When I was three years old I was bitten by a dog. It was a black bush dog my Grandmother named Blackie, one of two dogs she kept on her Kinshasa compound. Blackie was a hunter and a veritable basenji*. Independent, aloof and not one bit affectionate, Blackie did his own thing. On this particular occasion Blackie was being fed his daily meal of raw meat. For some reason, my child’s mind thought the dog should not be eating the meat reserved for humans,so being of my own mind, I walked over to Blackie’s bowl while he was eating and grabbed a piece of meat. Blackie wasn’t having it and he bit my hand. I screamed at the top of my lungs and the maid, my Grandmother and whoever else was around came running to my aid. ‘What’s happened? What’s happened?’ everyone asked. Crying I told them that Blackie bit me. That I went to take a piece of meat from his bowl that was supposed to be cooked for us and he bit me.(Reflecting on this incident, two things come to mind: one, I must have not been seriously bit because I still have my hand and there are no visible scars;two, What must have gone through the grown-ups heads when I told them my reason for taking the meat?) Anyways, after my Grandmother told me never to do that again, she then threatened to kill Blackie. Suffice it to say for a true basenji, Blackie lived a very long and happy life after this incident, dying of his health’s accord.

When I was eight years old in Johannesburg, I’d walk to school alone. There was a house I’d pass every day and every day there was a black dog in that driveway.At first I was afraid, but then as we got used to each other I’d say hello. I was still afraid of dogs after my Blackie incident, but I liked this little fellow, and he was safely behind a fence. One day he wasn’t and I was genuinely scared to death, but not the pup. He knew me already, wagging his tail and wanting to play.  He followed me for a bit until I shooed him away. The next time I saw him he was looking more ragged than usual so I gave him my lunch. He scarfed it up and asked for more, following me all the way down the street before he stopped. Days or weeks went by and I didn’t seethe dog. Then one day I did. I’d had a pretty rough couple of days prior and was in no mood to play, my focus being getting to school in one piece. The pup had other plans, not only to be fed but also to play. With no food to share and a severely sore and bruised, I brusquely told him to piss off. Shortly there afterwards, I stopped going to that school and soon left Johannesburg, but every day I thought and have thought about that dog and what happened to him.

When I was thirteen my cousins gave us their dog. She was a Black Australian Kelpy named Gigi. I’d always wanted a dog and since my cousins couldn’t—or wouldn’t--take care of her my Mom reluctantly obliged. Gigi was the best, but Gigi was not a city dog. We—my Mom—took better care of her than my cousins did, but Gigi was so frustrated at not being able to run for miles on a cattle station that she became a little neurotic. She’d escape from the house and not come back,causing many a traffic jam as we tried to safely catch her. When we’d walk her she’d try to herd children, violently pulling on her lead to be set free. The poor dog was a total basket case, and no amount of delicious food, constant walking and attention would abate her natural desire to be back in the bush.After a whole school year, my Mom or my cousins--I don’t know who as I wasn’t consulted--decided Gigi would go back to my cousins for the summer. I had a jam packed summer schedule of back-to-back camps, and with my Mom working round the clock there’d be no one to take care of Gigi.

At the end of August, on the day I returned from sleep away camp, my cousins called. What I remember is holding the receiver and listening to my cousin tell me that Gigi had died. She had gotten some kind of fungal infection and her body couldn’t fight it, so she progressively got weaker until she was no more.‘She just went to sleep right there on the table, Maryam,’ my cousin said. I think Gigi died of a broken heart. After four years in the United States, she couldn’t acclimate and with no chance of her returning to her beloved outback,she just willed herself to eternal sleep.

When I was 37, I was forced to take a decision I did not want to take. I wracked my brain and soul for how I was going to survive this incredibly difficult period,and then it struck me: I needed to make a bold move. While staring at my newly acquired Tintin print, I wondered what Tintin would have done during his early adventures without Milou. I’ve always travelled yet after my last journey I just didn’t want to anymore. The need and desire to set roots had taken hold,and though I would not be setting down roots in the soils I wished to, I’d have to plant a few plants nonetheless. With no friends, an aging family and not a clue how I was going to get through this time, I decided to get a dog.

The ordeal of getting a dog in New York City—and many other places—is akin to human adoption. The forms, the interviews, the lies, the racism, it’s fucking relentless. And I wasn’t even going for a purebred just a run of the mill mutt. To bore you with the horrors I encountered, I will not do, I’ll just say that by the end I was balled up crying and severely depressed. And that’s when someone gave me a chance. So I paid more than I budgeted, and the logistics of getting my pup to New York were a bit much, but none of it, and I mean none it wasn’t worth it. They were small prices to pay for a mutt that has well and truly saved my life.

Mookie is my best friend. You never know how old rescue dogs are--I was told she was a year then at her first vets visit they told me definitely not, more like eight or ten months. And you never know what breed they are—her papers say a Shepherd and Lab mix, and yes she’s definitely a German Shepherd but with the focus,nose, and voice of a hound. She’s all black with a white patch on her chest that someone remarked made her look like a superhero (it’s shaped like an ‘m,’ so I’m bound to agree), with a white spotted foot and the biggest ears you ever did see. She’s a beautiful dog and I’m always quite chuffed when people remark on her good looks. Mookie is a hunter and many a man has told me ‘that’s a hunting a dog,’ as if I'm not aware. Most dogs don’t get close to a squirrel or pigeon, but my dog has on numerous occasions come frighteningly close. She was a stray, it’s unclear for how long, so she came with the habits of a scavenger,with an incredible mind of her own and a confidence that comes with having been on your own during your formative years. She’s almost too smart and a very,very happy dog. Mookie’s eighteen months now, but her curiosity has not ceased,neither have her energy levels. People tell me ‘what a very energetic dog,’with pity, but I don’t get it. 90 percent of the time her peppiness is just fine. In the eight months I’ve had her she’s grown leaps and bounds—not in size,thankfully—and is really becoming quite the nice young lady. I’ll never have biological children, so Mookie is the closest to a spawn I’ll have and I’m proud to say she’s turning out like her mother. But just as much as she’s learned, I have too. I manage people to pay the bills and can say I have a lot of patience. Somehow the patience to handle a dog is same-same but different.Haven’t quite sussed out how it is, but it is, with being firm but kind as the foundation. You have to let them discover the world on their own terms but be there when they get scared or lost and need protection. Just make sure they’re well disciplined.I notice how much more confident I am; to control an animal you have to be a quiet Alpha even when you’re naturally not, like me. Yeah, I have to get up earlier than I like, walk her when I’d rather be lazy and play when I’d rather read, but the companionship she’s given me has well and truly given me the strength to keep going. So, she destroyed my favourite potted rose and chewed the wire of the dehumidifier, she’s still the sweetest pooch ever. She was with me when my Grandmother died, sitting at my feet as I wailed. Every day I get home from work she’s waiting by the door to shower me with kisses, licking away the horrors of my 9-to5. And after many years of not having a ‘Netflix and Chill’ buddy, she’s always on my lap dosing off as I watch a movie, series or football match. After the demise of my relationship, I never thought I’d love again, but every time I look at Mooks I’m just overwhelmed with gratitude, joy and that warm furry feeling that we found each other.

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*Basenji translates to savage.

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