From the cat to a shaggy dog story

The next time you ask someone how he is and he tells you in the most pitiful of  tones that he is leading a dog’s life; that his existence is no better than that of the common cur’s, extend your hand, grab one of his pot hound paws and give it a hearty shake. After you congratulate him, you command him to lift his chin up. Tell him that there’s no reason for self-pity, that he should be counting his lucky fleas he’s a mongrel and not  a human being in Trinidad and Tobago’s dog eat dog society. Inform him that he’s fortunate not to be a person in this land weighed down by inflation, consumed by greed and crime, blinded by race and guided by hypocritical and uninformed rhetoricians. You let him know, that from your human point of view, his mutt’s life is a bag of doggy treats.

Tell him that even if he’s a homeless dog; it’s still safer out there for him on the streets than it is for TT’s citizens. Point out that there seem to be more humans dying in car accidents than there are dead dogs on the road. More to the point, no bad boys armed with guns will come to hunt down a street dog because he dares bark at them, steal some food from their bins or step onto their turf. He might get pelted at, but sticks and stones can only break his bones. Bullets however, can rip dogs and people alike to shreds. It’s also unlikely that as a dog he’s going to get kidnapped as he takes his morning stroll or is out on a night of carousing. He can lime anywhere, anytime. His worst nightmare is the dogcatcher and these aren’t as diligent as the kidnappers. If caught by the dogcatchers he might eventually meet his death, but this by lethal injection, which has to be a less painful exit than the departure available to the human condemned prisoner of TT: death by hanging. 

Inform him that moreover, if he’s a pot hound with caring owners then he’s definitely better off than many of TT’s people. He’s probably getting one meal a day without having to worry about not being able to pay his other bills and he doesn’t have to go to the grocery and feel helplessly appalled at the rising cost of food. Housing is also unlikely a problem for him because he may have some galvanise under which to shelter from the sun and the showers. In the rainy season when it floods, his chances of survival are greater than TT’s peoples’: he can doggy paddle for hours.  (He can do the same when the lifeguards are on strike.)

Neither are health matters a cause for his canine concern — if he’s got proprietors. When he falls sick, he’s in the privileged position of being able to visit a private veterinarian. At the vet’s, he is treated quickly, cheaply and ironically, humanely. He may get a biscuit after his shots or surgery, and a loving pat on the head. He will never be turned away, day or night, whether he can fork out the money immediately or not to pay for the visit. If he becomes a human citizen of Trinidad and Tobago, he’ll have to show a credit card before the attendants glance in his direction at any of the private health centres that are being born as quickly as the country’s public health sector expires. Biscuits in these institutions like a glass or bowl of water are not free, but  added to the tab. There are no pats.

Tell him that as an impoverished TT person, he’ll be tossed out on his hind legs of a private clinic once he doesn’t possess a few thousand dollars to hand over when he limps through the door. Before he can bark “hello”. Back in the street, he’ll have to hang his head, tuck his tail between his legs and go to a public hospital where he’ll have to pray to the nation’s multiplicity of gods there is a doctor on duty and that it is one who is a vet. Let him also understand that as a pot hound, he’s in the honoured position of not having to decide which breed of dog in Trinidad and Tobago is the most superior. He can choose to be friends with them all. Make him comprehend how fortunate he is that no one will ever label him a racist for choosing to hang out with a set of German Shepherds and not with a pack of Pekinese and that he’s lucky that he’ll never be expected to decide on issues based on his ethnicity but only on the meat of the matter before him.

He can yelp his approval or disapproval freely without being called PNM or UNC; without being reminded that he is from Mother India or Mother Africa and thus, must be loyal to these. He’ll certainly never have to endure decades of political doggerel. I bet after he hears your sad tale of how gloomy and dangerous life is for many of TT’s humans he’ll perk up his doggy one. I also wager that the next time he’s asked how he is; he’ll do a cartwheel and yelp proudly, “You, a TT human, are asking? I’m great. I’m a pot hound in this country!”
suz@itrini.com