A Story of Hope - Karen Seoighe, Hopeful
Homer
My name is Hope, and this is my story. It is
a tale of hatred, loneliness and despair, but most of all it is
a tale of Hope.
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I was the smallest of six puppies and the only one to survive
into adulthood. Our mom tried the best she could, but it is hard
to raise a family when you’re homeless in a township, without
access to fresh food, clean water and a dry place to sleep at
night. It was only much later when I met a kind hearted lady
called Cora who explained to me the wonders of life saving
vaccines, parasite control and the importance of sterilisation
that I truly understood how much easier the lives of our
suburban counterparts must be. Life was pretty tough, but Mom
taught me to always live by her motto of “Never
Trust” and I got by okay. The first time I ignored
the motto was the day I came upon a sad little boy
who seemed so lost and so lonely that I couldn’t
walk on by. I watched him from a distance for a
while and then eventually sat down beside him.
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It was an act that was to change the course of
my life. It was nearly nightfall when the boy’s father found us
curled up together. He scooped up his little boy and scolded him
crossly, but when the big man looked down at me, I saw
glistening tears of relief and gratitude in his eyes.
I followed them home and was invited into their small tin house
where The Big Man told of how he had found little Tumi safely
asleep under my watchful gaze, “like an old cow guarding her
newborn calf” he boomed, his deep laughter seeming to shake the
small shack. I was treated to a feast of mielie meal with gravy
and the old milky-eyed gogo gave me the few lumps of meat from
her plate. As the days stretched into weeks the shack became my
home and its occupants my family. Mama would leave just before
dawn every morning to go to the city and clean other people’s
houses and look after other people’s children whilst she left
the elderly gogo to look after her own son. The Big Man worked
one day a week as a gardener and spent almost every other day
walking around the suburbs looking for more work. Gogo would
stroke my ears and Tumi would tell me stories from their home in
Malawi in his home language of Tumbuka.
There was something frightening about the word Xenophobia, even
before I understood what it meant. Perhaps it was the fear in
Mama’s voice when she arrived home one day, far too early,
carrying the word on her lips. As the noise from the surrounding
shacks grew Gogo calmly packed the family’s goods into three
Checkers bags. Our neighbour, Precious, rushed in saying that
big trouble was coming and we must leave with her, but Mama
refused to go without The Big Man. We waited. Eventually it grew
quiet and even Gogo grew anxious and started unpacking and
repacking the plastic bags. The silence was broken by distant
shouts which seemed to grow nearer with each passing heartbeat.
Little Tumi started quietly crying.
We all jumped in fright as a huge man burst through the door. It
took me a moment to realise it was our Big Man, he was panting
and smelled of smoke. There was blood on the back of his torn
shirt. He swung Tumi up onto his hip, and as he turned to run
back out of the door he shouted at Mama “RUN! Leave the bags.
They are coming!”
As The Big Man cast a final glance back at our home, he saw me
following and his long strides faltered. He put Tumi down,
instructing him to run on with his mother and came to me shaking
his head and said “You can’t come with us.” The Big Man looked
towards the noise of the oncoming mob, looked desperately around
and then lifted me up and into Precious’ empty storage box. He
closed the lid saying “You’ll be safe in here Little One,
Tizamuonana”.
I am unable to suppress a bone deep shudder every time I think
of that box. The days passed in a dark haze of fear, hunger and
thirst, terrible thirst. There was only a small gap near the top
of the box, so I didn’t get to see much of the horror of those
days, but I heard the screams, smelled the blood and the burning
and sensed the fear. I spent many dark hours trying in vain to
understand how this frenzy of violence came about. I gradually
grew weaker and finally realised that I was dying. This
realisation gave me the strength for one last appeal for help.
The next time I heard voices nearby I managed to somehow stagger
to my feet and press my muzzle to the gap. With every ounce of
my remaining strength I tried to howl for help, but all that
came out of my dry throat was a soft whimper. They would never
hear me. I was going to die in this box. There was no hope.
But then a voice. A voice saying “Wait, I think I hear
something”. I was later to become very familiar with that voice
which belonged to Cora, the founder of CLAW. There was a bit of
a hubbub as the people drew nearer and realised that I was
trapped, followed by a pause and the click of a camera.
Shortly afterwards there was a loud noise and the lid of the box
creaked open. After days of darkness, I was blinded by the
sunlight. Gentle hands lifted me up and out and lay me softly
down on the hard dusty ground. I was so overwhelmed by a mixture
of exhaustion and relief that I didn’t even feel the prick of
the needle as I was put on a drip and stabilised before being
carried to the awaiting van. The van had the familiar CLAW logo
on its side. I had seen it around the township before, its
occupants helping any animals in need. On the way back to the
clinic the van stopped to drop off bags of food for the many
displaced animals who had been driven from their homes along
with their families.
During my time at CLAW I became known as “Dog in the Box”. I was
nursed back to health and then vaccinated, dewormed and
sterilised. CLAW staff visited the emergency refugee camps to
find out about animals who, like me, had been left behind and
who might be in need of help. Every day I eagerly awaited their
return, hopeful that I might hear news of Tumi and his family,
but I never found out if they had made it to safety. Sixty two
people died during the Xenophobic attacks. I am haunted by the
thought that The Big Man may have been one of those ill-fated
sixty two; that he died saving my life. Once I had recovered,
CLAW’s long search to find me a new home began. Eventually, when
no home was forthcoming I was offered a place at foster home
where I slowly got used to a whole new way of life, and where I
was given a new name: Hope.
I spent many hours with my foster mom, telling her my story, and
she in turn would tell me tales of the other dogs she had
fostered and of how they had gone off to forever homes where
they were much loved. I became great friends with a spunky
little chestnut terrier called Avalon who had been rescued and
taken to the Puppy Haven sanctuary. She had been through
unimaginable heartbreak and somehow managed to retain her
happy-go-lucky spirit, but that is another tale for a different
time. Life in my foster home was fun, but I couldn’t help
dreaming of my own forever home. My foster mom explained how she
had sent out an email about me through the Animails network and
said that people as far as America and the United Kingdom had
been touched by my story.
One sunny morning, whilst I was busy providing back up support
to Avalon’s morning skink raid we were interrupted by our foster
mom who came bounding along and gave me an impromptu hug,
saying: Hope, we may have found your home! She had printed off
the email from a lady called Lizel, and as she read it to me, I
got more and more excited. It sounded even better than the home
I’d been dreaming of. I could be in my forever home by
Christmas.
It was just twelve days before Christmas when Lizel came to
fetch me. It was quite a long drive to my new home, just south
of the Vaal River. I was warmly welcomed by my new doggy
siblings and warily watched by the cats. Lizel introduced us all
and made me promise to respect the cats. I am embarrassed to
admit that in the beginning I was overeager as I was fascinated
with these strange fuzzy-furred creatures but Lizel understood
that I hadn’t had much contact with cats before and forgave me.
These days the cats and I get along fine. Garf the famous one
eyed cat never tires of telling me about his adventures, no
matter how many times I ask him. We all adore Lizel, and she
adores us.
If only my mom could see me now, fresh from the monthly visit to
parlour and stretched out on the couch, my belly full with food
and my heart full with love. I would tell her that she was
wrong: There are people you can trust.
--o0o--
If you would like to open your home and your heart to an animal
like Hope in need of a temporary place of safety, click below:
