Moyen
Before I left for Africa, I swore that I would not be one of those bleeding hearts who come here and adopt any old animal off the street. La Palabre, the embassy newsletter, was full of ads looking for good homes for a little kitty or doggie someone had found irresistible. It seemed odd to take such interest in the animals when the people were in need also. The streets here are full of scrappy dogs and cats. The breed of dog here is African Brown Dog. Everything about him is “medium”. He is moyen in size, moyen in color of brown. We pass by a dirt pile populated by a small pack of them on our walks. They charge out, yelping fiercely. Each is made individual by its own handicap- a torn ear, a bulge on a throat, running sores collecting flies. Tucker, twice their size and accustomed to two squares a day, nevertheless plays it cool. I keep him on the leash and carry a stick just in case. Allison is instructed not to touch, that dogs without owners may be sick. The pack has allowed us pass each time, content that they’ve kept us in line.

Mignon
It was not concern for animals, but concern for our safety in our fiefdom here that led us to thoughts of keeping a pack of dogs ourselves. We first imagined a few junkyard dogs who would patrol the back garden while the night guard slept. But how would our family fit into the pack? And what fate would these dogs meet when our four year tour here ends? Our thoughts softened and a puppy soon appeared in our lives. “Mignon”, the night guard clucked to him. Cute little Quincy.