A small dog in Kabul

“Chuche (pronounced choochei) Sag” was how we all called him – Dari for “small dog”. He was about 6 months old, born on our street to another street dog. He had a few more litter mates that scattered, and Chuche Sag was left by himself, to find his position in the hierarchy within the gang of dogs that patrol our street.

I never knew him. I have my own dog, and there are two others that I regularly feed – a whole another story. I always saw him, a bit of a loner having no companions his age, with the same street smart attitude of other young street dogs.

A few days ago, a horrific sight waited for us as we walked escorted by our armed guards to our office. One of Chuche Sag’s front legs was viciously damaged. The entire skin had rolled down like a stocking, pooling by his paws. The bloodied muscle was exposed, and it was clear that his leg was badly broken. Something had hit him – a car or a motorcycle, but did not kill him.

He limped on three legs, and after two days did not move much. My friend and co-worker Fiona begged me to do something. I was at a loss – he was a street dog and afraid enough of people to bite, and I did not want to be bitten. I called Tigger House, the only animal shelter in Kabul, but the doctor was not in. When I finally got in touch, my Dari was not good enough, his English was not good enough, and I could not explain my need.

So, then we started feeding him – leaving bowls of food a few feet away from him. He always hunkered in the culverts, just out of reach. However, a few hours later, the food would be gone. Two days went by in this attempt to draw him out, so that we could nab him and take him to the vet.

On Saturday, about five days later, I went over to the vet and said that I would pay for him to come with me and capture this dog. He readily agreed, and we came back to the house, but the dog was nowhere to be found. By this time, a whole lot of people had gotten involved to save this dog, and some of the guards went out on motorcycles to find the dog – no dog to be found. The doctor left a slim leash and gloves and taught a towering guard how to capture the dog, should we find it, and then to call him.

On the sixth day, we spotted him, and the towering guard, captured him and we had him leashed. He screamed in fright and pain, and finally curled himself into a ball and gave up the fight. I called the office and told them what was going on and to send a driver to Tigger House. The driver, left his breakfast unfinished, and rushed to get the doctor. The doctor came with a kennel, came over to see Chuche Sag, and said, “this does not look good, we may have to put him to sleep”.

By this time Chuche Sag was completely terrified, and with barely a whimper allowed himself to be pushed into the kennel and driven to the hospital. A few hours later, a doctor with perfect English called and gave the bad news – the entire leg is smashed and not just broken, the skin is gone and cannot be stitched to save it, infection has set into the bone and has most likely spread. The dog is in extreme pain. Even in the US, most vets would recommend either amputation or euthanasia.

Dogs have difficult lives in Afghanistan, and a three legged small puppy will not have a chance. In any case, Tigger House was not set up for amputations, or for the intense care required for recovery. He asked for my permission to put him to sleep and I agreed. Within the next hour he was gone and buried.

I am writing this article to mourn him and to talk about him. I feel that somehow he should be remembered in a tangible manner, and not just lost. I have no pictures of him. It was so cute to watch him grow up and make his way. It was so humbling to see this little thing silently and bravely deal with his injury. It was so heartbreaking to see him slide farther and farther into a lonely place, as he crept along in culverts all alone hoping that somehow food will be available.

It is extreme irony that while in health he had so many reasons to fear the species we call “human”, that when he finally was surrounded by people who wanted to help him, it was simply too late.

I just want you to know that you are mourned and that you are remembered. All the guards shook their heads sadly at the news – they were rooting for you. Haris, the driver who sped to the hospital to get the doctor, upon hearing the final decision, cursed the driver who dealt you the fatal blow. You were Fiona’s favorite dog, and she regrets not having taken you in when you were very, very little, and she mourns you.

Be in peace.