Three-Legged Sentinel
Farai, my new friend, was adamant. “You must have a guard dog.”
“But why? We don’t have anything worth stealing.”
She leaned forward to make her point. “You have a computer, yeah, and a TV? That’s what thieves want—electronics.” Taking a deep breath, then exhaling, Farai leaned back against the wall and waited for my response.
I wrinkled up my nose and answered, “We already have an alarm system, an electric fence on top of a six-foot wall, and burglar bars on the windows! What else do we need?”
“I tell you—a guard dog. This is Zimbabwe.”
My husband, Glenn, and I were missionaries with the Methodist church. I was a nurse working with street children and orphans while Glenn was responsible for allocating donations to the designated mission projects. We arrived in Zimbabwe by way of Zambia, where we had lived for one year after being evacuated from the Democratic Republic of Congo (Zaire). Thanks to a change in regimes, our time in the Congo had been somewhat turbulent.
But now we were looking forward to a less stressful assignment where we could lay our heads down at night and feel reasonably safe. No gunshots, no house searches, and definitely no guard—man or dog. So on the appointed day we stuffed our belongings in the back of our Cruiser, bid our missionary colleagues good-bye, and headed south, looking forward to a new challenge.
Did we really need a dog? Farai’s words echoed in my head, “You must have a guard dog.” I threw up my hands in surrender and reverted to the one thing I knew held true—when in doubt in Africa, trust the African. So Glenn and I made the rounds of pet adoption agencies in Harare until we finally found the right dog.
His name was Rex, a royal name befitting a German shepherd. He had been hit by a car at the tender age of six months, resulting in the loss of a back leg. His owner gave him up to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. We adopted Rex because he had a thunderous bark and fierce-looking teeth. Thieves would never notice he had only three legs.
But for me, it was the way he wagged his tail with such vigor that his back leg swiveled side to side. Glenn called him Tripod. I kept my fingers crossed, hoping Rex—or Tripod—would meet with Farai’s approval.
Farai shook her head and chuckled. “What’s he gonna do, beat ’em to death with his tail?”
Rex was happy most of the time, with one exception. He was afraid of thunder. We knew a storm was coming long before it happened. Trembling with fear, our guard dog would abandon his house in the backyard and cower behind the woodpile on our verandah where we often sat to catch a cool breeze. Looking pitiful, he would beg for mercy with his large brown eyes. “Maybe we should let him in,” I would suggest, “at least until it stops thundering.” Shrugging his shoulders, Glenn always agreed.
As the economy in Zimbabwe declined, Glenn’s work became more difficult. The children’s home being built with donated funds from churches in the United States was in jeopardy. The cost of cement, when it was even available, soared from $3 a sack in 2000 to $15 a sack by 2006. The number of AIDS orphans continued to rise, breaking the back of government social services. The weight of seeing my AIDS patients beginning to die, due in part to the lack of nutritious foods, was painful. I didn’t know how to fix it. The blessings that kept me strong were slowly being overshadowed by tragedy. Children were going to school with nothing in their stomachs. If they were lucky, they carried a sweet potato tucked in their book bag for lunch.
I often arrived home at the end of the day feeling defeated and angry. Rex always met me with an enthusiastic greeting when I stepped out of the vehicle. Sometimes I would push him away, not wanting to be bothered, but he always came back. His love was unconditional. Surrendering to the persistent pokes with his snout, I would greet him with a perfunctory pat on the head, saying, “What a good boy.” Before I knew it, I had a smile on my face and the load I was carrying seemed lighter. Little by little Rex was becoming a member of our family, no longer just a guard dog.
When 2006 arrived, it was time for us to leave Africa and return home to retire. Finding a home for Rex was not going to be easy. One very cold night during the dry season, while warming ourselves in front of the fireplace, Glenn raised the question that had been on both our minds: “What do we do about Rex? He eats too much, and who wants a three-legged guard dog anyway, besides us? Mohamed [a Zimbabwean associate] was in the office today. At first he said he would take Rex, but then when I told him the dog only had three legs, he laughed and said, ‘Oh no! I want a real dog.’”
“It’s for the best,” I said, chewing on my thumbnail. Neither of us could envision Rex as a vicious guard dog, and the thought of having him put down, which had been suggested, sickened me.
In March, two months prior to leaving Zimbabwe, we had no takers for Rex. Still stinging from the astronomical quote for shipping our “free” dog home, I began walking Rex on a leash and bringing him in at night to get him ready for life in Florida. Running free was no longer an option. The retirement community we were going to had a leash law.
These were desperate times for all Zimbabweans. It was not uncommon for the electricity in Harare to go off. Occasionally thieves would steal copper wiring or electrical components from a relay box, or cut the wires to deactivate alarm systems in a neighborhood before a rash of break-ins.
At three o’clock one morning, Rex began barking and running back and forth in the hall to get our attention. His thunderous bark echoed off the high ceiling and bare walls. Half asleep, Glenn yelled out, “Rex, quiet down. You sound like a pack of vicious dogs for heaven’s sake.”
Since Rex did not quiet down, we dragged ourselves out of bed to see what the problem was. As our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we realized our electricity had been cut. Our outside security light no longer shone through our bedroom drapes to bathe the room in translucent light. It was pitch-black.
Moving toward the living room window while slipping on my robe, I cautiously peeked out. “Maybe someone’s in trouble and knocking on the gate.” I didn’t hear a sound.
Using a flashlight, Glenn found the broken dining room window with the burglar bars cut. “We’ve been robbed!” he shouted.
After shining their flashlight down the hall and catching sight of Rex’s eyes and teeth in its beam, the intruders had scurried back out the same way they came in.
Soon after, Rex stopped barking but remained somewhat agitated. Reaching down to cup his head in my hands, I looked him in the eyes and said, “Good dog. Good dog, Rex. It’s okay.” Immediately he calmed down, and so did I.
Glenn checked the rooms to see what was missing. “Was your cell phone charging on the kitchen table?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, they took it.”
“Good. I hate those things.” He was not pleased with my stab at levity.
Glenn shuddered when he spotted a brick laying on the kitchen floor where it was dropped by one of the thieves during his hasty retreat. It had been intended for our heads if we should wake up. What a close call.
Our house phone worked. Glenn called the police who said, “We have no transportation, but if you pick us up in the morning, we’ll come out to take a statement and look over the place.” Since there was nothing more to be done, we hugged Rex again, told him he was a good boy, and headed back to bed to wait for daybreak, though sleep did not come. The scene played over and over in our heads.
In the morning a police officer came. After going over the story, the officer looked down at Rex then back to us. “You’re very lucky. That dog saved your life. These guys work in small groups. One waits outside the window to receive the goods while the others search the house room by room for electronics and jewelry.”
How could we leave Rex behind? After all, he saved our lives. He was coming home with us despite the cost, and we were happy to pay.
Rex has taken well to retirement, having many two- and four-legged friends. Neighbors bring gifts of bones and biscuits, marveling at how well he runs on three legs when he spots a squirrel. We have learned not to place our coffee on the coffee table to avoid having it knocked off by his ever-wagging tail. Glenn still refers to him as Tripod. As for me, I’ll stick with Rex, king of our castle and loving friend.