Technically, Namibia is dog friendly. After all, probably 9 houses out of 10 have dogs. The city has a couple of dog-training parks where you can pay a membership fee to make use of their obstacle courses: tunnels, ramps, zig-zag poles, etc. assuming your dog would be into that sort of thing. There's a great farm where dogs are free to run off leash (assuming the dog is smart enough to stay away from the free roaming cows and bulls). Windhoek has a couple of kennels and countless beauty shops, each with varying degrees of quality, and a decent selection of trustworthy veterinarians. Heck there's even a pool exclusive for doggie swim lessons! Plus, there's the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) and a handful of other non-profits that deal with the responsibilities of pet ownership, like spaying and neutering services.
Obviously an infrastructure to support pets exists in this country, which is great. But the dogs here just aren't... friendly. Of the 9 houses that do have dogs, there's only 1 other person in my neighborhood who actually walks his. Here, dogs usually serve as one of many tiers for property protection- after the 10 foot walls topped with razor or electrified wire, and before the motion sensor burglar alarms. Most dogs are sequestered outside to guard the perimeter and ward off the unwelcome. They stick their noses and paws underneath the gates, chewing on metal, and savagely snarling and barking at all hours of the day to match the mind numbing "whop whop whop" of the burglar alarms. Alarms that are set off so often, that locals sardonically call it their national anthem.
Anyway. Walking my dog isn't super fun because of all that. More often than not when gates open and close, these "guard dogs" race to escape, eager for a confrontation. Jim and I have been attacked so many times, that I carry a nerdy walking stick to ward off gnashing teeth. The worst part is, the owners get mad at me. One woman told me it was my fault that her husky slipped past the gate to attack my (leashed) dog. Had I "not walked past her property, I wouldn't have been attacked" and that I owed HER an apology. I'll spare you the other side of that conversation; just picture me with Medusa's head.
So it's weird and uncomfortable, and walking Jim requires a bit of cognitive preparation. Since we are at elevation, the mornings are guaranteed to be cool- 40F or less during fall and winter. I layer up with scarf, hat, gloves and top off the look with saggy sweatpants. He and I take off around 6:30am after the kids get on the school bus. If it's a Monday morning (trash day), we navigate past city-issued trash cans and bags of recycling that have been pilfered by opportunists. The bellowing dogs greet us as we walk past our neighbors and the sound of madness grows as we head down the street. Poor Jim, never having been a barker, simply whines and pulls on his leash. I never did teach him to heel.
We amble past the high walls, unique to each property, and turn onto a wide main road where we enjoy the silence briefly settle back in. Sounds of barking and howling dogs alternate and mix with passing cars and the harsh screeching of francolin birds. These birds yell as if they're yelling at children to clean up melted ice cream on the couch. Sometimes there's morning construction crews of about here 20-30 who always stop in their tracks to stare down the weird lady in sweatpants and her dog. My morning salutations are usually ignored and we continue on, staying aware of cars that blow past stop signs (everyone) and other potential dog walkers (no one). In fact, the only people who will say hello to me are the housekeepers huddled at the bus stop waiting for their shifts to start. Nice ladies, really.
There are a few miserable looking joggers, some vigilantly carrying mace, others obliviously rocking out to music. Jim and I speed walk up steep hills and gingerly step down them- both of us a match for sore knees. By 7:00am the sun breaks over the mountain, cascading a glorious shine over the city and surrounding hills. Right after sunset, meal times, and bed time, it's my favorite part of the day. I love these moments: when the dogs are out of earshot, I stand alone with Jim looking over the city. Ironically, Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence always winds through my brain and stays there for several hours. At least it gives me tempo to walk home to. I dodge sharp bougainvillea branches creeping over walls, pick countless thorns out of my dog's paws, and stare down the wonk eyed mongrels behind bars, hoping the gates remain closed as we finish the loop. An unsuccessful walk means I had to fight off fugitives and their belligerent owners or save the token idiot dog who's not fierce, but on a death wish as it runs down the street. This happens about once a week. A successful, good walk is the opposite of that. I love how high the bar is set here.
Obviously an infrastructure to support pets exists in this country, which is great. But the dogs here just aren't... friendly. Of the 9 houses that do have dogs, there's only 1 other person in my neighborhood who actually walks his. Here, dogs usually serve as one of many tiers for property protection- after the 10 foot walls topped with razor or electrified wire, and before the motion sensor burglar alarms. Most dogs are sequestered outside to guard the perimeter and ward off the unwelcome. They stick their noses and paws underneath the gates, chewing on metal, and savagely snarling and barking at all hours of the day to match the mind numbing "whop whop whop" of the burglar alarms. Alarms that are set off so often, that locals sardonically call it their national anthem.
Anyway. Walking my dog isn't super fun because of all that. More often than not when gates open and close, these "guard dogs" race to escape, eager for a confrontation. Jim and I have been attacked so many times, that I carry a nerdy walking stick to ward off gnashing teeth. The worst part is, the owners get mad at me. One woman told me it was my fault that her husky slipped past the gate to attack my (leashed) dog. Had I "not walked past her property, I wouldn't have been attacked" and that I owed HER an apology. I'll spare you the other side of that conversation; just picture me with Medusa's head.
So it's weird and uncomfortable, and walking Jim requires a bit of cognitive preparation. Since we are at elevation, the mornings are guaranteed to be cool- 40F or less during fall and winter. I layer up with scarf, hat, gloves and top off the look with saggy sweatpants. He and I take off around 6:30am after the kids get on the school bus. If it's a Monday morning (trash day), we navigate past city-issued trash cans and bags of recycling that have been pilfered by opportunists. The bellowing dogs greet us as we walk past our neighbors and the sound of madness grows as we head down the street. Poor Jim, never having been a barker, simply whines and pulls on his leash. I never did teach him to heel.
We amble past the high walls, unique to each property, and turn onto a wide main road where we enjoy the silence briefly settle back in. Sounds of barking and howling dogs alternate and mix with passing cars and the harsh screeching of francolin birds. These birds yell as if they're yelling at children to clean up melted ice cream on the couch. Sometimes there's morning construction crews of about here 20-30 who always stop in their tracks to stare down the weird lady in sweatpants and her dog. My morning salutations are usually ignored and we continue on, staying aware of cars that blow past stop signs (everyone) and other potential dog walkers (no one). In fact, the only people who will say hello to me are the housekeepers huddled at the bus stop waiting for their shifts to start. Nice ladies, really.
There are a few miserable looking joggers, some vigilantly carrying mace, others obliviously rocking out to music. Jim and I speed walk up steep hills and gingerly step down them- both of us a match for sore knees. By 7:00am the sun breaks over the mountain, cascading a glorious shine over the city and surrounding hills. Right after sunset, meal times, and bed time, it's my favorite part of the day. I love these moments: when the dogs are out of earshot, I stand alone with Jim looking over the city. Ironically, Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence always winds through my brain and stays there for several hours. At least it gives me tempo to walk home to. I dodge sharp bougainvillea branches creeping over walls, pick countless thorns out of my dog's paws, and stare down the wonk eyed mongrels behind bars, hoping the gates remain closed as we finish the loop. An unsuccessful walk means I had to fight off fugitives and their belligerent owners or save the token idiot dog who's not fierce, but on a death wish as it runs down the street. This happens about once a week. A successful, good walk is the opposite of that. I love how high the bar is set here.
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| Our daily walks and the uncertainty that ensues justify my claim that Jim is the greatest dog ever. |
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| Catching a breath. |
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| Despite the madness of dog-walking, this is why I do it. |
Beautifully retold and documented. Loved joining you and Jim - holler whenever you want a walking buddy again; we'll join forces and battle together!
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