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A Day in the life of a Jamaican Dog – Country Gal A Foreign

Written by Vjange Hazle

Me wake up dis mawning, bout 5 oclock. Me nevah ready fi wake up yet but di blasted rooster dem call Chester wouldn stop crow. All di tell me a tell him fi shut him beak an doan speak, him not even a pay me dog-mind. All night him a holler out ‘tief come an gone’ and me go ask him ‘when? when? when?’ him talk bout ‘long-long time’. Anyway, me get up an drag miself from unda di fowl coob and shake meself, yawn an stretch for dat usually wake me up. Me belly growl so me decide fi go look food for me no want nobody call me mawga dawg.

Me memba seh di ooman wha own di fowl dem did fling rockstone afta me yessiday because me go tek faas an push miself in when she a feed fi har Doberman an Alsatian dem so me quick-quick walk far from har kitchen door. Me decide fi go down di street today for me did smell some smell like maybe somebody a cook some pork and fry chicken. Mi mouth start fi water for me love chicken bone gone to bed. An a soup bone is mi heaven. When me siddung wid dat between mi front foot dem, no baddah come near me for me wi growl like a lion. No, man, no touch mi soup bone. Afta yuh no want me get bringle. Me start fi walk down di street. All of a sudden me hear:

“See one dawg deh.”

An a pure rock stone dat a fly down di street afta me. Me dis tek foot eena hand wid mi tail tween mi leg dem an hoot way. For dem bway pickney no easy, man. If one a dem stone connect wid yuh, dawg nyam yuh suppa. Anyway, dem mussi did hungry demself for dem no badda follow me dung di street. Di sun it hot aready so me try walk eena di shade but me cyaan help but hang out mi tongue, especially since me just done run fi mi life. Me smell something by di side a di road. Huh, somebody dash way two chicken bone. All dis cyaan do nuttin fi mi but it wi help stop a gap. Wha no poison, fatten, so dem say?

Ummm. It taste good, yuh see. A wonda a which hand cook it. Wonda if dem need one dawg. Fall down eena mello. Two-twos, it gone. Me hear people a come.

“Elvis, one mangy dawg,” me hear a voice holler.

If dere is one ting I am not an is mangy. Me tek exception to dat. Ah have a good mind grab di bway leg an chew it fi breakfast. But when me look is bout six bway a come wid stick an stone an anyting else dem coulda put dem hand pon. Lord have mercy. Me dead now. Me start fi bawl but dat only make it worse. Me dodge left, me dodge right, me jump, me sight, but it was to no avail. Me say, one stone connect mi back foot, yuh see. I see blinky cyaan count. You ever hear bout three-foot dawg? Well dat was me. Nuttin run fast like a three-foot dawg wid a posse a bway pickney pon him tail.

Me run go eena one yard whey one woman was a hang out clothes fi dry an tink me safe. When she see me she holler out;
“Oh, so is you a shit up di yard a night time?”

An she ketch one broom stick. Me tink seh it gawn from one side through to di next but me wasn’t stopping fi check. Me run go eena some bush an go lay down. Me side cramp up like nobody business but dere was no hole eena mi side an no blood either. Teng Gawd. Me lie down lickle till di pain ease for di two chicken bone dem nevah do much fi me. An now me thirsty so til afta all dat running. Dem bway lucky yuh know, a call me mangy dawg. A no every body call me mangy an get way wid it. But you have to choose you battles.

Well, me feel lickle better so me continue down di road for now di smell a cook food a get stronger an stronger. Mi mouth a water bad now. Me pass one kitchen and wouldn’t you know dem dash water pon me. Well, you know what? Me a come back for a deh di smell was a come from. An nobody dash dutty wata pon me an get way wid it. No sah. Me go hide by di side a di house for me know dem cyaan stand guard all day. Man, di smell just a mek mi belly growl so. Patient man ride jackass? It go fi dog to. Di ooman lef and I nevah waste no time. One fat leg a pork, hmm. Fricassee chicken. Mi lick di chicken gravy and grab one leg. Dis is where me want fi live. But di pork dis a grin wid me so. When me reach fi it, di Dutchie no tumble down pelleng-pelleng. But I naah leave widout it. Me hear a voice:

“Tiefing dawg, tiefing dawg, yuh dead tidday.”

Boot, frying pan, jester pot and all kinda sinting was afta me. Me hold on tight pon di pork for me go through too much fi go lose it now. Me burst round di corner and a get ready fi grin now. When me look, me was surrounded by a posse a bway, me cyaan begin to guess how much a dem. Me say mi prayers. An run, all mi mind pon di pork wha me haffi drop and leff behind. Me feel di lick dem and me know seh tomorrow morning me go sore. Me no have nobody fi dress mi wound dem so me just haffi lick dem an gwaan bout me business.

Me find a cool, shady spot fi lie down. One old tin have some water collect eena it wid mosquito baby a swim eena it. Me drink, it naah kill me. Me cyaan tell if any part a me bruk, but me haffi survive. When yuh is a dog eena Jamaica is a survival ting. Is a survival ting. An yuh worse enemy is who dem say is suppose to be yuh best friend.

About the author

Vjange Hazle