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Doctola
The. . . dog, in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, foremost to defend.
Lord Byron
I graduated from veterinary school in June of 1984. In July, I hopped a plane for the deepest, darkest heart of Africa and assumed my post as the Thyolo district veterinary officer in August. My life as a new Peace Corps volunteer was moving at warp speed.
My duties were to provide veterinary care and administer the disease control programs for the Thyolo and Mulanji districts in the central African country of Malawi. With nothing more than a cabinet of mostly outdated drugs and a 100-cc motorbike, I was to supervise twenty-three veterinary technicians scattered around my districts and maintain the health of the cattle, sheep, goats, swine, poultry and pet animals in the entire area.
After a month in my new position, I returned to my office one evening after sundown. There, I was greeted by an older gentleman. He sat in the chair that I kept outside my office door. In his lap, he held a box full of puppies. I returned his greeting, and then showed him into my office. We conversed in the local language of Chichewa.
The gentleman was Dr.Mzimba, one of the well-known medicine men in the district. In Africa, the medicine man is a spiritual leader and wise man, as well as a healer, for his people. I estimated his age around sixty, but my estimate could easily have been off twenty years in either direction. In order for him to reach me, he had walked two hours to the nearest bus stop and then taken a six-hour bus ride to my office. He had left his home at 5:00 A.M. and had been waiting for me at my office since his arrival at 4:00P.M. It was now 7:00P.M. He went on to explain that there was very little he could do for the sick puppies he had brought me, since his medicine only worked on people. He cared very much for these puppies and had seen that some were destined to do great things. He asked that I do all in my power to save them.
The six puppies were very ill. I explained that intensive care would be needed for many days if any of the puppies were to be saved. He agreed to leave them with me. He stated that when he felt it was time, he would return to collect them. With that, he left.
The puppies required round-the-clock care. The pups went with me wherever I went. Homemade electrolyte solution and antibiotics were all I had available. Yet despite all my efforts, one puppy after another slowly faded away. On the sixth night, the last two remaining puppies and I bedded down for the evening. I fully expected that these two would go the same way as their littermates. They were not showing any improvement, and I was sure that they didnt have another days worth of fight left in them.
I was overjoyed to wake to two happy and perky puppies whining for attention. They looked like puppy skeletons, but they were alive and alert puppy skeletons. Their appetites were ravenous. Frequent small meals soon became frequent large meals, and it didnt take long for them to fill out.
They stayed with me an additional ten days, and I was wondering if Dr. Mzimba would ever return for them. On the tenth day of their recovery period, Dr. Mzimba showed up. He was overjoyed with the two pups that had survived and were now thriving. One pup was black with four white paws and a large white star on his chest. The other pup was brown with a large white patch on the right side of his face. Both pups had prominent ridgebacks.
I watched as the pups licked and kissed the old mans face while he gently cuddled and hugged them. He pulled out a few coins and some old crumpled bills and asked what the fee came to. I charged him my standard consultation fee a total of $3.50. He gladly paid, but before he left he gave me the honor of naming the pups. I thought long and hard and finally chose the name Bozo for the black pup and Skippy for the brown one. I told him that I once had dogs with those names, and they had been my best friends.
Come and visit me often, Doctola, he said. These pups now know you as mother and father. They will not forget and some day will return the great kindness you have shown them. Then Dr. Mzimba and I shook hands and parted company.
Over the course of the next eighteen months, I saw Dr. Mzimba, Bozo and Skippy at least once a month. Every two to four weeks, I took a three-day trip traveling from one village to the next around the Thyolo district, performing various veterinary duties as needed. At the end of each trip, I stopped at Dr. Mzimbas village. He kindly offered me his home and gracious hospitality every time I swung through the neighborhood.
I watched Bozo and Skippy turn into fine dogs. They reached around eighty pounds. They were twice the size of the local village dogs and were fiercely loyal to Dr. Mzimba. I vaccinated them and dewormed them regularly, and treated their various wounds and ailments. For me, it was like seeing family. Whenever they saw me, they instantly turned into playful puppies.
The dogs were treasured by the people of their village. On every visit, I heard a new story of how the dogs had run off someone trying to steal cattle, or how they had defended the village against roaming hyenas or jackals.
One time, the dogs killed a leopard. They were badly injured in the fight. Both dogs had multiple puncture wounds, lacerations and a great deal of blood loss. I worked through the night to stitch up their endless wounds. Yet in the morning, I was amazed to see each dog stand and eat a little breakfast.
As I packed up my motorbike, I left Dr. Mzimba with after-care instructions and some follow-up antibiotics. He thanked me profusely and hugged me with tears in his eyes.
That is the second time that you have saved their lives, Doctola. From this time on, they will be your protectors. I have seen it!
Five months later I was again in the area on one of my regular three-day tours. I was approaching Dr. Mzimbas village and having a rough time. Heavy rain had turned the dirt roads to rivers of mud. I had fallen four times in the last forty minutes and was having a terrible time climbing the hill to Dr. Mzimbas village. It was drizzling and I was wet, muddy, cold and in a bitter mood as I tried to maneuver my motorbike along the slippery one-lane path.
I stopped short. Ahead, in the beam of my headlight, a hyena stood blocking the path. It was slowly making its way toward me, unafraid of the light or sound of my motor. I honked the horn, to no effect. The hyenas advance continued, slow and steady. How strange, I thought. In the past, they had always run off in fright. Then I saw the blood and saliva dripping from it mouth and the blank stare in its eyes. Rabies!
As the hyena came toward me, I slowly backed up and tried to keep my distance. The mud was much too thick and slippery to make a run for it, and the path too narrow to turn around.
The only real option was to run anyway and hope the hyena would choose to attack the motorbike instead of me. Despite my efforts to keep a reasonable distance, I was unable to backpedal fast enough. The hyena was gaining on me. It gave a ghoulish laugh as it snapped its powerful jaws in the air. I was about to make a run for it when, on either side of me, Bozo and Skippy appeared. They jumped onto the path between me and the hyena. Their muscles were rock steady and the hair on their backs stood straight up. They held their ground teeth bared.
The ensuing battle was fierce and bloody. Not once did the dogs cry out as they fought with a speed and endurance I never thought possible. The life-and-death battle unfolded in the beam of my motorbike headlight. When it was over the hyena lay dead and the dogs were nowhere to be found. I called and called but there was no sign of them.
I hurried to Dr. Mzimbas home. As I slipped and stumbled along the path, I was thinking about my treatment plan: stitches, antibiotics, a rabies booster, fluids, shock treatment. I owed those wonderful dogs so much. I had to find them and I wasnt going to settle for anything less.
When I arrived at Dr. Mzimbas house, I found him waiting patiently in a chair on the porch outside his hut. I ran to him, explaining all that had happened in a combination of Chichewa and English. I was breathless and hyperventilating and I wasnt sure if he understood me. It seemed that he did.
Come with me and Ill show you the dogs, he said, and he motioned for me to follow.
I grabbed my medical case and followed him to the back of the hut. He stopped and pointed to two graves. Bozo and Skippy sleep there. Three days ago, a pack of hyenas came down from the hills and attacked our cattle. Bozo and Skippy fought like ten dogs and they chased the hyenas away and saved our cattle. But it was too much for them, Doctola, he said with tears streaming down his cheeks. They both died shortly after the fight. There was no time to send for you.
I shook my head No, it cant be. They saved my life fifteen minutes ago, I know it was them. I saw them and I know it was them. I fell to my knees and looked up at the black sky. The pelting drizzle now mixed with my own tears. There arent two dogs in the country that look even close to Skippy and Bozo. It had to be them! I said, half pleading, half arguing, wishing and hoping it was no so, and all the time sobbing uncontrollably.
I believe you, Doctola, said the wise African as he knelt down next to me. I told you that someday the dogs would return your kindness. They will always protect you!
"Chicken Soup for the Pet Lovers Soul"
Editor: Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Marty Becker, D.V.M., Carol Kline
www.chickensoup.com
Copyright ©2002 Chicken Soup for the Soul® Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the authors.
Submitted by Richard
The. . . dog, in life the firmest friend, the first to welcome, foremost to defend.
Lord Byron
My duties were to provide veterinary care and administer the disease control programs for the Thyolo and Mulanji districts in the central African country of Malawi. With nothing more than a cabinet of mostly outdated drugs and a 100-cc motorbike, I was to supervise twenty-three veterinary technicians scattered around my districts and maintain the health of the cattle, sheep, goats, swine, poultry and pet animals in the entire area.
After a month in my new position, I returned to my office one evening after sundown. There, I was greeted by an older gentleman. He sat in the chair that I kept outside my office door. In his lap, he held a box full of puppies. I returned his greeting, and then showed him into my office. We conversed in the local language of Chichewa.
The gentleman was Dr.Mzimba, one of the well-known medicine men in the district. In Africa, the medicine man is a spiritual leader and wise man, as well as a healer, for his people. I estimated his age around sixty, but my estimate could easily have been off twenty years in either direction. In order for him to reach me, he had walked two hours to the nearest bus stop and then taken a six-hour bus ride to my office. He had left his home at 5:00 A.M. and had been waiting for me at my office since his arrival at 4:00P.M. It was now 7:00P.M. He went on to explain that there was very little he could do for the sick puppies he had brought me, since his medicine only worked on people. He cared very much for these puppies and had seen that some were destined to do great things. He asked that I do all in my power to save them.
The six puppies were very ill. I explained that intensive care would be needed for many days if any of the puppies were to be saved. He agreed to leave them with me. He stated that when he felt it was time, he would return to collect them. With that, he left.
The puppies required round-the-clock care. The pups went with me wherever I went. Homemade electrolyte solution and antibiotics were all I had available. Yet despite all my efforts, one puppy after another slowly faded away. On the sixth night, the last two remaining puppies and I bedded down for the evening. I fully expected that these two would go the same way as their littermates. They were not showing any improvement, and I was sure that they didnt have another days worth of fight left in them.
I was overjoyed to wake to two happy and perky puppies whining for attention. They looked like puppy skeletons, but they were alive and alert puppy skeletons. Their appetites were ravenous. Frequent small meals soon became frequent large meals, and it didnt take long for them to fill out.
They stayed with me an additional ten days, and I was wondering if Dr. Mzimba would ever return for them. On the tenth day of their recovery period, Dr. Mzimba showed up. He was overjoyed with the two pups that had survived and were now thriving. One pup was black with four white paws and a large white star on his chest. The other pup was brown with a large white patch on the right side of his face. Both pups had prominent ridgebacks.
I watched as the pups licked and kissed the old mans face while he gently cuddled and hugged them. He pulled out a few coins and some old crumpled bills and asked what the fee came to. I charged him my standard consultation fee a total of $3.50. He gladly paid, but before he left he gave me the honor of naming the pups. I thought long and hard and finally chose the name Bozo for the black pup and Skippy for the brown one. I told him that I once had dogs with those names, and they had been my best friends.
Come and visit me often, Doctola, he said. These pups now know you as mother and father. They will not forget and some day will return the great kindness you have shown them. Then Dr. Mzimba and I shook hands and parted company.
Over the course of the next eighteen months, I saw Dr. Mzimba, Bozo and Skippy at least once a month. Every two to four weeks, I took a three-day trip traveling from one village to the next around the Thyolo district, performing various veterinary duties as needed. At the end of each trip, I stopped at Dr. Mzimbas village. He kindly offered me his home and gracious hospitality every time I swung through the neighborhood.
I watched Bozo and Skippy turn into fine dogs. They reached around eighty pounds. They were twice the size of the local village dogs and were fiercely loyal to Dr. Mzimba. I vaccinated them and dewormed them regularly, and treated their various wounds and ailments. For me, it was like seeing family. Whenever they saw me, they instantly turned into playful puppies.
The dogs were treasured by the people of their village. On every visit, I heard a new story of how the dogs had run off someone trying to steal cattle, or how they had defended the village against roaming hyenas or jackals.
One time, the dogs killed a leopard. They were badly injured in the fight. Both dogs had multiple puncture wounds, lacerations and a great deal of blood loss. I worked through the night to stitch up their endless wounds. Yet in the morning, I was amazed to see each dog stand and eat a little breakfast.
As I packed up my motorbike, I left Dr. Mzimba with after-care instructions and some follow-up antibiotics. He thanked me profusely and hugged me with tears in his eyes.
That is the second time that you have saved their lives, Doctola. From this time on, they will be your protectors. I have seen it!
Five months later I was again in the area on one of my regular three-day tours. I was approaching Dr. Mzimbas village and having a rough time. Heavy rain had turned the dirt roads to rivers of mud. I had fallen four times in the last forty minutes and was having a terrible time climbing the hill to Dr. Mzimbas village. It was drizzling and I was wet, muddy, cold and in a bitter mood as I tried to maneuver my motorbike along the slippery one-lane path.
I stopped short. Ahead, in the beam of my headlight, a hyena stood blocking the path. It was slowly making its way toward me, unafraid of the light or sound of my motor. I honked the horn, to no effect. The hyenas advance continued, slow and steady. How strange, I thought. In the past, they had always run off in fright. Then I saw the blood and saliva dripping from it mouth and the blank stare in its eyes. Rabies!
As the hyena came toward me, I slowly backed up and tried to keep my distance. The mud was much too thick and slippery to make a run for it, and the path too narrow to turn around.
The only real option was to run anyway and hope the hyena would choose to attack the motorbike instead of me. Despite my efforts to keep a reasonable distance, I was unable to backpedal fast enough. The hyena was gaining on me. It gave a ghoulish laugh as it snapped its powerful jaws in the air. I was about to make a run for it when, on either side of me, Bozo and Skippy appeared. They jumped onto the path between me and the hyena. Their muscles were rock steady and the hair on their backs stood straight up. They held their ground teeth bared.
The ensuing battle was fierce and bloody. Not once did the dogs cry out as they fought with a speed and endurance I never thought possible. The life-and-death battle unfolded in the beam of my motorbike headlight. When it was over the hyena lay dead and the dogs were nowhere to be found. I called and called but there was no sign of them.
I hurried to Dr. Mzimbas home. As I slipped and stumbled along the path, I was thinking about my treatment plan: stitches, antibiotics, a rabies booster, fluids, shock treatment. I owed those wonderful dogs so much. I had to find them and I wasnt going to settle for anything less.
When I arrived at Dr. Mzimbas house, I found him waiting patiently in a chair on the porch outside his hut. I ran to him, explaining all that had happened in a combination of Chichewa and English. I was breathless and hyperventilating and I wasnt sure if he understood me. It seemed that he did.
Come with me and Ill show you the dogs, he said, and he motioned for me to follow.
I grabbed my medical case and followed him to the back of the hut. He stopped and pointed to two graves. Bozo and Skippy sleep there. Three days ago, a pack of hyenas came down from the hills and attacked our cattle. Bozo and Skippy fought like ten dogs and they chased the hyenas away and saved our cattle. But it was too much for them, Doctola, he said with tears streaming down his cheeks. They both died shortly after the fight. There was no time to send for you.
I shook my head No, it cant be. They saved my life fifteen minutes ago, I know it was them. I saw them and I know it was them. I fell to my knees and looked up at the black sky. The pelting drizzle now mixed with my own tears. There arent two dogs in the country that look even close to Skippy and Bozo. It had to be them! I said, half pleading, half arguing, wishing and hoping it was no so, and all the time sobbing uncontrollably.
I believe you, Doctola, said the wise African as he knelt down next to me. I told you that someday the dogs would return your kindness. They will always protect you!
Herbert J. (Reb) Rebhan. D.V.M.
Editor: Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Marty Becker, D.V.M., Carol Kline
www.chickensoup.com
Copyright ©2002 Chicken Soup for the Soul® Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the written permission of the authors.
Submitted by Richard
