doing, having forgotten the trail of eggshells on the path.) His rice was cooked with carrots, cabbage, garlic, salt, oil and babi guling bones and served with commercial dog crunchies, tofu or tempe and often a scrambled egg. He wolfed this down happily and grew glossy and bright-eyed, exercising his mighty jaws on bones, chew toys and the toes of the occasional tolerant visitor.
But dogs are social animals and I was away a lot. Even when I worked at home I was in my office and out of sight of the patio door. (Kipper was banned from the house after a gustatory encounter with a Persian carpet.) He pined whenever he couldn't see me, and my neighbour reported that he cried for hours when left alone. I began to find my role of Alpha Dog stressful. Consulting my canine psychology books, I decided to expand the pack.
Kalypso arrived soon afterward to balance the pack dynamic and keep Kipper company. She was slender and delicate with long, black hair and a seductive foxlike tail. Kipper was instantly besotted with her, following her everywhere and gazing at her for hours on end. Reserved by nature, Kalypso resisted his overtures to play bouncy pit bull games. Almost overnight he became a Dog of Dignity. For months he had kept all his toys and other treasures in the folds of the tattered ikat where he slept. Now he shyly laid them before her one by one - his squeaking dolly, his rawhide chew, his rubber ring and even his eviscerated purple Teletubby. It was very touching. Within hours I was congratulating myself that the new relationship had done wonders for his social skills.
But there was trouble brewing in the kitchen. I'd taken special pains with their first meal together, serving it warm with nicely scrambled duck eggs mixed in with the rice. Kipper began to snuffle happily into his dinner, then glanced over at his adored one who was regarding her bowl with polite disdain.
Kipper: "What's wrong?"
Kalypso: "At my last home, we had chicken livers in the rice."
Kipper: "What's chicken? What's liver?"
Kalypso: "It is succulent, smelly, tasty meat, the natural food of dogs. What's this disgusting white stuff? And these dreary little brown crunchy things?"
Kipper: "Dunno. We always have them."
Kalypso: "I can't eat this rubbish."
She wandered off a few steps and lay on the cool tile, forepaws elegantly crossed, her back to the despised offering. Unhappily, Kipper looked from his bowl to Kalypso and over to me. He nosed into his food, picked out a chunk of tofu and laid it carefully on the floor beside his bowl, then another and another, giving me what my grandmother would call an old-fashioned look each time. He finished his rice and eggs and vegetables with less appetite than I had ever seen and departed, leaving a pile of rejected tofu beside his bowl. I am not making this up.
The second day I put down the bowls; it was tempe today. Kipper looked hopefully at his dinner and then checked Kalypso's response. She gave hers one sniff and recoiled.
Kipper: "You haven't eaten since you got here."
Kalypso: "I'm not hungry."
Me: "Kipper, dogs are starving outside our gate. Eat your dinner."
Kipper: "I guess I'm not very hungry either."
Me: "Kalypso, you are a bloody princess."
Kalypso: "Yes. I am."
The hunger strike went on for a week. I took this very personally, being a good cook who seeks the fine balance between flavour and nutrition whether preparing food for people or creatures. I made a strong stock from babi guling bones and cooked the rice and vegetables in that. I made gravy from chicken stock cubes to dress the crunchies. I napped warm rice with fat skimmed from smoked duck stock. I fried the tempe til crisp. Neither dog would eat. I started to take the disdained meals out to the starving old dog on the main road. She wouldn't eat tofu either. Kipper even stopped eating the crunchies that were his late-night snack; Kalypso didn't approve of crunchies.
Finally Wayan intervened. "Ibu, they want to eat meat. Let me bring some kepala ayam from my village. Very cheap." I knew I was beaten. Kalypso had only been with us a week but already I thought I could see the shadow of ribs under her coat. Ribs. In MY house, where even the bats were well-fed.
Wayan brought a large bag of the disgusting items the next morning. The dogs gave her their full attention while the little heads bubbled in the stock pot, beaks pointing straight up. I couldn't bear to watch as she cracked the skulls and mixed it all up to be cooked again with the rice and vegetables. I resolved never to run out of dog food over the weekend.
That night the dogs danced around me as I spooned their bowls full, averting my eyes from what must have been tiny brains. Kipper whined anxiously as Kalypso sniffed, paused and began to nibble daintily at her meal. He dove into his dinner with all his previous enthusiasm. They licked their bowls clean, tails wagging gently, then exchanged a long look. Okay, I'd been manipulated. But I don't eat tofu, either.
