Wednesday, March 2, 1977, 11:15 pm - Day 400, Part 3

- The time is now 11:15 pm, as I am writing.

I walked across the street to one of the houses. On the space before the door (like a porch, sort of), a few of my favorite ladies of the town were gathered, in the process of ironing and "planting" hair. The ironing is done with a metal comb which is heated up and then combed through the hair, which has been greased with petroleum jelly. Going from the scalp outwards, this straightens out the hair and makes it easier to work with. "Planting" the hair comes next. Planting is their name for taking the hair and braiding it close to the scalp, usually running in rows, which makes it resemble a plowed field ready for planting (no pun intended) (no connection either, I don't think).

This one today turned out to be the most intricate and therefore the best of any head that I have seen here or anywhere. Which is saying quite a bit. I think that I counted 18 different rows, and that wasn't even all. The most I have seen before was maybe 10 or 12 rows. You would really have to see this one to believe it, because it is amazing. These 18 rows cover about 2/3 of the head, and they all curve around, coming together when they meet and finally culminating in one braid coming down just behind one ear. This was all her own hair and each row was maybe a quarter inch wide and perfectly done. The last third of the head was cut into squares about 1.5 inches across, running two squares high around the back and the other side of the head from the first. The hair in each square was bunched in the center and then wrapped with black-plastic string, which they use to highlite their hair. These became cylinders about a quarter inch in diameter and two inches long. When the hair ended, the plastic strands continued and were worked all together into a fancy pattern intertwined among the hair-and-plastic cylinders.

It was a work of art and probably took close to as long to perform as my own work of art, that I performed for this next part of the day.

There is one dog in town whose name is Otis. That's right - Otis. He is the closest thing to a normal super-duper pet dog that one would find in America, and impossible to find in Sierra Leone, but here he is anyway, hiding out in Kamiendor.

Dogs here is Sierra Leone generally all look the same. They seem to be all from one common stock. Anywhere you go, the dogs are there, and they are always the same. They are of the type and quality that most of them you see, you would want to kick out of the way if they get too close. Our dog, Chump, from when we were in Daru, was from this breed. He was cute when he was a puppy, but when he got older, he was just like the rest. I felt no attachment to him at all. He was stupid. He would shine up to you only at wrong times, like when you were going off to work, and he would chase after you and almost get run over. I don't like stupid dogs.

The people here in Sierra Leone treat dogs as they deserve to be treated. They don't feed them. These dogs roam around town along with the goats and the chickens, getting any scraps that they can. For kicks, the kids sometimes throw rocks at them to watch them run, and hear them yelp. The dogs get no respect and they deserve no respect. As far as having dogs for pets goes, they don't, at least not to the standards that we expect in America. They can't see wasting good food by feeding it to a dog. It just isn't done.

That brings me to another point. I might as well put it in too. I'll get back to Otis afterwards.

Eating in Sierra Leone. Besides the difference in foods, which you get used to, and the fact that they always eat with their fingers, which you bypass, there is one other aspect of their eating habits which often keeps people wondering about what is wrong with me because I don't follow this habit.

Their minds are preoccupied about food. If they are not eating it, then they are preparing it, or growing it. This is probably why they act as they do, because this puts them apart from myself. I am not preoccupied with food. There are many things that are more important to me than eating. One of them is finishing whatever it is that I might be doing at the moment before I stop to eat. They find it impossible that I could put off eating food that is put before me like that. With them, no matter what they are doing at the moment, if someone tells them food is ready, they drop whatever it is and go eat.

This irritates me when I am working with them, and they want to just drop the work like that, just to eat. It doesn't even matter when or how often they eat during the day. I guess they have the idea that they eat it when it is ready, or they don't eat it at all. In most cases they might be right, but not all cases. It is usually served on a big pan or in the pot and there are sometimes as many as six people eating from the same one. Like tonight, I haven't eatten dinner yet because I am preoccupied with writing this.

Now, back to Otis. Like I said, Otis is not your average Sierra Leoneon bad excuse for a dog. Otis was made to be a house dog. He reminds me of my dog, Rassberry, back home, and he would fit into our family even better than Rassberry would, because Otis is colored to match. His hair is a reddish blonde. His hair is what I was concerned with, but first, his background.

As I said before, Otis is an orphan. His old master, a resident of Kamiendor, died about a year ago. While he was alive, I was amazed to hear, he treated Otis like a regular American pet dog. He fed him, for one thing. He fed him real food, too. He even treated Otis to margerine sometimes, while most of the people in Kamiendor don't get that. He adored Otis and Otis was heart-broken and very lonely when he died.

Since that time, Otis has just sort of hung around the town, picking up scraps of food where he could. His master's son is in Kamiendor and I guess officially he is the owner of Otis, but only officially. He doesn't feed him, and like most of the people in the town, he doesn't give Otis any respect, but treats him about the same as the others treat animals in town. He tried to sell Otis to me today for Le10.00, and I was disgusted at his offer. He is looking for money and doesn't care about the dog.

As far as I'm concerned, Otis belongs to whoever feeds him, and if I feed him sometimes, then he is part mine. I see Otis as belonging to all of Kamiendor. I don't want all of him, only a share, which is what I now got, thanks to today, which will work out fine because I spend alot of time outside of Kamiendor. And I don't want to infringe on Otis's independence. He comes and goes, when he wants and where he wants.

If he drops by my place for breakfast or dinner, I will feed him. He would never want to spend the night with me, but sometimes he comes to visit a bit during the day. He is a quiet dog. I haven't heard him bark once yet. He is friendly to those that are friendly to him, and looks like he might sometimes bite at those that treat him wrong.

Anyway, back at about 11:30 am or 12 noon, while I was watching the girls do their hair, Otis was laying in front of the house across the street, in the shade. During this past year as an orphan dog, with no one to look after him, his hair has grown pretty mangy. He is a long-hair dog, the same as Rassberry and also the same size, but with the coloring of Rags. Otis's hair looked fine on the front half of him, but on his laying-down half, the hair was very thickly matted.

Otis didn't really know me very well at this time, and I was a bit unsure of his bite. He snapped at me once when I surprised him by petting him a few months ago. Watching the girls do their hair and looking at Otis across the way, I got to thinking. A few of the boys from around were there and so I made a deal with them to wash and cut Otis for 10 cents each. They weren't too sure what they were getting into, either, but finally agreed, half-heartedly.

We went to my room to get water and soap, and while there, decided to get a rope to hold him with. It looked like all that they were capable of at this first step would be to get the rope around Otis's neck, and then we would wait and see how Otis reacted before we went on to the next step. They got the rope on him and brought him to the back veranda of my house, while I went back for the scissors and also a comb, which I just remembered that I would need. I was playing all of this by ear. I never trimmed a dog before, and here I was going to start on a dog that I wasn't at all sure of.

I had thoughts of how Rags always acted when he got trimmed. I didn't know what I was doing, how I should start, or how I should approach the dog. But by the time the kids got Otis around, I was there to watch, and was irritated by the rough treatment that they were giving Otis. Before, they were going to cut the dog, but now I changed my mind. I had to do it myself.

Otis sat down nicely, and the first thing I had them do was to drop the rope, which they were pulling on, and then I loosened it up around his neck. I left it on though, because it would have been handy to have if Otis had decided to get up and walk away. I was worried about this most of the time. I wasn't sure how to begin. I started by petting him, stroking his back, just getting him used to me. When I felt sure he was calm, I started to operate on his back half with all of the matted hair.

I tried to comb it out, but that was completely impossible, so I thought that if I could get it wet it would loosen up. No such luck. I then decided that I had no choice but to cut. At first I worked it with me holding the comb under the matted hair and then holding the matted hair straight out with my other hand. One kid would then cut the piece that I was holding. I was always super-careful not to pull in the least bit because Otis was still a big question mark in my mind.

After a bit I saw that this was too slow, so I took the scissors, put down the comb, and then started cutting the matted hairs that I held extended with my other hand. The more I cut, the more confident I became that 1) I knew what I was doing, and 2) Otis wasn't going to try and bite me. Every so often, when Otis would doze off, one of the kids would hold up Otis's back leg, so that I could very carefully clear out some of the mess hidden underneath. This was very tricky business, because if the dog feels anything, his reflexes quickly close him back up. I had to wait for my opportunities here and use them when they arose. I would work up on his back, otherwise.

The top of his back hip-bone surprised me at first because, looking at it from the angle I was at and, being all grown around by hair, but being bald and rough looking itself, I thought it was some growth that wasn't supposed to be there. When I was completely finished, I saw that there was another one to match, and they looked like they belonged and were a normal part of the dog.

Halfway through, I was positive that I knew what I was doing, and was growing much more confident that Otis was not going to bite. On the flip side, I started working under his hind leg, and Otis surprised me a bit. He was awake, and turned his head, and it came back towards me. My confidence in him was pretty good by now, and I was pretty sure he wasn't going to bite. It turns out he just turned around to do the same thing that I was doing, getting the matted hair and tangles out of his underside. I just pushed his head over and went on cutting. The rest was then easy.

I found that if I were to lay a sure hand on the place where I was cutting, any place, then Otis wasn't going to bother me with his bite, and the sure hand turned off his automatic twitches also. Towards the end, I just had under his ears and under his chin, places that I deliberately saved to last, because they were too close to the biting end. They were the toughest to do also. By this time Otis had woken up pretty good, and was starting to get restless. Remember that I started at 12 noon and that now it was getting close to 5:00 pm. Five hours!! I was amazed at Otis and very proud of him also. Not even Rassberry, I don't think, would have stayed put for me like Otis had just done.

My dinner had come about a half hour before, and I had promised myself that I was going to give him some. I hurriedly dashed into my room and dished up some rice. Then the kids were amazed when I started to put the sauce on it, and absolutely shocked when I started to dig out some of the choicer bits of meat to go with it. They tried to grab it out of my hand, but I managed to fight them off. I went back to the operating place and managed to catch Otis before he took off. He had gotten down the steps but had stalled out at the bottom, still in a daze, trying to figure out just what had happened to him. He accepted the food gladly, which also gave me the chance to get my first complete look at the new dog. I combed him down, and he only needed one clip more with the scissors to complete one perfect haircut, a masterpiece, my own art performance complete.

Otis is now an absolutely beautiful dog. Rassberry needs a haircut also, if she hasn't had one by now. I don't think that Otis would be able to chase frisbees like Rassberry. Otis seems a mature animal, not frisky as a pup like Rassberry. Running would be beneath Otis's dignity. Walking would be more his style.

Later on, while I was inspecting the planted head masterpiece, Otis came up to me unbeckoned. I guess he appreciates what I did for him, and has found a place in his heart for me as I have for him. "Happiness is having a dog that loves you."

It is now 2:15 am, my writing thumb is sore, I think I am developing writing blisters, or at least very deep dents. I am bushed. I am not yet completed with today's happenings, and there is more from what happened leading up to today. I've made a note of all of my points still to cover, and so hope to get to them tomorrow, if I am able. My pen is almost out of ink. 37 1/3 pages in 6 1/4 hours equals a record and a miracle!

Good night.