Chauncey from Burundi, you are my dog.
When I first heard about you back in 2011, you were already tearing across the yard, all fangs and loud intentions. I had entered your domain. You thought I was the enemy. I did not feed you. You wanted to connect, but you did not know how to ask. I wanted you to stop nipping my ankle, but I did not know how to ask. You wanted to play-kill me.
A few months later, I was shocked to realize I had agreed to take you in. Your first dad was moving house so I said I would see if there is “us”. I think you sensed something was happening. I was sitting cross-legged on the patio floor. You rolled onto my lap and started chewing on my wrists. So much slobber - I mean, affection.
I heard someone else was adopting your dog-friend, Sam. He’s dead now. Actually he was dead in that past, too, just one month after he moved. Turns out that was no skin rash - he had been suffering from cancer. I thought, why did no one want you, Chauncey Dog? I thought, I must be the only one to realize how cute you were. You were a cute-faced ankle-killer, and you were moving in.
Burundi Days
FIRST BATH
We started out in Bujumbura and after an unexpected overnighter in Brussels, we ended up in Chicago. Then New York. Then Washington, D.C. Now Tacoma, Washington (the “other Washington”). Sometimes you would whimper about traveling, but I swear you have a right to much more. I truly admire your calm. We’ve moved house like how you chase your friends. Manic and spastic, your body rarely follows your eyes. We think you’d be a terrific Muppet.
Everywhere you go, people say the most interesting things to you. You are "darling" and "honey" and "baby" and "THAT VERY BAD DOG" to friends and strangers. To me, you are weird and cunning and undeniably cute. One girl in Harlem insisted to her sister that she pet you. When she was done, she looked up and said, "He's so soft - I'm going to have nice dreams!"
You have your own Facebook page, and anyone can be your friend, but boy, are you awkward at the dog park. You meet dogs butt-first and roll over by preference. Your lateral movement is world-class, to help sidestep dogs you don't want to meet. Those tricks make me think you're part Canaan dog, but honestly, nobody knows. I think I prefer it that way.
You are a treasure, Chauncey Dog, mysterious and cosmic. I'm happy you haven't run away - again.
You were dropped off at my place with a pink blanket and a whole lot of heartache. The first night, you paced the front driveway, howling at the stars. The next day, I snuck around the corner of the garage and took my first photo of you. You were sleeping behind my motorcycle, fanning your doghood with the breeze. My, you knew how to work the room.
Back in those days, you were a total tick-magnet who would race me to your dinner spot where I placed your bowl. Remember that time we had no electricity and forgot to prepare any food for you? And we had to zip across town to buy you yogurt and sausage? Probably not - you barely remembered me after my last trip.
You’re a fox-dog with a puff of white ladykiller fur on your chest and a helicopter tail with more plumage than a Musketeer. When you're excited or tired, you snort like a majestic pig. A scar over your left eye says danger, a goofy underbite says maybe not so clever. They asked me your birthday, for your passport. We weren’t sure so I made one up. October 10, 2010. Close enough, and exactly right.
You’re 10/10.
Wander Dog