She’s got the classic lean, mean muzzle, the long body and the distinctive black and tan markings. She has the heart of a lion and the will of an ox, taking no nonsense from anyone. She barks fiercely at strangers as they enter the yard and crashes boldly into the jungle, baying after the hapless creatures of the undercliff. And when there’s a noise in the night, she growls most fearsomely deep in her throat.
“
I am a huge, slavering Doberman Pincer,” she announces, obsidian eyes gleaming dangerously.
“
You are a miniature Dachshund,” I remind her.
Daisy knows this can’t be true. She’s a dog of considerable character, and isn’t about to have her potential compromised by this kind of negative thinking.
Imagine your legs are just 4” long and your eyes are 8” from the ground. The average human is at least 8 times taller than you are, or about 43 feet high in our terms. I would certainly think a few times before engaging a monster this size, but Daisy is completely undaunted. “Let me out. Let me in. Lift me onto the chair. No, the other chair. I want to drive the car. Take me for a ride on the motorcycle. I’ll have some of that toast, buttered, with a bit of marmalade. What’s this nonsense about not feeding dogs from the table? My other person gives me anything I want, and I can sleep in the bed too.”
My friend S, who travels a good deal, leaves Daisy with me for months at a time. (“Is this a dog hotel?” asked Lily.) Daisy is used to sleeping with S, in the bed, with her head on the pillow. Call me unreasonable, but I’m not sharing my sleeping space with ticks and other interesting fauna; at my house, Daisy has her own pillow on the floor. She is bitter about this injustice, and often tries to scale the high Madura bed when I’m asleep. I hear the determined scrabbling and sometimes catch a glimpse of flying ears but I resist, imagining the tyrannical “I want up, I want down” demands that would make my nights hell if I ever gave in.
So she finally established her private bedchamber behind the ikat curtain under the bathroom sink where she’s made a comfortable nest in the towel pile. It can be disconcerting when a long nose emerges inquisitively from the curtains in the dark, especially after a little too much Christmas cheer. Even Wayan, who isn’t given to Christmas cheer, screamed the first time she was goosed by Daisy while cleaning the bathroom.
There is a strict hierarchy in dogdom that dictates who is top canine and who sniffs who’s bottom when. As matriarch, Kalypso is entitled to the deference of first sniff. But from the moment she arrived on her orientation visit, Daisy assumed top slot. She growled and barked at poor Kalypso, who was several times her size, as if she was under attack. Interestingly, Bali dogs don’t seem to recognize Daisy as being the same species. Kalypso prowled around her politely, then backed away and peered at me in bemusement.
“
Is it a dog?”
“
Sort of. It’s a Dachshund.”
“
She has no manners.”
“
That’s true.”
“
What does she think she is, a Doberman?” Honour ruffled, Kalypso knocked her down just to show her who was Alpha Bitch. Enraged, Daisy bounced up and chased poor Kalypso across the garden. Eventually they ironed things out. Daisy lets Kalyspo knock her down now and then to assuage her pride, then nips her tail to keep her humble. Kalypso deals with this by pretending there are no Dachshunds.
Then Daisy went into heat. She pined noisily for a lover, any lover. At that time I had 4 dogs but Kasey, the lone male, had been rendered uninteresting by surgery. However a scabby local street dog had taken to broaching my castle walls from time to time just to prove that he could, and Daisy began to pursue him shamelessly. Long before I could hear his brass bell she would look alert, give herself a provocative little shake and scamper outdoors in anticipation. She flung her plump little body at him, embraced him with her forelegs and reached high to lick his neck in a shocking display of wantonness. As I raced across the yard to save her from a fate worse than death, she would be murmuring sweet nothings in his battle-torn ear. “Hey big guy, I’m a virgin. We could have a great time. I have this private little place in the towel cupboard. Let’s go, quick!”
The visitor looked puzzled.
Scabies : “Is this a dog?”
Kalypso : “It’s under debate.”
Me : “Daisy, you little hussy, get in here this minute!”
Carrying the indignantly resisting little animal into my office, I fired off an email to S, who was touring the Himalayan foothills on an Enfield Bullet with only her own hormones to think about. “If you’re not back in Bali for Daisy’s next heat, I am going to mate her with a miniature poodle and start a race of Dachoodles”, I threatened via Hotmail. S doesn’t believe I’d do it, but I’m a great believer in hybrid vigor. I think the willful Dachshund character would benefit from the addition of tractable poodle blood, but the ears might look odd.
The sex drama passed, but then Daisy began to take an unwholesome interest in birds in general and Pak Mangku’s chickens, which roamed my garden, in particular. One morning none of the dogs showed up for breakfast, a very unusual occurrence. I wandered around the garden in search of them, then followed a sinister trail of chicken feathers to the door of the staff bathroom. Little Daisy crouched in the corner behind a dead chicken twice her size, keeping the rest of the dogs at bay, the blood lust of her predatory ancestors burning in her eyes. She reluctantly allowed me to separate her from her prey and I closed the door on it.
“
Daisy has killed one of Pak Mangku’s chickens,” I reported when the staff arrived. I feared that this might be a serious cultural misdemeanor, but they brightened in gustatory anticipation.
“
When, Ibu?”
“
Just now…” but they were already gone, following the trail of feathers to a vision of succulent chicken curry.
Pak Mangku’s family rarely visits, but that morning his son arrived unannounced at the kitchen door just as Nyoman was settling down to gut and pluck our ill-gotten lunch beside the rain ditch. I greeted Gusti as Nyoman rolled his eyes at me from a few metres behind him, bloody to the elbow. Inviting Gusti deeper into the house, I engaged him in a long conversation about fruit trees as my staff busied themselves in the yard. When he turned to go, the carcass had been concealed under a cement sack and only a few random feathers remained in the grass. He never noticed a thing. The curry, however, was disappointing.
Daisy is back now for another extended visit, and it’s getting to be that time again. I’ve caught her practicing Dachshund seduction in quiet corners. Soon the hormones will be raging and she’ll be leading unsuitable suitors to her cosy nest in the towel cupboard. Does anyone out there have a poodle?
