Bankar and the Dog Who Lived

There are two dogs here at camp. One is the favored dog, a big boy who lays around outside the main ger and gets all the best bones. The other the “mean dog” who apparently has bitten people before. He was called “Bankar.” When I first arrived, I saw him tied up to a post out in the yard. For the first entire week, he never was let off that line. When I asked, Enhee said he was mean and made growling snarling noises to emphasize her point. She gestured that I should avoid him, or he might bite me (making her hand “bite” her rear end to demonstrate). I started watching, to see if he was fed and watered. I saw them take him food, and assume they took him water. He looked healthy, and had a beautiful glossy coat. He never barked at me when I walked by.

One night, I got up to pee, and I was midstream when I heard the sound of a heavy chain being dragged along the ground. The mean dog had gotten loose. His eyes glowed in my flashlight as he approached me, his head low, but making no sound. It was eerie. I spoke in a gentle voice, reassuring him and myself, that I was a friend. I kept talking until I was back in the ger, with him following me to the doorway. The next morning he had been re-secured. Later that day, the sun was making me lilt, and I thought of the mean dog. With his black coat, he must be roasting! I decided to take him some water. Carefully I approached, letting him know my intention. He was panting heavily, but just watched as I set down a bowl of water. He lapped it up and so I got him another. After day 10, they let him off his leash and he was free to roam. I decided I would try to befriend him, partly because I had a different feeling about him than the family, and partly so I would feel more safe when I encountered him in the dark.

I gave him little bits of fatty meat I’d pulled from my meals. I took him water whenever he was chained up. Some days he had a wild look in his eye, and I could see how that kind of wild could lead to his mean reputation if provoked. I made a deal with him. If he was having a good day, he would wag his tail, and I always approached slowly, and got down low, and he liked me to pet his belly. Other days, if I approached and he did not wag his tail, I kept walking. It was a good system. Enhee didn’t like it. She made the biting her rump gesture and growled. I knew I did not have all the information, but I also felt in my bones that I could tell when he was wild and should be avoided. All the family members yelled at him and threw things at him now and again. The big dog would growl and occasionally fight him if Bankar came too close to the big dog’s favorite places to lay. It seemed to me this kind of treatment was at least partly to blame for his “meanness.” I told Enhee I was always careful, but that he was my dog friend, and wouldn’t bite me. She laughed at the idea of a “dog friend,” and shook her head. Dogs here are kept for protection only. In Mongolia, the saying is “Horses are man’s best friend.” Dogs are never allowed inside the ger, and are treated harshly so they are wary of people and will growl and bark to protect the camp. I formed my friendship slowly and carefully so as not to make a pet out of him and violate the cultural norms, but also so I knew he wouldn’t hurt me. I found him to be a good-hearted dog that was a little wild.

One day, Enhee and I went for a walk, and as we crossed the river, she pointed to a bush and laughed saying my “dog friend” had been attacked in the night by 4 other dogs. He looked awful. His face was so swollen, I didn’t recognize him. He was panting and in pain. I wanted to go to him, but Enhee was worried he’d bite me and told me to stay away. I later learned it had taken Enhee, Tsigmee and the grandmother all working with rocks and sticks to break it up. Enhee didn’t know what had provoked it, and she didn’t know who owned the dogs. I waited until later in the day when Enhee was milking the horses and slowly approached. He wagged his tail. I went to him. He whimpered, couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt, and he couldn’t move himself very well. I offered some water from the river in my cupped hands, and he lapped up all I could bring. I agonized over if I should pay for a vet to come out, but knew that just wasn’t done here. Vets were for horses and cows, not for sheep, goats, or dogs. I had to do what I could to make him comfortable, and let things play out. That night, a cold rain came in, and I took an old blanket and raincoat down to cover him. He was still under it, and still alive, in the morning. I sat with him on and off through the day. He let me clean the wounds on his face and head with soapy water. I could see he relaxed when I was there. He refused all food, only drinking the water I’d bring every 2 hours. Enhee didn’t like my actions, but she allowed them. I think she was mostly worried I would get bit. At first there were signs he was getting better, and then I saw the open wound on his leg and later one on his back. I realized he was not going to make it. The next morning, I went to take him water, and he was still.

That other dog is the same lazy dog, lolling about camp during the day. I have been calling him “The Dog Who Lived” (Harry Potter reference). I felt guilty asking “why ‘my’ dog, and not this one?” There are no answers to questions like that. I have become more comfortable with death here. Seeing sheep and goats killed and processed for food on a regular basis has given me more detachment about death. It is impossible to hide from death here like we do in the West. Once it was clear Bankar was going to die, I released my feelings about it, and accepted. I haven’t been torn up about it; I just miss him.