My name’s Bongo, and I’m a Dalmatian. I belong to a very ancient and very prestigious breed of dogs. My ancestors are even depicted on the tombs of the Pharaohs, if you can believe it. We didn’t come from Egypt, though, but from a place in Croatia called Dalmatia, on the Adriatic Sea. In the old days my ancestors were cart dogs; they cleared the way for carts and mail wagons. We became the mascot for the firefighters in the USA, because we didn’t get in the way of the horses that pulled their wagons, and we barked to let pedestrians know they were coming through. But what really made my breed famous was that English novel, 101 Dalmatians. Some Americans from Hollywood took an interest in that book; a certain Mr Walt Disney made a movie of it, and the whole world saw it. Ever since then, Dalmatians have been a prized breed. I grew up at a breeder’s in the English countryside, alongside the rest of my spotted litter.
My playmate, Missis, is the same breed as me. She has little black spots on her cream coat. She’s beautiful, and we often canoodle with one another. Still, one day we shall be sold, and we’ll each have a master to respect and obey. Then we shall be separated, but I hope that we may still cross paths in one of London’s great parks, and that we might chase after squirrels and drink from fountains, and that I might lie in the sun by her side on the green grass in summer, and rustle through dead leaves in the autumn. I will leave my scent at the foot of every tree so that she can find me; I’ll take care to make it easy, and I’ll seek out her musk on every street corner. I know her scent, and will never forget it.
On this spring day, my master, Lord Rodolph, has taken me to Hyde Park for a walk. Lord Rodolph has a huge moustache and smokes a pipe, and looks rather like a detective with his tweed trench coat. He thinks I’m not learning enough tricks. Sometimes he asks me to do strange things; not, as I had suspected, to sniff around the scenes of crimes – no, instead he has me run fast around pegs and jump over small fences. If I obey, I get a nice English biscuit. Then I must run and jump to catch a Frisbee. If I succeed, I get two biscuits. I am weary after that effort, and it’s time for me to rest. My master sits on a bench and opens his pocket book. He devours detective novels, but he’d do better to find a mate to make some pups with. I love children myself, and I watch them at play with envy when we visit the park. Sometimes they stop to pet me, but if we had a child at home I’d get much more attention. My master unhooks my leash, allowing me a few moments of privacy. Something catches my attention; a butterfly! It flutters over the flowerbeds and lands on my nose, provoking me. I chase it and hustle it over toward a large oak. Then a strange scent comes to my nose; something familiar at the base of this tree. It’s getting closer, and stronger. I know, it’s Missis! Where is she? I begin to run wildly all over the park, my master’s nose still stuck in his book. I race down the paths and jump over bushes in a mad rush. Suddenly, I spy the dog who owns my heart, sitting at the feet of a Lady in a yellow dress. “Missis!” I call to her, though perhaps she has been given some other name now.
Alan Alfredo Geday