The garden surrounding our Maseno home in Nyanza province, Kenya, was abloom. The thirty foot tall Jacaranda spread out like a purple parasol over fragrant frangipani and bushy Poinsettia trees. A bougainvillaea climbed its way up the red brick walls of our house, covering them with soft pink flowers. Steam rose from the corrugated tin roof as the last of midday rain evaporated into the hot afternoon sun.
My mother and two sisters had left after lunch for Kisumu, and my father retired to take his customary Saturday afternoon nap. Armed only with my five-year-old imagination and a freshly pumped up soccer ball, I was outside playing the greatest footballer in the world. The inspiration for my game came from watching the local eleven, African boys twice my age, running barefoot on the ochre murrom playing surface behind the Maseno school.
Shirts or skin was the norm as match colours were only worn for important games. On this particular occasion I played skin, wearing only a baggy pair of shorts, although in my mind I was dressed in full gear.
The best thing about playing greatest footballer in the world on my own was the fact that I could play any position I chose. I would dribble down the lawn, pushing past imaginary opposition, and kick the ball as hard as possible against the wall of the cook house. Instantly, I transformed into the opposing goalkeeper and threw myself at the rebound. If I stopped it, then I was a goaltending sensation, if I missed, then I took the applause and cheers, all self provided, as a great striker.
I added running commentary on the game a few years later, when my ear became tuned to regular radio broadcasts of weekend football on the BBC World Service, and I was able to replay the best parts in my mind during my game.
Occasionally I was joined in play by Flicka, our black and tan Alsatian dog, but more often he would simply run the line watching me, and barking when he heard me cheer at a particularly good play. On this particular afternoon he was fully engaged in the game, and like me, did not notice another dog enter the property.
I had just made a fine save, trapping the rebounding ball on the ground, when a black shenzi*dog rounded the corner of the cookhouse. With a snarling, frothing mouth, it leaped on me, biting at my exposed flesh. If not for Flicka, I am quite sure that the shenzi would have torn out my throat, but the Alsatian was on the attacker and hauled it off me.
I will not forget the wild eyes, snapping teeth and guttural growls that came from the intruder. Neither will I forget Flicka’s stern determination to protect me from it. The two dogs circled each other, and I climbed slowly to my feet, too much in shock to realize that I had been badly bitten and was bleeding. My first instinct was to go to the help of Flicka, who was barking furiously, but seemed for some reason reluctant to engage his mangy opponent.
“Gordie, get away from the dogs!” The voice was that of my father who came running from the house wearing less than I, a long Masai spear in his hand. I am not sure if it was the sight of the spear, his yelling or his nakedness that caused the crazed dog to retreat beneath the large Jacaranda tree. Perhaps it was all three, but the dog’s retreat provided the opening my dad needed. He hurled the spear as though he had been born to it. The spear pierced the dog’s heart and pinned it to the base of the tree.

My father and me a few years later

The shenzi died almost instantly, and my dad took me inside to dress my wounds.
“What the hell were you thinking?” My father had opened up the large medicine cabinet and, having cleaned the wounds to my hand and shoulder, was applying something that stung.
“I was just playing.” With the shock subsiding, my breath came in sobs. I was pretty sure that I wasn’t to blame for the attack, but my dad’s tone caused me to reconsider.
“That stray’s sick Gord, it could have killed you, why didn’t you come inside?”
The fact that I didn’t see the dog until it was on me seemed like a long explanation and one that would lead to a much longer conversation with my father than I wanted, so I simply shrugged, and tried to control my tears during the bandaging of my wounds.
The rabid dog attack was the topic of conversation that night after my mother and sisters had returned. My mother had the keys to the gun locker with her, so when my father heard the commotion he had rushed to my assistance without a thought to his appearance, and seized the first weapon that came to hand.
As an anthropologist, my dad had spent time amongst many different tribal groups including the Masai, which is where he had acquired the spear. He had heard, and told my sisters and me many tales of young Masai men killing lions with such spears in their quest for manhood and had seen them throw such a spear, but that was the first time he had actually thrown one.
Because my father was sure that the dog was rabid, he had the head of the dog removed and sent away so the brain could be analysed. We were fortunate that the Mission in Maseno had a hospital and a growing agricultural research facility, as human death from transmitted rabies was not uncommon. Within a few days the unwelcome news came confirming that the intruding dog had been rabid. I would have to undergo twenty-four painful injections over the course of a few days, directly into my stomach.
Both my mother and father worked hard to prepare me for what was to come.
“You have to be brave,” my father instructed.
“It will all be over before you even know it has started,” my mother counselled, “and we will be right there with you.”
When we reached the white-washed walls of the Mission hospital, I was taken down a narrow hallway and into the room that doubled as a treatment room and surgery. The long steel bench was hard, cold and unwelcoming to my half naked body as I lay on my back, exposing my small belly.
The nurse, who was also a nun, wiped my bare belly with some kind of disinfectant that smelled horrible, and smiling at me, she raised the hypodermic needle that looked like one of my mother’s knitting needles. I was terrified, grabbed my mother’s attending hand, and closed my eyes. Two very painful needles a day and twelve days later, I lived to tell the tale.
Flicka, who had the good sense to avoid the rabid teeth of the mad dog, also avoided the disease. We had him vaccinated, in far simpler fashion that I had been, just to be sure. He lived a long life with us. I was always thankful that he had reacted as he had, although, as dogs will, he passed the incident off with a slurp of his long wet tongue, and a twinkle in his eye.
For my bravery my dad bought me my first Daisy air rifle which as I grew older and more daring, only served to get me into a whole lot more trouble.

My dad has left us but the spear still holds a position of prominence in our home

• *The term shenzi is a Swahili word that means barbaric, uncouth, uncivilised, or savage. In this instance savage seems the most applicable.

1. Lee Says:
   March 7th, 2010 at 7:49 am

   WOW what an amazing story, wonderfully told.

2. Kathleen Walker Says:
   March 7th, 2010 at 9:16 am

   Something similar happened to my sister. When she was about 9, she was kicking a ball in the back yard by herself. We had a three story house at the time and there were roofers fixing the roof. One of the roofers saw the next door neighbours’ boxer running back and forth along a flimsy wire fence until it attacked my sister. At that point he almost jumped off the roof. I remember him barreling through the house to get downstairs and he did save her. I remember my dad carrying my sister into the house and placing her little body on the sofa, as I peeked through the adult legs to look at her I could see that she was covered in bites from head to toe. The boxer was ordered put down and our neighbours never forgave us for that. My sister does not seem traumatised by dogs but although I have almost always had dogs, I am very wary of other people’s dogs.

3. Myst DeVana Says:
   March 7th, 2010 at 8:39 pm

   Enjoyed how you could take us right into the scenes. Such vivid images and that last line is a real teaser. More soon, please!

4. Viliam Says:
   March 9th, 2010 at 4:37 am

   One of our readers recommended this blog post:…

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