I never had a dog until I came to Bali two and a half years ago. Now I would never be without one again. Or two. Or three.
The newest is Chloe, a little Bali mongrel who was a throw-away. (Some people in Bali abandon female puppies as inconvenient and therefore expendable. The lucky ones are drowned, the others starve to death slowly or are hit by cars.) A kind foreigner saved this one from a watery death and took her to veterinarian Made Restiati in Cenggu, who gained major karma points by caring for her until a home could be found. Mine.
I never planned to have three dogs. Even I know that’s a handful. My staff had recently lost a puppy and they were looking for a replacement – male of course. I had persuaded them to make a home for this one on condition I paid for neutering it. However, I’d misunderstood the message about this foundling and thought she was an adult dog. When we arrived at the clinic one hot Saturday afternoon a small pack of dogs raced to meet us. Which was the adoptee? When Wayan and Nyoman saw that it was the tiny, nervous puppy with the huge ears – a female and not even pretty – they rolled their eyes and indicated that they would hold out for a Kintamani with a bushy tail, thanks all the same. Male, of course.What to do? The kennel maids had made a pet of the puppy, and she snugged contentedly into my lap. She was small, edgy and insecure. We’d come a long, hot way from Ubud (I have become very parochial). She seemed to sense I was vacillating and a rough little tongue darted out and painted my arm tentatively.
What the hell. I had a big fenced garden, staff, two dogs already, a book on canine psychology… there was plenty of food and love for this little scrap. I bought her a cheerful yellow collar, she was given her first injection and we made our way back up the mountain.
The pack dynamic shifted as soon as I carried Chloe through the gate. Kasey was wild about her from the beginning – finally, a playmate even younger than he was. This must have been heaven after Kalypso’s cool, slightly depressing dignity. (She’s a lovely dog, but has a strong sense of her position and not a great deal of humour.) Chloe instantly became his personal pet to be chased, chewed, bullied and bounced on.
Kalypso was disgusted. She’d barely gotten used to the nuisance of Kasey, and now here was another damned puppy. Crossing her white gloves primly, she turned her back, laid down on the cool tile and upgraded herself to Dowager Empress. By the time she rose a few minutes later she had taken on the mantle of a canine Queen Victoria, although she’s only about three. She even looks older.
Chloe is a real Bali dog – passionately affectionate, completely omnivorous and very vocal. She’s compact and wiry, with huge ears over a bony face, looking rather like a science experiment that went wrong somewhere between a kangaroo and a sheep.
Dogs are mercilessly hierarchical. Chloe is, of course, the lowest dog on the totem pole here (smallest, newest, youngest, most submissive) which she constantly demonstrates in the usual doggy ways. She approaches all of us with a deferential crab-like sideways walk, tail tucked firmly under her belly, and lies down to expose her undercarriage at the least sign of attention. When one of the bigger dogs casually knocks her down, she puts on the full Drama Queen act, screaming as if she’s being slowly disemboweled. With me, alas, respect is shown by ‘submissive urination’, a documented behaviour which is intended to gladden my heart by assuring me that I am Mega Alpha Plus Top Dog.
Kipper used to do this and occasionally Kalypso too, but just a few drops and usually when being scolded. Chloe saves up the whole bladderful until she sees me for the first time in the morning or when I come through the gate during the day. Then she squats subserviently and lets rip. I quickly learned to dash outside and greet the dogs on the lawn at dawn, but she gets around this by deferring the honour until I can really appreciate it, usually when some time has passed and I’ve gone back inside.
Sometimes this accolade will be delivered on the Persian carpet and I respond with the approved noisy scolding and instant removal to outdoors. But really – how could she know what’s inside and what’s outside, or the difference between an Isfahan and a Pakistan city carpet? I’ve tried to explain all this to her but it’s plain she feels it would be beneath my status to offer me a dry greeting. I’d hoped the other dogs would assist with her training but Kalypso just looks deeply offended at the sight of the puddle and Kasey, being a guy, doesn’t notice until he steps in it.
Chloe has been with us a month now. She’s doubled in size on a diet of fish, rice, carrots, beets and garlic. Her confidence has about doubled, too. Sometimes she goes off down the river bank all alone, following her nose happily, knowing that there’s a safe place to come back to. She’s the best guard dog of the lot, her little hackles rising furiously at every visitor long after Kalypso and Kasey have made friends with the intruder.
They all hang out together obsessively to make sure that none of them is getting more of my attention than the other. That means three dogs under my office chair, three dogs around my feet at the dining table, three dogs closely underfoot wherever I go in the garden and at least one dog resting its head on my knee when I’m on the loo. It's a bit much, really. I love them all, but I may have gone a dog too far.
