One night in Thimphu after eating dinner Fraser and I came upon small group of stray dogs. We had decided to take some food home with us and this piqued the canines' interest. They began to get rather close—a bit too close for comfort—and before I knew what was happening one was in hot pursuit of my friend. Fraser tried to shake him, but the dog wouldn’t stop. We couldn’t quite tell if he was being playful or aggressive, and not knowing made us err on the side of caution. It took us a bit, but after a short while we managed to fend him off, Fraser having incurred minor wounds as a result of the run-in.
This experience in some ways set the tone for future interactions with Bhutanese dogs. I’ve never been anti-dog—never been attacked or had a negative experience with them. I had, in fact, grown up with them in my home and at my friends’ homes. But strays are slightly different. Their demeanor is rather unpredictable, especially in packs. In Senegal strays could be downright frightening. At night I would look out over the balcony and see packs as large as 12 running with purpose down the dirt roads. Whenever I would walk my sister-in-law’s dog, I always had to carry a rock. Even if I only would pretend to throw, it would be enough to keep them at bay. Before I had moved there a stray had attacked Tanga (the dog) unprovoked, taking a gnarly bite out of his torso and puncturing his lung, breaking ribs, and causing major blood loss. The vet didn’t believe he could rebound, but fortunately he did. This story fueled my caution.
Bhutan, however, deals with dogs somewhat differently. People will leave out their leftovers to keep them fed. As a result the dogs are less gaunt and their coats healthier. There are some exceptions of course. Some are riddled with fleas, some have gnarly skin diseases, and some are rabid. A dog with one or more lame legs is pretty common, too. When I first came to Mongar I noticed a dog at my school was missing a paw. I asked someone about it and was told that this dog had bitten several students so one of the maintenance staff decided to lop off the dog’s paw. The act seemed oddly aggressive considering their otherwise placid existence, but to their credit the dog has been docile ever since and it certainly isn’t impeded by its loss. That’s about the extent of their negative interactions. Senseless violence is reserved only for naïve children, and only the youngest of them who can impart little harm anyway. The rest treat the dogs with kindness or, at the very least, indifference. People will even drive around them as they lazily sunbathe in the middle of the road, which sadly is more than can be said about Senegal.
The dog population is growing due to a lack of neutering and you can find a dog just about anywhere in this country. If you don’t see them, you’ll definitely hear them. I once read that Bhutan was a quiet place, but I assure you, it’s not. Just after dark the dogs begin their barking and will continue well into the night. At first the noise drove me crazy, echoing in my head and inhibiting my sleep, but now I can tune them out with ease.
But I digress. I was very cautious with strays after that night in Thimphu. Now I am able to walk freely among them without fear, but this wasn’t always the case. Early on they would pick up on my misgivings and return them with equal distrust. In my first month I had a handful of dogs on separate occasions charge me. On Losar (Tibetan/Chinese/Bhutanese/Lunar New Year) I was walking around town when two dogs from opposite sides tried to attack, their jaws snapping maniacally. I used my bag to keep distance between us until a high school student came over and shooed them away. I turned to him, feigning composure, to say they must not like me. I remembered he responded without a hint of worry in his voice, “They’re just not used to you”.
Through conversations with others in the expat community I noticed that those with more benevolent attitudes didn’t share my conundrum. Nevertheless my infamy in the dog community persisted for some time. The two that reside near my place bared their teeth and barked in agitation whenever I came in sight. The dogs by the school reacted with similar suspicion. And, my word, I couldn’t walk outside at night without pissing some dog off. It seemed hopeless, like I couldn’t go out without watching for danger from all sides. Staying mentally acute was wearing me down. The fear was truly stifling, but fortunately, this is not the end of my story.
Over time things began to change. The dogs by my house stopped barking and started moving away in my presence. I also noticed that whenever I didn’t wear my gho the dogs would take more notice of me, as if my western style was too terrible to ignore. The real change, however, was not their adaptation to my presence or some deception via camouflage; nay, it was my own perception that needed to change. Having realized this I began to gradually trust them, walking ever closer with each passing day. Whenever I felt nervous I would do my best to ignore them. The result of my efforts is palpable. I’m happier, the dogs are happier, and I learned yet another important lesson. We can’t let fear rule us nor let a bad experience color our future ones. Even if caution is sensible, sometimes we just have to trust others to get it in kind, regardless of their species.
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