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.