Murdi cluck clucked and tried to comfort all involved. In one hand, the soiled towel, in the other this tiny scrap of life. Despite Murdi's soothing tone, I knew this kid had very little chance of seeing the sunset. This corner of the world is absolutely packed to the rafters with four legged threads of life barely tethered down. Our own complex feeds and cares for four dogs. A fifth mouth to feed? Unlikely.
An interesting background to this story is the Balinese view of dogs. They believe that these street urchins are people who didn't live well in their last life, (gamblers, drunks, wife-beaters) and have returned in a lower physical form to serve a sort of penance. They also believe that since these beggars munch on the ground offerings in the streets, which are made to the lower gods, that they are somehow in cahoots with those deities. A resounding strike two. It's a double-edged lesson in humility.
Because the Balinese believe these dogs were once their relations, they do tend to care for them more than other non-human forms- there is a definite effort not to hit them with a motor bike or car, most of the street dogs are fed and housed at night, and there is a general sense of compassion towards them for their lot in life, sort of like we would have for a convicted family member in prison.
But they also believe this is the soul's chance to make amends, to sort out unfinished business from the last trip around the sun.
All that is maternal in my nature took one look at this little monkey and began to quiver. There is a place in the centre of my chest that physically feels as though it's falling in in these moments of intense cluckiness. Murdi was heading off to consult Ketut on the matter and I stopped her, reaching out for one of the soiled packets in her hands.
A set of brown, intelligent eyes gazed up at me. The way Murdi had been holding the dog had convinced it that it wasn't long for this world. Now that it was snuggled in against my heart, hope began to wash across it's eyes. The skinny little stick of a tail began to wag hesitantly, then finally picked up speed.
The scrawny body was wet and bony. Weeping sores and gashes covered him where fur should be. I can only guess they were the tell tale signs of mange and lost battles. I've never seen a dog in that condition up close. The smell was one that people of privilege are unaccustomed to- death, decay, disease.
Murdi returned, “He very sick.”
I nodded, “Yah, I smell him.”
“I give him to Ketut. Maybe he help him.”
We shared a look. Ketut is a sensible, compassionate man who feeds as many mouths as he can. But another puppy would need a lot of special care and attention, not to mention the possibility of infecting the other dogs in the complex. Maybe one of the western animal shelters in town would take the puppy in. Maybe...there was nothing I could do. I felt powerless. Helpless. Like I had let those brown eyes down.
Julie, a lucky Bali dog
I handed the pup off to Murdi and walked back to my house to sort out my emotions. As I changed my stained t-shirt and showered off the feeling of chest cave and tears, I wondered about the theory of reincarnation, and the Balinese version of the story.
If I am to believe that life on this planet is all part of a bigger wheel where we slide up and down the spokes each time around in a body, who exactly is metering out the justice? Does this idea not taste of the same hell and heaven of which most westerners have at least a passing familiarity?
And then a thought crossed my mind that hasn't shaken free. Instead of contemplating karma as some universal slap on the wrist for bad behaviour, perhaps the key is to look at this place as a life school for advanced learning. As long as we're breathing, the potential for growth is there.
That pair of hopeful eyes and I each took in a few advanced placement lessons today. He learned in the arms of the guests who rescued him that the world wasn't an entirely shitty place. He saw in my teary blues that the world is absolutely full of tall two-legged bleeding hearts. And I learned that the idea of universal punishment doesn't sit well on a falling in chest.
If I ever see him again, I think I'll call him Karma.
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