She Stole My Heartz
In a place full of dogs that are trained to bark, chase, and
bite, Heartz was a nice dog. There was never a “tiok” necessary when she came
‘round. OK, she bit Sam once, but that’s probably because Sam was especially
afraid of dogs. They can always tell.
Heartz was the best kind of dog. She lived across the street
and found me on the back porch at least once a day, looking for nothing but
some sweet petting. I didn’t need to feed her, walk her, or clean up after her
messes. I never had to take her to the vet, which is a good thing because I’m
pretty sure Kosrae doesn’t have one. She was the oh so happy recipient of my
American craving for the human-domesticated animal relationship. I have a
miniature dachshund at home, and Heartz filled the weenie-shaped hole in my
heart. Contentment was decidedly mutual during these daily petting/belly
rubbing sessions, hers demonstrated through deep dopey eyes and a tongue
hanging out of the side of her mouth just so. She would hang around for a while
and then bounce cheerfully away to continue doing whatever dogs do.
Heartz’s “real” name was Choko, but finding that harsh and
unsuitable for such a happy canine, I decided to perform a name transformation.
Using my gift for nomenclature - and the fact that she had two large brown
heart-shaped markings on her back - Choko became Heartz. I liked to think that
on the rare occasion that Heartz was a naughty dog she was briefly stepping
into her alter-ego Choko. But most of the time she was a Heartz, and all the delightful
things such a name implies.
About a month into Heartz’s and my relationship, Hudson
Edwin (our landlord and the “old man,” as every local, including his son, calls
him) brought joyous news: Heartz was pregnant! “You can tell by the titties,”
he said. Oh happy day! My mind filled with the excited anticipation of lots of
mini-Heartzes tubbing around the yard. With the temperament and cuteness of
their lovin’ mama, the pups were sure to be my fast friends.
Towards the end of her pregnancy Heartz disappeared for a
few days - no bounding into the yard, no sneaking into the house – and we grew
worried. Both Peter and I had heard stories about the fate of some dogs in
Kosrae - endings that involved a car, a hammer, or an underground oven. But a
quick trip across the street confirmed our girl was still kicking. The Edwins
had tied her up to protect her from scheming neighborhood kids, who had done
something ungentlemanly to her foot. As we approached her ring of captivity,
Heartz reared up in recognition. Her eyes shone brightly and her tail wagged
wildly as she again clamored for our attention. Sigh of relief.
Eventually Heartz was let to roam free once more, and we
shared many more afternoons on the porch. She, unsurprisingly, loved those days
when we gutted fish outside. She shared in Peter’s and my excitement about our
first big tuna purchase (fish had been scarce on the island for the first few
months), hanging around and begging for just one scrap.
Finally it was time: Heartz gave birth in the stealth of the
night, bringing six little ones into the world, an even three boys and three
girls. Peter and I found her the next day near a pile of garbage in the Edwins’
side yard. Just four pups remained by that point – two of the boys had quickly
died – but nevertheless Heartz appeared a glowing mother. We held our breaths
and crouched to gaze in wonderment at the four little blind rats pressed up
against her for nourishment and warmth. OK, so they weren’t exactly cute at that
point.
Heartz seemed happy to have our
company until I stepped on a piece of broken mirror – she had made her nest in
garbage, after all. The craaack set her on guard, and she growled at us for the
first time ever. What the heck, Heartz? But my weenie dog’s stint with
motherhood had taught me such aggression was not a referendum on her affection
for me. I continued visiting often, watching the pups grow into their cuteness.
Around that time another volunteer
told us how his family’s “pet” dog was unceremoniously whacked on the head
early one morning and served for dinner that night. “Everyone here eats dog,”
he told us. “No dog is safe.” I should have recognized the foreshadowing
happening in my own story, but my Heartz was special. You know what’s coming.
As her children got fatter and
fatter in the next few weeks, Heartz became more and more gaunt. She finally
felt comfortable enough to leave the nest yet again to bound across the street
for some American love, ribs exposed but otherwise the same lovely Heartz. I
figured the puppies were suckling all of her nourishment away. One puppy in
particular was much fatter than she should be, and I named her Tubs and
silently resented her ever-increasing weight. I wondered why the Edwins did not
feed Heartz more. Then…
Heartz again stopped coming
‘round. Peter and I finally decided to bite the bullet and ask about her
whereabouts once again, with a bit more trepidation this time. We found a woman
in the backyard of Hudson’s house (his wife? I’m really not sure of everyone
who lives there, or really in any house here) who immediately told us that
Choko was dead. She brought her hands up to her face and moved her lips up and
down in a chewing motion. Choko, my Heartz, had been killed to be eaten. I
turned away and began to cry. The woman told Peter that she, too, had
recognized what a special dog Heartz was. I did not understand.
Dogs in Kosrae wear many hats. They
are guards, attackers of bikers, pets, and in many cases eventually food for
their families. My struggle came in applying one identity – loved pet – to a
dog that I did love. I don’t want to be the American girl crying over something
that is normal, even expected, here. I understand their culture is different
than my own. But I do still miss my heart-marked girl.
One of Heartz’s pups still lives
across the street. She is fat, fluffy, and white. I wanted to name her
Snowflake. But I think it’s best to watch from afar, to allow her to keep her
Kosraen name and her Kosraen identity.
