Dogs and Teeth

 

During one of my last Miradouro walks, right before I committed myself to my dogs’ health and entertainment, I overheard a conversation between two little girls:

 

“Do you love dogs?” one of them asked.

 

“I love dogs very much,” the other answered in a serious, thoughtful manner, “but I don’t love their teeth.”

 

At the time those words made me smile and I knew I would write something about them. This week my Staffie Keket celebrated six months, five of them spent with us. I remembered that conversation and found it a good subject for my weekly post.

 

In reality, I was left wondering if it’s possible to love something or someone if we have doubts. I repeatedly asked myself that same question and always got the same answer.

 

I admit that, for some, love can exist and subsist despite buts. Fortunately or unfortunately, we don’t all accept them. I am sure the love that girl could ever experience for dogs is undermined by fear. That love doesn’t have a practical existence, because teeth overshadow any possible action or feeling towards the loved one.

 

I think the same happens to me and to many others. Suppose you have to sit and study this possibility: “Sometimes I have teeth and sometimes I don’t”. And suppose words hurt a lot more than teeth. Do you accept the fact and peacefully live with it? My answer is no and nothing is going to change it. Wanted or not, love has commercial nuances. You have this to offer. Do I accept it? I don’t. Life goes on.

 

And maybe when we don’t accept teeth we start to unveil so many other unwanted aspects about dogs. Ambiguity, for instance. Crafted messages that fit more than one context and keep us unaware of teeth. Pleasing Greeks and Trojans never worked. At some point, one or both walk away. Because some day we are going to stop saying that we love dogs except for their teeth and conclude that our love is no love after all. Admiration dies. Feelings crumble. Love vanishes.

 

(I have to say that I personally love dogs, teeth included.)

Country Flowers

 

Two weekends ago, when we went to Marracuene, we were greeted near the ferryboat by six children, or even more, offering flowers. Some of them were really small, six years maximum, and they could already speak a few words in English:

 

“My offer to you!”

 

It was a nice gesture so I accepted the first flower, but the little one kept his hand insistently begging. I had to give him a couple of meticais. The next minute, more than ten children “offering” all kind of wild plants surrounded our car.

 

I tried to explain to a more insistent one that if we offer a present to someone we shouldn’t expect something in return.

 

“Do you understand?” I asked in my best emphatic Portuguese.

 

He replied to me with a yes, so I accepted the second flower. Well, you know already what happened: I had to give him more meticais or his little hand would never stop begging. Sometimes our best intentions are confronted by the inexorable reasoning of others.

 

If you are new in “welcome to Marracuene protocol”, my best advise is: do carry a reasonable amount of coins with you, or you will risk leaving the place empty hands in what concerns local flora!

Salvador

 

 

I can’t say how long I have known Salvador. He started to appear in my neighbourhood when he was around six years old. His poor family sent him to a school situated in the “rich” area of the town. Clever boy that he was, he soon discovered that he could study in the morning and spend the afternoon begging for his empty belly and the needs of his family.

 

He learned the art of street wisdom and the ways to please potential donors. He fell for our family as we fell for him. At first I didn’t see Salvador, amongst so many others like him. But one day he shouted very laudly:

 

“Andy mum’s!”, and our relationship started at that precise moment.

 

In the years to come he would never call me Seabell, because in African tradition if you have a child you became socially too important to have only your own name. You are much more than a name, you are already someone capable of giving birth. Your status increases a lot!

 

He knows everything about us: the days we go out, the usual hours to go to a certain place and how we feel in different occasions. Very respectful, he learned to be polite as a chevalier. He opens my door and helps in any he can. If we don’t give him a coin, he blinks his eye to show complicity: “Next time!” or “Today you don’t have to, it was a good day for me!”

 

Long ago, I felt compelled to bring him under my protective wing, but it was impossible because he has a family that he also loves and protects. I saw Salvador growing in the streets and learning more there than in the schools. I remember phases of his growth: times when he looked sleek and times when he became very fat because he was spending a lot of the moedas (coins) he received buying cakes at a local patisserie.

 

Today he is a grown man. From time to time, I ask my husband in a kind of shock:

 

“Have you seen Salvador lately?”

 

Depending on the answer, I start to see images of him: Salvador in a South African mine, selling his lungs to feed his family; Salvador with street girls, learning love the hardest way and possibly getting a deadly disease; Salvador selling or consuming drugs…

 

If we don’t see him for more than a week, we ask the dozens of other children just like him for his whereabouts:

 

“Where is Salvador? Is he all right?”

 

Usually the answer reassures me, but I know deep inside that one day I will hear the words that are painfully written in my mind. I also know that on that day a part of me will dive into the deepest pool of sorrow.

 

Nobody can teach certain simple things, like the need to protect children. That has to be felt and changed from the inside. Organizations and other institutions can do a lot. Yet it’s the families and society in general that must learn ways to improve the present and future of our Mozambican children.

 

                                                                          Photos by Miquidade.