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Dear President and Mrs. George Bush.
It was with great concern, empathy and
understanding that I received the sad news of
the premature transition to glory of a beloved member of your family the sprightly and much loved Spot “Spotty” FIetcher, your English Springer Spaniel. He had to be put to sleep on veterinary advice after suffering several strokes.
We received the news of the loss in this part of the world, as a humanising aside to the raging debate about the US elections. We were told about your grief. And how the entire Bush family are “deeply saddened” by the passing of this “loyal and loving companion”. How sad. I am reliably informed that Spot has been given a befitting burial, with members of the Bush family in attendance: Mr. President, you had to suspend work for some moments, to honour a loyal and lovely dog. And the entire American nation shared in your grief. The Daily Telegraph of London (February 23) showed a rather moving photograph of you and Spot in a special moment of mandog embrace. You held him by the neck, with his snout pointed towards your face. With your head bent downwards, it was as if Spot was awaiting a Presidential kiss. How moving!
There is also this special White House photo by Eric Draper, which is available on the Internet showing Mrs. Laura Bush in a pose with the late Spot, and your other pet dog-Barney. The First Lady in this photograph has a smile on her lips and a glint in her eyes the look of a happy mother! Yours is a family with a deep-seated love for nature in its varied aspects. The Presidential fleet of pets consisted until now, of Spot, Barney (your other dog); Ofelia; the cow at the ranch in Crawford, Texas, and India, the Presidential cat, famous for its self-effacing nature. Spot’s death, I believe, must also be strongly felt by these other members of the Bush family. Spotty was a springy dog, with a sunny heart.
I must add, quickly however, that the celebration of the life and times of Spotty is causing so much tittering at the moment in the Nigerian society. I have heard persons asking: “what is all this much ado about a dog?” When some of my friends heard that a press statement was issued by the White House to announce the death of a dog, they simply laughed and made racist statements about how White people have gone totally crazy. They do not understand. They cannot understand. Here in Nigeria; a dog’s life means nothing. Spotty has received a far more befitting burial than many deceased Nigerians.
In his life-time, Spotty was regularly fed. He lived in the White House, and enjoyed unhindered access to 132 rooms, 35 bathrooms, 147 windows, 412 doors, 12 Chimneys, 8 staircases, and three elevators. He was without any doubt, the most privileged dog in the whole world; the only dog in recent times to have been born in the White House, with the opportunity of having two Presidents as friends. Spotty did not have the intellectual savvy of his mother, Mildred who even wrote a book, entitled “Millie’s Book”, but from both parents, he inherited an enormous talent for social bonding, intuitive appreciation of space and circumstances and a consistency of character. His favourite food was dog bacon; he loved playing tennis with the President “who hits the ball and Spotty chases it”. When he wanted to take a nap, his favourite spot was on the floor in the White House Usher’s office. Spotty even had his own website! He was a dog but he lived like a human being!
Poverty is the main problem in Nigeria. Many of the citizens cannot afford a three square meal. They neither have a roof over their heads, nor a shirt on their backs. When they die, they do not receive any befitting burial because it is even more expensive to die than, to live in this part of the world. Corpses litter our streets, and they are left to decompose, foul the air, until rain falls and washes the dirt away. Other human beings come upon the decomposing corpse, they hold their nostrils, quicken their pace and life continues. The ones that are not left by the roadside are taken to the mortuaries. Our mortuaries are populated by giant flies, nauseating smell and unclaimed bodies. The ones that make it to the burial grounds can not even be sure of a peaceful rest. At Atan and Ikoyi cemeteries in Lagos, graves are opened up to accommodate fresh corpses. Sometimes, a fresh hand could be seen sticking out of a grave! And these are human beings, your Excellency, not dogs! But nobody cares. Life continues all the same.
Not many families keep pets in this country. When a family is still struggling to feed its members, where is the extra meal for a hungry dog? The Nigerian family is so trapped in the existential struggle, we cannot afford the luxury of adopting animals as relations. If a Nigerian lady were to pose for photograph with dogs as Mrs. Bush did, she would be considered insane. Who is ready to talk about the rights of animals when human beings are treated with contempt by the Nigerian system and its custodians? In families where dogs are kept at all, these are either hunting dogs or security dogs. They are meant to assist man in tracking down food or the enemy. In the villages, the hunter’s dog is fed with faeces. He does not eat any such thing called “dog’s food”. In the cities, security dogs enjoy certain privileges depending on the status of their owners. But if a dog dies around here, there is no grief. There are no comets seen. Life continues.
In parts of the country notably Ondo and Cross River, dog meat is actually a special delicacy. Among the Ondos, dog meat is called ”Lokili”. In Calabar, it is known as “404”. You need to see an Ondo or Calabar man eyeing a dog, and dreaming of his wife’s pot of soup! I am told that dog meat goes down well with egusi soup and a bottle of palm wine. If Spotty had belonged to a Nigerian from the dog eating area, his affliction with stroke would have been taken as a sign that he was ripe enough for the soup pot. By now, his meat would have been fried and kept in the refrigerator. I understand that in parts of Asia, dog meat is equally on the menu. But I doubt if it is relished with as much enthusiasm as in Nigeria.
For a few Nigerians, a dog is meant for rituals. In the Western part of the country, a dog is the favourite food of Ogun, one of the many gods that the people worship. Ogun is the god of iron. To appease him, you are required to sacrifice a dog. During an Ogun ritual, the head of the dog must be severed with one, clean stroke of the machete. If the priest misses, he has to keep trying with a different dog until he succeeds. If his machete is not sharp enough, he could kill as many dogs as possible.
In some other communities, a dog is considered a taboo animal. I must tell you the story of Frank Dotse Newman. He is a Ghanaian living in a Nigerian community in Rivers State. The entire community is now against him. His offence is keeping a female dog which is considered a taboo by the people. The dog has since disappeared. To know where she is buried, Newman may have to rip a few Nigerian stomachs open! In the meantime, he has been ordered to make peace by providing for ritual sacrifice purposes 20 live bees, cow, houseflies, and ants! This is a true story reported in a Nigerian newspaper The Sun of February 25, 2004.
Mr. President, the humanisation of Spotty; the expression of grief over his death; the understanding of the Western press these are indications of the unique pedestal where the civilisation to which you belong stands. The love of the animal in the Western society is an extension of the value that is placed on human life. When human beings grieve over the death of a dog, we need not be told that they fully understand the import of John Donnes’s reflection that the death of one, diminishes the rest of humanity. Thinking about Spotty, I am reminded forcefully of how the destiny of man and animals is linked in the chain of beings. Dogs are particularly close to man because they have social skills, and are capable of understanding and interpreting human cues. Which is ironic.
Your Excellency (I hope you do not mind me using this phrase it is Nigeria’s unique contribution to democracy), on the occasion of the transition of this important member of your family, certain things need to be said, by way of tribute to the world’s most remarkable canine. When I arrived in the United States in 1996 for a year-long sojourn in “God’s own country” as a Hubert H. Humphrey Fellow in Journalism, at the University of Maryland, College Park, my hosts for the first few days were Stanley Meisler and Elizabeth Fox, and their wonderful family. A key member of that family was a huge, Labrador dog with the habits of a beautiful woman. He loved attention. Then, all of a sudden, he took ill. Was it my black, shining and hungry face that upset his system? I wouldn’t know.
It was the first time I would live under the same roof with an American family. I was shocked beyond belief by the exasperation of Stanley and Elizabeth over their dog taking ill. They fretted over him. I was confused. A dog? Then, the unexpected happened: Stanley asked me to accompany him and the dog to the hospital. Hospital? A dog? I joined Stanley in the car, as he carried the dog, petting and fondling him. I was there when the dog was examined. Stanley and I later went to a store, and bought the prescribed drugs. I had never seen a thing like that. I quickly wrote an article entitled “A Dog’s Life”. I need not state that Spotty enjoyed as much affection, if not more, than the Meisler dog. So, Mr. President, I understand how you and Her Excellency, the First Lady, must be feeling. This is not about Iraq or the threat of John, Kerry, but about human feelings. Spot is being mourned in every home where a dog is man’s best friend.
Named after Scott Fletcher, a former Texas Rangers baseball player, he was born on March 17, 1989, at the White House (If he were still alive, he would have been 15 on March 17). He was the son of Mildred Kerr Bush, the dog belonging to former President George Bush and former First Lady Barbara Bush. His father was Tug Farish of Lane’s End Farm in Kentucky. If dogs could write, Spotty would have been in the best position to do a more penetrating profile of your good self than any other writer could ever attempt. He was the loyal friend who enjoyed access to those special and private moments when you planned strategies, and discussed the world and America’s place in it. He could be trusted because he could never have sold your secrets. He was an innocent friend, with the gift of unconditional love. He did not ask for your Vietnam medals nor did he complain about any Iraqi misadventure. If he could talk, he would have called you, “Dubya”.
It must have been a difficult decision for you I and Mrs. Bush to agree that Spotty be put down. He was a brave dog with a soul. But as they say only the Almighty knows best. And for every living thing, “there is a time to live and a time to die”. It was Spotty’s time to go. And you must take heart. You must be consoled by the fact that Spotty led a lucky life. If he had lived in Nigeria...
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