First we got Bush and Blair procured by my old boss to be installed as an alarm system when our night guards slept on the job. Much to the locals’ amusement, they ended up, as most small animals do, my babies. And though my old housemate James might claim they’re too mothered, and it’s true that I did nurse them through much (flea infestations, mango fly maggots, and a harsh bout of doggie measles that prematurely ended Small) it’s also true that I encouraged them to meet other dogs, to explore the neighborhood, and to learn something of the outside world.

I think it is due to my efforts that they did eventually become the fearsome guard dogs that they are today (even if they are still scared of a tennis balls and chairs falling over); because I loved them so much they wanted to protect me so fiercely. But of Bush and Blair we haven’t heard the last: though I had to leave them at my old house when I moved, when I get a chance, I may just thieve them away when the inhabitants aren’t looking. My guess is they’ll go rather willingly.

But what about Small? It seems absolutely ridiculous in a country in which one out of three children die in infancy to mourn the loss of a puppy, but it’s also true that I can’t kill an ant.

Oh Small. How small you were. You came into our lives carried by some neighborhood children the size of potted plants, and you, you fit in the palm of my hand. You were too young to leave your mother, but the thieves who poisoned her cared not a bit.

So Small, you came to live with us. And you were good company for Lucky, the motor-car-hit puppy I rescued from a lake-sized puddle whilst some nearby children stoned her. Lucky, whose fate has been left now to a drunken vet who rides a scooter, is another sad story.

Lucky wasn’t really a welcome addition to our house. Bush and Blair were terrified of her crippled hopping. And she growled at them when they came near her food, of course. But the vet said she would walk, so we put a cast on her two dangling, dislocated back legs and fed her with steroids and doggie vitamins. But Small, you loved her. At the very least you were too young to be put off by her disfigurement, and you enjoyed her body heat at night. And she loved you back. You played with her, and that was enough for little unlucky Lucky.

And then Bush got sick, and he just about bit the dust. I had to take him to a new vet (who trusts a drunk?) and get him some medications. And then I took you, Small, and Blair, to get inoculated.

But now I know I was too late.

I’m just glad you got to spend your last days at the beach, eating lobster shells and sleeping sickly in the warm sand. If you’re gonna go, I guess Tokeh’s not a bad place.

I will never forget the little grunting sounds you made when I held you close to my face; your white and black speckled nose; your nibbling on my toes under the table as I worked in the office.

But I wonder: when I left you for a few days with our pal Henry, when I told Henry that he was your father and that he must keep you for me when I’m in the city, did you lose faith? Did you think I had abandoned you?

I didn’t. And I never would.