Borneo Kampong Dog

Borneo Kampong Dog

It was morning. The sun had jumped up like it does near the equator but still dawn cool. I sipped yesterday’s reheated coffee as I pulled the small wood cuttings on the concrete cooking pad apart to snuff out the little fire that reheated my coffee.

Below the house, hysterical squawking, a noise only panicked chickens can make, interrupted my musing.

Throwing coffee aside, I scrambled down the wooden ladder steps, surveyed the chaos. As expected, it was the dog stealing eggs. A quick scan revealed its half-tunneled entrance under the chicken wire. I grabbed the big rock I’d set up and blocked its exit.

The chicken chaos shifted to dog panic. The dog leaped against the chicken wire, head butted it., tried to re-tunnel an exit. It was trapped. I ran up the wood steps, grabbed my blowgun, flipped open the bamboo case which held the poison darts, pulled one out, and raced back down. Seeing my return, the dog shifted from escape mode to dodging and raced around the wire enclosure. I was irrationally excited.

The blowgun loaded, I tried to aim the long blowgun, swung it around, its spear point bumped against the wire. I pulled back, re-aimed, puffed, and missed.

I raced back up, retrieved another dart, hurried down, aimed again as it ran in circles, and puffed again. The dart hit the dog’s ear, the flappy part, not its head.

It went into a higher level of panic, a dart through its ear, the poison tip ineffective out the other side. I re-resurveyed enclosure security, again ascended the wood steps, and brought down the poison dart case. Re-loaded with backup dart supply, I calmed down, stood back, waited until the dog stopped to review its predicament, aimed, and puffed again.

It was a good shot, right to the shoulder. The dog outdid all previous movements. It did flips, renewed its attacks against the chicken wire, then stopped, sat, started foaming at the mouth, and shuddered as the poison took effect.

As I observed its death throws, her voice behind me revealed her presence. She was about 14, lived in the kampong, a house over. With a tear in her eye she simply ask

“What are you doing to my dog?”

I was a Peace Corps Volunteer sent to Sabah, Malaysia to teach agriculture. A couple years before I arrived, Sabah was British North Borneo. I’d been assigned to a remote kampong called Damai, 50 kilometers from the nearest electricity or paved road. My house like other swas elevated on stilts. The 8-foot raised elevation ensured during the monsoon season, when the water level matches round level, I stayed dry, even if the outhouse was a challenge.

This elevation provided space to build chicken hutches for egg laying out of the sun and rain with a little chicken wire for protection. I was introducing white leghorn chickens that lay an egg every day to replace kampong chickens who laid one every now and then. I was also raising bunny rabbits for kampong introduction but that’s another story.

Kampong Damai, had its breed of Southeast Asia kampong dog.

Vietnam War veterans know these breeds. They’re short-haired, 14-20 inches tall, standing on 4 paws, and are 20-30 pounds in weight, if not in starvation mode which many are as they fight for scraps. They look hungry, downcast, and are scared from disease and fights. Those in the upper size range are “Top Dogs” who bully the others.

All are mangey curs. They lay about among buzzing flies, openly fornicate and remain stuck together temporarily afterwards. They constantly fight among themselves over not just food but also territorial boundaries and will pack up and viciously attack any outside dog that approaches. You’re never tempted to touch them let alone pet or cuddle them. They are village scavengers put up with due to their bark alerts of unexpected visitors. They are not allowed in houses, rarely wag a tail, and display scrawyn ribs. The females display, red, protruding teats from frequent puppy motherhood.

Initially empathetic to their life’s plight, their appearance kept me away. Driving my motorcycle, however, changed empathic indifference to hate. It wasn’t their barking bike chasing that caused the change of attitude. It was their sleeping on roads in the jungle night. Suddenly the motorcycle’s light would reveal, just in front, one sleeping before me. I’d run over it, wobble about, fight to recover the bike’s trajectory, confrontation a close call of fright. So, I learned to hate kampong dogs.

Kampong dogs steal whatever they can get to eat and love eggs.

Before my egg stealing dog encounter, I’d met a hunter returning from the hills above the valley. Strapped on his back was a large monkey he’d killed to eat. He also carried the blowgun and poison bamboo dart case he used to make his kill. I started bartering immediately, for the blowgun and his darts, not for the monkey. He agreed to sell them, assured me the poison would kill anything, including humans with the caveat not dogs, an exception I assumed was a joke.

Now, I had to explain to the young girl why there was a poison dart sticking out of her dog’s shoulder.

I knew not all Sabah dogs were equal. It also had a few “noble” dogs, like American privileged pets. Former British colonial masters usually had their “noble” breed, a few Chinese city dwellers had a little “noble” pooch, and rarely a kampong native had a “noble” kampong mutt.

A month earlier, I’d rode the 100 kilometers to Sabah’s Capital, Kota Kinabalu, a tidy town of 25,000 plus. As I entered the city I noticed a dead dog laying on the side of the road. I assumed it was killed by a car. Then I saw another, its head in a pool of blood. Within the next block, I saw another. I heard the bang, not a lorry backfire or fireworks bang, deep throat gun bang, a shotgun.

With a few sharp turns, a pedal brake here, a race forward to another bang, soon I was behind the source, an open Land Rover. In it, a driver lackadaisically drove on residential streets while two policemen sat in the open rear with 12 gauge shotguns.

Dogs typically jumped up and approached them as they drove. When one approached, they looked to see if it had a collar, if not, it was bang+, on to the next mutt. It was matter of factually, just the town’s answer to kampong dog overpopulation. It didn’t cause a stir among the population. It was simply known as  dog day.

My first thought was about Gomok, my former Peace Corps girlfriend’s dog. She was a nurse at Queen Elizabeth Hospital and lived in hospital quarters strung around a large open Pandang area of hospital staff housing. I steered away from the Land Rover to the hospital housing compound to see if Gomok too was laying on the street but thought with its collar and tags it would be spared.

As expected, Gomok was not on the pavement. She probably was safe and sound in the house. While at the compound housing I motored over to the dresser quarters, humbler than the nursing housing and usually more crowded. A Peace Corps Volunteer had married the eldest daughter in one of its housing quarters. I’d gone to the wedding, knew he father, and had set off fireworks with him on Chinese New Year. The family had a dog named Bobie, a “noble” kampong dog fed, bathed, petted, and allowed in the house.

It was a family of 9 kids, 5 of which were daughters. I’d stole a kiss from one at a Halloween Party, during a game where two are connected by a string with an apple in the middle. You are supposed to mouth in the string and see who gets to the apple first. Seeing I was going to lose, I cheated, dropped the string, leaned forward and kissed her. She blushed but didn’t slap me.

She was the 3rd oldest, 17 turning 18, the pick of the litter, beautiful, smart and best of all a hard worker. She was in Catholic Chinese school, spoke English, and did most of the organizing and work at her elder sister’s wedding. It was her that took care of Bobie.

To my relief, Bobie was in the house hiding under the kitchen table, not on the pavement. At first bang he knew it was dog day and best to stay in the house.

While I talked to the dad, Bobie’s mistress hid in the rear quarters, glanced askance at me a few times, and graced me with a smile when she took Bobie back outside once it was safe.

Now I was faced with the truth. While not wearing a collar or tags, Id shot the wrong dog, one fed, bathed, petted, allowed in the house and cared for by a young girl, a “noble” dog.

My mumbled explanation of losing eggs was not an adequate excuse for the dog’s brutal capital punishment. From smug satisfaction seeing the dog shudder, I switched to praying it wouldn’t die. My prayer was answered, the shuddering eased then ceased. Coming out of shock, the dog looked around, scratched itself, the dart fell out, and it wagged its tail. I removed the rock blocking its escape, it left with the girl, but it never stole another egg.

56 years ago, I married Bobie’s mistress.

She still has a “noble” kampong dog. Now it’s Angel who emigrated to the USA.

While there are still scrawny kampong dogs that lay on the roads at night, Sabah now has many “noble” dogs. On Saturday’s at Gaya Jalan market they are sought after and pampered like American dogs.

Kota Kinabalu’s population increased from 25,000 to over 500,000. I suspect there are well over 25,000 “noble” dogs there now.