The Society of Strays: What Dogs Know That We Don’t
When you move to South America, one of the first things you notice is the population of strays.
I live in a small coastal city that is built with many dead-ends. Streets that were constructed to give way to the beach path that runs parallel to the ocean. A highway of foot traffic, bicycles, carts, bars, discarded coconuts, and of course, dogs.
Everyone in Brazil has a dog. Multiple dogs. The culture behind dog-ownership is enormous. The pet market, even larger; Brazil is second to America for the largest pet market in the world. But even as an American, I have never witnessed such decked out dogs. Dogs are dressed in dresses, some are in hoodies, some wear boots, some are pushed in baby carriages, some are given sunglasses, some have their fur braided, some are literally bedazzled. Beyond question, the beach path is their runway.
But these house dogs, in all their glittered glory, are no match for the strays they share it with. The stray dogs in Brazil are a colony, no, a society. The society of strays. They are treated with the utmost respect and have many dutiful servants who they’ve charmed into bringing them food periodically. I know, I’m one of them. Strays are often adopted, however, and you could very well see a stray on the street one week, just to see that same stray sporting a new sweater and collar (and human) the next.
Nevertheless, the strays have limited time to impress upon their respective future owners. They will select someone who has owner potential, or food and follow them. They’ll try to impart upon you that this could be an everyday activity, a fun per diem walk if you would be so kind just to take them home. It’s their sales pitch, their time to dangle their unconditional love and friendship in front of your face, knowing that many of us desperately need it.
Some strays even have civic responsibilities; they are given the title (and collar) of Community Dog, which is exactly that. They are officially taken care of by the community or adopted by the community, and in turn, take proficient care of said community. Their duties range from killing vermin to cleaning up the streets, to personal comfort. In the event you don’t have a dog but require one, a Community Dog will console you, will give you the friendship and attention that you lack.
There are, unfortunately, those strays that never get adopted. I named one that I’ve known for months now, ‘Charles’. Charles always happens to be around, evidently taking care of various sales pitches. Whenever he spots me, he’ll happily, but dutifully, follow me from the beach to the grocery store, which he waits patiently in front of, to the front door of my building. Charles has half a tail but never stops wagging it; a little secret the strays have shared with me is that life is too short to be doing otherwise. Another stray around town is named ‘Scar’, for obvious reasons. He has earned the markings of age and battle, and carries himself with an aloof toughness like the Don Corleone; for he might make you an offer you simply can’t refuse. ‘The Merchant’ is another one I’ve come to know and name. He stashes his bones and various findings in several hiding places around the beach and carefully sits on them until he can turn a profit. Or make a trade. These old-timers are remarkably sweet, friendly fellas, that would have been fantastic pets, but have made their homes out of the streets. They’re comfortable there. They are no longer willing to learn new tricks or submit to the mighty leash, even if a person is holding the other end of it.
What would have become my next dog, Fred was adopted just in time for the winter. Fred was a beautiful, silky, stallion of a dog and he and his assumed brother, Stephen, ran the beach path. They were always aware of each other’s whereabouts and were constantly together, endlessly weaving in-between legs, palm trees, and bicycle wheels. They would never stray from the beach path but would follow me as soon as I stepped on it, knowing where to find me due to my trailing scent of hemp.
They would escort me on hour-long walks, on quick errands, on runs. They provided me with a feeling of total safety, a feeling that is rare for women; especially at night, especially in a foreign place. Men must feel like they always have two big, protective, dogs next to them. It’s quite a feeling. There is an immense peace that settles over you once you know no one will even attempt to fuck with you. That they are, afraid — if not simply due to the vicious beasts by your side. If you’ve never experienced walking a large, seemingly terrifying but devoted dog, try it. People do not treat you the same, they treat you better.
I’m grateful to whoever adopted Fred because now he has what I couldn’t yet give him. What’s difficult is not getting attached, even when you only take care of each other from a distance. But what matters is what they stand to teach us; what truths of life they so seamlessly convey — to keep life lively, to make the most out of our circumstances; and to love openly, without limit, without pause.
Originally published at www.stupidpoetic.com
