Barbecued Vanilla

We had a staff meeting after school last week and it dragged on late into the afternoon. At the end of the meeting, I hurried home because I was starving and ready for a big lunch. I walked across the coral pathway and scampered up the muddy hillside leading to my house. A group of local boys and some of my family were cooking breadfruit on a fire outside the house. They all stared directly at me as I passed by and gave me some weird looks. I am used to being stared at, so it didn’t bother me. I figured my hair was looking crazy or my backpack was open or something.

I opened the door to my house and strolled towards the kitchen. As I walked into the small concrete kitchen, I was greeted by my dog Vanilla. She was lying on her back in a big bucket, charred to a crisp. Her lips were burned off and her teeth were snarling in an agonizing grin. Her black tongue lazily hung out of the corner of her mouth. All four legs were sticking straight in the air and her beautiful white coat had turned to a smoky black. The eyes had shriveled out and only ghostly sockets of death stared back at me.

I knew this day was coming. I had pushed it off for months. I made excuses and tried to argue for her life, but it was inevitable. A dogs’ ultimate fate in most of the Pacific (including Chuuk) is to end up in the belly of its owners. They can be loved and taken care of in life, but there is no remorse when its time for a feast. It seems horrid to us westerners, but its been standard practice for thousands of years in Asia and the Pacific.

I have eaten dog many times since arriving in Micronesia, but this was different. This was my dog. This was a creature who loved me. Vanilla was utterly and hopelessly attached to me. She would messily greet me with a muddy hug every morning and then stay at my heels for the whole day. She would come into my class, follow me on my walks, and even hop into the ocean when I took a swim. Vanilla was a loyal and loveable dog.

So when I saw her barbecued corpse sitting on my table, I was predictably upset. I went into my room and paced around. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to scream at my family and tell them they were all assholes. I paced around in my room and tried to distract myself. I wasn’t mad just because Vanilla was gone, I was mad because I had told them many many times to please spare her life. They are usually overly gracious in meeting any itsy bitsy request that I suggest, but not this time. Not when it actually mattered.

Then my brother BJ walked in and hollered, “hey Johnny, sa mwenge (lets eat) barbecue!”. This was too much for me to handle.

I yelled back, “Fuck No!” It was the first time I had used profanity anywhere near my household.

BJ replied, “ What?”.

I muttered, “ I said NO!” and then stormed out of the ouse.

I went down to the beach and sat on the bottom side of an old boat. I lay on this boat for the next 3 hours and made myself relax. My mind told me I was being stupid and shouldn’t be mad about all this. I know the culture and I have eaten dog plenty of times. But inside I was raging. Eventually the island breeze and sounds of gentle waves lapping on the beach worked its magic and cooled my nerves. I gathered myself together and buried my anger down inside

I decided to follow Ghandi’s example of satyagraha and do a little non violent resistance. I went on a fast for the rest of the day. I had never done anything like this before. I don’t think in my entire life I had ever missed lunch and dinner in the same day. But I decided I would do it this time. In honor of Vanilla. It was a way for me to avoid confrontation and make me feel better about myself.

It was awkward trying to explain all this to my family that night. They knew I was upset and all tried to talk to me about it. It was hard for them to understand that I would be angry about this. They felt sorry for upsetting me and begged me to eat with them, but I refused. It was the first time in my 18 months in Micronesia that I deliberately disrespected the culture. I felt slightly guilty, but in this case I felt that sticking to my morals outweighed the importance of following local custom.

I did cheat a little bit though on my fast. I found a leftover beer stashed in a plastic bag and chugged that down by myself. A little bit of hops and yeast to fill my belly wouldn’t do disgrace the memory of my beloved dog.