Wellie was put to sleep a few days later. It was one of the hardest things we have ever had to do. In a quick phone call, due to Wellie’s formidable stature and surprisingly quick deterioration in temperament, Dad agreed with the vet that we would donate Wellie’s remains to science for autopsy and tests. In choosing this, we were told by the vet to take him to the veterinary teaching hospital, about forty-five minutes car ride away. Dad and I were the ones who took him. Mum and Simon stayed home. Wellie had never been partial to cars so it was always a challenge to get him in. Coercing him with edible treats wasn’t enough so we ended up having to leash him and pull him into the boot of the car. Considering the massive dog he had become, weighing over 100 pounds, it was no mean feat.

Throughout the trip to the hospital the only sound to be heard was Wellie’s heavy panting. Dad and I couldn’t muster up words to fill the void we knew was about to happen.

There was ample parking at the hospital and Dad slid the car into an empty spot a few meters away from the main entrance. We both got out of the car and opened the trunk. He had never been the most loving dog, not allowing us to pet or stroke him much, but somehow that day he allowed me to hug him and say goodbye.

Looking back I wonder how and why Wellie became so aggressive and out of control. Was it because of the lack of bonding with a particular person, or was it the mix of breeds he was – maybe they weren’t compatible, or was it simple loneliness? Maggie took care of him but she didn’t particularly like him. She chastised him for just simply being around. As time went on and he grew out of puppyhood, he became less and less interested in human interaction. He chose to sleep under the acacia tree rather than keep us company. He was a guard dog first and foremost. So was it surprising that he turned vicious and anti-social? Maybe not. I would have loved to know the outcome of the autopsy but we never did.

As well as having Felix the security guard at the front gate and high walls around the entire property, we had bars in front of all windows and doors to keep the dangers out. Now that we no longer had Wellie as added protection, Dad felt the need to up the security inside the house as well. Like many expatriate families, we took extra security precautions by installing a “rape gate”; a fortified door installed in between the living room and bedrooms, keeping the bedroom area completely separate and a challenge to break into. When it was time for bed, Dad locked us in for the night. If anyone were to ever enter the house uninvited, the bedroom area was deemed a safe zone as it was impossible to access that part of the house.

Some two days after Wellie’s demise, we were burgled. Dad, a light sleeper, woke to the sound of a soft thud out in the garden. Their bedroom overlooked the pool which had gated patio doors opening out onto the pool area. Sheer curtains covered the doors allowing one to see from the inside but not be seen from the outside. What he saw made his heart stop. He watched, as four men dressed in military fatigues, armed with AK 47’s, jump down into the garden from the top of the high perimeter walls.  There was no Wellie to sense them and scare them away with his booming bark. With no dog to wake him, Dad assumed that Felix the security guard, would be sleeping through it all due to the copious amounts of dagga he consumed on a daily basis. Dad knew that we were in trouble. He knew it was pointless calling the police as they wouldn’t have been able to come due to lack of transport. So all he could do was to lay quietly, careful not to make any sudden movements or noises and pray that none of us would wake or make a sound. He slipped his hand under the bed and grabbed the old rusty nine iron that he kept for protection. The thought of some form of weapon in his grasp made him relax, if only slightly. I remember Dad recounting the story at one time, saying “Fat chance a nine iron would have made any difference but it felt empowering, nevertheless.”

Dad watched as the TV, the VHS recorder, the silver ornaments, kitchen appliances and the rest of our living room and kitchen possessions went over the wall.

The following morning I woke up oblivious to what had gone on in the small hours of the night. I distinctly remember coming out into the living area and shading my eyes from the brightness of the room. It was much brighter than usual. This was of course due to the fact that there were no longer curtains doing their job of blocking the  brightness of the African sun. But I didn’t realize the why until later. Mum and her good friend, Liz, were chatting, a cup of tea in hand, which wasn’t any different from other mornings. The unusual part was that they were sitting on the living room floor where the sofa usually was. “What’s going on Mum?” I said whilst rubbing the sleep from my eyes, “Are they spraying for tsetse flies again?” The house had to be sprayed on a regular basis to keep the tsetse fly eggs away. Dengi fever was a nasty illness which Mum and Dad wanted to keep at bay. Both Simon and I had already had hepatitis and I had contracted malaria so their concern was understandable.

I looked around the room and realized that everything was gone: the TV, the VHS player, the curtains, the sofas, the dining room table, the ornaments that my parents had collected over time during their travels.  The late morning sun streamed through broken windows. Dust particles danced in the air in slow motion as I began to realize the damage that had been done: scattered glass strewn over the carpet floor, the metal safety bars on the windows had been welded back as if they were soft plastic, forgotten curtains left in tatters blowing in the breeze from the smashed windows. Mum allowed me the time to process what I was seeing. It didn’t take me long to realize what had happened and I blurted out,  “Mum, have we been burgled?”

Dad’s sentiments from the previous night were confirmed. When he called the police station the morning after, due to lack of transport, the officer asked Dad to pick him up. Once home, the officer looked around and asked

“Do you have a gun, sah?” he paused for effect. “Judging by the state of affairs in this country right now, you need to protect your family, sah. You need to be prepared to shoot to kill. That is the only way you will survive a confrontation with a burglar here in Lusaka, sah. You were lucky they didn’t try and break-in to the bedroom area. These young men are bored, full of drugs and are irrational.” Dad had always said that if he felt the need to buy a gun it would be the time to leave Africa.

The police were skeptical about the timing of the burglary when they heard from Dad that Wellie had been euthanized a few days before. The feeling of mistrust was palpable and the officer didn’t hesitate to put the blame on an inside job. The officer became suspicious of both Maggie and Felix and demanded them to be escorted to the police station for questioning. Dad was the one who drove the policeman, Maggie, and Felix back to the station. A few hours later he was informed that he could pick Maggie up. Her face was battered and bruised, with blood on her shirt from a gash on her cheek from the interrogation. I remember Mum offering to help Maggie get cleaned up but she would have none of it. She brushed the beating off as if it was no big deal. Mum, of course, gave her plenty of time to recuperate and feel better before she returned to help in the house, but Maggie was back at work the following day, bruises and all. It turned out that the security guard was indeed involved in the whole crime. With Wellie gone, he had informed a local gang that our house was no longer protected. No doubt he was not actually asleep throughout the break-in.

I can’t help but think about the comparison between Wellie, our wonderful but unpredictable pet, and Lusaka, our wonderful but unpredictable home. Even though it was hard on our hearts, it was easy to resolve the issue of Wellie. It was and is much harder to resolve the issues of a city like Lusaka. A dog and a country both beautiful and majestic on the outside but in turmoil on the inside. I was lucky to have been able to experience both, no matter the outcome.