Timshel Archibald: Dec 11, 2008 - Apr 14, 2010

My mother never let us have a dog when we were children. I now understand why. They are good companions and guardians, but are pretty much helpless and require great care. I imagine my mother knew most of this care would have fallen on her so she wisely had two cats in the house instead. I didn't know much about cats or any other housepet for that matter, but I became very attached to both of them. Cat, dog, hamster, monkey, river otter, whatever; I imagine I'd become fond of any creature that I took in as a pet as long as they didn't poop on the rug.

I wouldn't say I'm a "dog person" per se, but do like them for the most part. So last year around Christmas I arrived in Bogo, and living on my own for the first time ever I decided a dog would be great to have around. That's when fate brought me to a small mud and straw compound on the outskirts of Bogo.

To say Timshel came from rough beginnings would be an understatement. It is quite possible that the children in this same compound had fleas so what chance did a one week old pup have? I took the only remaining male of the litter (I didn't want anymore puppies on my hands) home with me that morning and he became Timshel. He didn't take to the water and mashed peanuts diet they suggested. That first night I imagine was very difficult for him. Eyes barely open, he would cry bloody murder if I left him alone for any amount of time. After trying to no avail to get him to quiet down, he spent his first night in a shoebox covered with a blanket at the side of my bed. Every hour or so he would let out a whimper but a few pets on the head would put him back into a sound sleep.

After another day of rejecting the mashed peanuts and water concoction (I tried it and cannot blame him), I got on the back of my friend's motorcycle with Timshel wrapped in a bandana. It would be the first of many trips we would take together to Maroua. Arriving at the Peace Corps house in Maroua shortly before Christmas there were many fellow volunteers around, and from that day on I don't think he ever lacked for love. Someone found a top to a baby bottle in the market and when attached to an old coke bottle filled with formula he would gorge himself until his belly was so swollen he could barely stand. It is never cold here, but night temperatures would drop just enough that he needed help staying warm. A Nalgene filled with boiling water and wrapped in a towel could keep him content all night.

He and his appetite grew swiftly. He was always a bit on the small side, but could put away quantities of food twice his size if given the chance. He never took kindly to a leash and the few attempts I made to break him in were futile. Yet he loved to wander from the confines of my home. After pestering the neighbors for a bit he would almost always make his way across the government parade ground to the forest just before the river and bridge leading out of Bogo. Other dogs would come through the forest and neighborhood but he carried himself in a way that suggested it was his turf. If at anytime I was coming back from work or play he would see me from across the parade ground and come sprinting back home, jumping all over me the entire way, no doubt hoping I had brought back his next meal.

Smaller than most dogs he was also the fiercest I've ever seen. It may be slightly demented, but I chuckle when thinking he probably still haunts the dreams of many children in the Garre and Marouare neighborhoods of Bogo. Theft happens from time to time in town, but if the perpetrators ever considered taking their chances on my house they quickly changed their minds when approaching the wall. He looked like a midget dingo but sounded like something that could do serious damage. Unexpected guests were not welcome in his opinion.

Giving him his meals everyday, I had about a half second to remove my hand from the dish before he would rip it to shreds. But let's not focus on the little bastard's hornary side. Often, just before the sun would go down on Bogo I'd be in my chair reading a book on the porch. At whatever point he found me, he must have thought that I had done enough reading, and would gracelessly jump and claw his way into my lap to lay down. Uncomfortable for me, but judging by his wagging tail I don't think there was a more enjoyable part of his day.

I hear people say that a dog's personality mirrors that of his owner. In Timshel's defense I must say it is not true in this case. For such a ratty, half wild mongrel he had more personality than I could ever lay claim to. At turns nasty and just downright mean, around his owner he was the happiest and most affectionate dog around. Perhaps he knew what the life of an average Cameroonian dog was like and didn't want to upset me. Banishment to the alleys of Bogo was threatened on a number of occasions.

Many shoes and garments found their way into his jaws, and the little bugger would steal just about anything not tied down. Two papaya trees and an entire cluster of fresh herbs in my yard met their demise at his hands. Yet regardless of how serious the transgression, its hard to stay mad at a dog that would immediately flop over on his side and grovel at my feet for forgiveness. He got a little too good at it, as often times he would begin apologizing before I knew he had done anything wrong. Despite all the misbehavior, he never once pooped on the rug.

In closing I will say that I am fortunate to have had him, even if only for just over a year's time. I would also say that the Bogo community, while short a few chickens, was also a better place with Timshel on the prowl. He spent many days out and about and it is not unreasonable to believe that soon there will be some Timshel Jr.'s out on the streets. This possibility brings a smile to my face, but most likely a feeling of dread to local citizens.

Sadly I an writing this in another part of the country while on training/vacation. My friend back in village, after doing everything in his and the vet's power, informed me that Timshel lost a quick battle against a stomach and intestinal infection. Medication was given but unfortunately he was too far along at that point. My house guardian found him in the morning, and meaning no disrespect, tossed him in the woods. I felt bad requesting that someone go search out a dead dog, but asked that he be taken and buried properly. My friend and another volunteer so generously took care of it in my absence, burying him in the woods that he used to claim as his territory.

In a few day's time I'll return to Bogo. Not having a rambunctious dog there to greet me will be very strange. Yet once I get settled back into village life I'll make the short walk across the parade ground and into the woods where he used to play, eat his stolen chickens, hassle children, and do god only knows what else, just to make sure he's doing fine.

For a Cameroonian dog Timshel led one hell of a life. I take comfort in that, and I know he is in the next doggy life humping and stealing everthing he can find. So next time you are having a cold one pour a bit out for my homey, the Diamare Dingo, the Terror of Bogo, Timshel!