Dog In Bali

1 September 22

Bali. I have no picture because I left my phone in the hotel room. He looked a little like My Suki, same fawn coloring, similar white paws and neck scruff. He was the same size too. And he came up onto my beach blanket, licked my face, and laid his body against mine as though he’d known me for years, not seconds. And he mouthed and then tore my beach sheet, the same My Suki would have done. I purposely didn’t own this particular beach sheet until she was gone for that exact reason, so she wouldn’t tear it. And he mouthed and didn’t tear my arm, exactly like My Suki would do. She was so gentle. This one was just as gentle, just not with my beach sheet. And I knew knew knew he must belong to someone, because no dog is this loving and gentle without an owner. I jumped up off my now torn beach sheet and whistled to him to come play with me in the water. He responded to the whistle, but not so much a fan of the water, just like My Suki. She always loved the beach, the sand, the smells, the other dogs. Not so much the water. Never a fan of the water, My Suki. And this one, this new best friend of mine, also apparently loves the beach, not so much the water. So I leave it be. We go back to my blanket and chill for a while, his body pressed against mine, just like My Suki used to do. And then I ask him to show me his mama and papa. I gather my things and ask him to show me where to go. And he obligingly wanders up the. boardwalk, pausing and coming back to me to make sure I am following, just like My Suki used to do. Eventually another gentleman with a beautiful German Shepherd on a lead shouts, “Oh, hey, Name I Can’t Remember and Couldn’t Pronounce Even if I Could.” But the man keeps walking, as though he knows this little weirdo but doesn’t belong to him. So I clarify, “Oh, he doesn’t belong to you?” And as he passes, the man tells me, “Oh, no. He belongs to the beach.”

And so he does, and so he goes.

I lagged a little, and then a little more. I watched him wander and greet and love on a few more new people before I turned to return to my hotel, “he belongs to the beach” resonating in my brain like a mantra.

Love is not taught to animals by people. Hate is. I have now watched feral animals in many countries. Not all. I can’t pretend to have a perfectly worldview grasp on this. But I know in Greece and France and Croatia and Italy, many feral cats roam the streets. And when they see a person, they do not hiss and spit; they come up and beg not for food, but to be touched. And now I know, in Indonesia, at least one feral dog who did not stare me down or bite me. He instead came and shared my blanket for a little while. Not because I offered him food; I had none to offer. Not because I offered him comfort; he offered that to me. Just because I was there, and he was there, and together we shared some time hanging out on a beach.