The Lame Pup

There was a lame pup who appeared near the Boy’s Sick Room when I first arrived. He couldn’t have been older than a few months then. Or perhaps he was older but was so malnourished that he didn’t grow. He was the runt of the litter, abandoned and fending for himself. When I first saw him, he was near death. His mangy pelt stretched translucent over a protruding ribcage. He shivered constantly, tail between his one good leg and the other that was injured.  He had scabs that dripped. The fleas gathered in swarms under his thin fur.

He appeared penitent, begging forgiveness for sins in a past life. Bhutan pulses with the cycle of karma and I wondered what he had gotten himself into in his past life to deserve this one. All signs indicated that as bad as his current life was, it likely wouldn’t be a long one.

During Losar, in the light of our celebratory bonfire, the pup was stepped on by a passerby who was unaware that the balled up figure was a living thing. The pup let out a weak protest, barely a squeal, and he curled back into himself and shivered. That was the night when I began feeding him.

I promised myself I wouldn’t adopt a street dog. I even criticized the other foreign teachers who instantly fell in love with the litters of puppies that perused the garbage in Thimphu. I didn’t want a pet. But the poor thing needed a fighting chance.

When I first approached him he winced and crumpled to the ground, anticipating a beating. I held out a bit of food for him, some leftover rice with curry. He sniffed at it, stood up and then ate it without pause, eying me cautiously in case my generosity was a trick. He vomited the food up later and I gave him a bit more. He held it down the second time, hiccuping relentlessly.

He smelled like death. I put on rubber gloves and bathed him. He gave more protest to being dipped in the water than he did to getting stepped on. He tried to hobble away, but his limp made him slow and ultimately he resigned to the bath, adding it to the many injustices that had befallen him in this life.

As I massaged shampoo into his coat, I noticed more sores and bald spots where his hair had either fallen out or had been torn. Whenever I grazed these spots he gave out a weak squeal and tried jumping from the washbasin. The water quickly turned black and dozens of drowned fleas floated on the surface. I poured out the first batch of water, refilled the basin and again the water turned black. Half the pup’s weight must have been the filth in his hide.

After, I massaged some diluted vinegar into his coat to keep the fleas out. I dried him and set him loose. Again, he collapsed on the ground and shivered. I hadn’t planned well and realized that by washing him in the evening he’d have to survive a frigid night damp and exposed to the elements. I took him into the Boy’s Sick Room, found an empty cardboard box, lined it with new towels that I had bought for myself, and set the pup inside. He still shivered violently; the Boy’s Sick Room has no heating and was just as cold as the outside. I covered the cardboard box with another strong bit of cardboard as a lid, heated up a big pot of water and set the pot on the box. The heat spread into the box and the pup finally stopped shivering. He fell asleep. I slept above the pup in my bed. He didn’t make the slightest noise all night. Part of me feared that he wouldn’t wake up in the morning.

But, if he’s anything he’s a fighter. At dawn I took the pot and lid off the box and was greeted by a big yawn from his little mouth. He looked up at me and his tail wagged. That must have been the only undisturbed night of sleep he had ever had.

It’s been four months since that night. After that, he kept appearing at my door. I’d give him left over rice, fry him up an egg, toss him a dried fish. He began to expect it and he’d be waiting every morning and every evening at my door.

“I’d better give you a name,” I decided.

He nudged his snout at my hands, looking for a treat.

“You little beggar. Que mendigo eres.”

Mendigo is growing now. He is stronger and healthier than all of the other stray dogs at the school. I bathe him once a week and massage a bit of vinegar into his coat. He smells funny, but he isn’t tormented by the fleas like the other dogs. He's free to come and go as he pleases, but every night he sleeps on an old chair on the porch of the Boy's Sick Room. And every morning he's at my door, ready to beg for some breakfast or just there to make sure I'm okay. 

He gets into trouble too, chewing on the microphone chords during assembly or attacking the edges of the women’s kiras as they walk across campus. He digs and barks and tries to play with the malnourished stray dogs who are often too tired to entertain him.

All the students and teachers at school know Mendigo. The younger students call him over, scratch him behind the ears, rub his belly and say, “Mendigo, Mendigo. What kind of trouble are you getting into?”

The teachers admire his coat. “This one is a good dog, isn’t he? He’s so clean.”

After some training, now Mendigo knows, “Sit!” and “Down!” and “Stay!” He might be the only English speaking dog in eastern Bhutan.

“We believe our karma returns to us in waves,” a teacher explained to me once. “One life isn’t all good nor all bad. Karma ebbs and flows. Sometimes everything is wonderful. Other times life is, what’s the word you use? Ah yes: shit.”

For now Mendigo has a good life. I’m worried about what will happen when I leave. Who will feed him and bathe him? Who will play with him in the afternoons? There is a chance he will be adopted by one of the many other teachers that have now fallen for him. But there is also a chance that he’ll be alone and will become part of a pack of street dogs. My impulse is to intervene and make plans and assure that his life will be okay.

“No matter what happens though, we will get what we deserve. No one can save us from our bad karma. And no one can keep us from receiving the good karma that we have generated from our past lives.”

For now I enjoy when Mendigo sits beside me on the porch as I sip Nescafe and read. He'll push his paws against my leg and stretch. He protects me by barking relentlessly at students coming for homework help, or at the backpacks they leave on the porch. We wrestle and he mock bites my fingers when I grab him by the scruff. Sometimes I just come out at night and pet him while I watch the stars and listen to the insects in the jungle.

Perhaps when I leave, Mendigo will be just fine. But when I’m alone again with no companion to play with and no reprieve from loneliness, I’ll think maybe I wasn’t saving Mendigo from his karma at all. Maybe he was saving me.