‘Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.’
— Anatole France (1844–1924). He was a French poet, journalist, and novelist known for his wit, irony, and scepticism, often critiquing contemporary society and religion through his works. France received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1921.
During my childhood in the 1950s and 1960s, I harboured an unshakable love for dogs. Their wagging tails and boundless energy filled me with a yearning I couldn’t quite explain. But my family, ever frugal and practical, would hear none of it. Dogs, they said, were too much responsibility. They were an unnecessary burden, not worth the trouble in life already weighed down by survival challenges.
I understood, even if my heart ached for a furry friend. Life for us teetered on the edge of subsistence. Supermarkets were unheard of, and the nearest shops were hours away by foot. Every item in our household was used sparingly, saved, or mended. Adding a dog to the equation — a creature that needed feeding and care — seemed unthinkable.
We split our time between the village and the family farm several miles away in a strip of wetland sandwiched between dense forests that buzzed with wildlife. From September to the week before Christmas, we stayed on the farm to avoid the exhausting daily trek.
Those months on the farm were gruelling yet magical at the same time as the farm, and the surrounding wilderness became a second home. The land we worked on was not merely a backdrop but a living entity that shaped our identities and values.
We toiled with our hands, appreciating the sweat and labour that went into every seed sown and every crop harvested. In this setting, our life was simple yet filled with rich experiences and cherished memories, where every sunrise brought new possibilities, and every sunset whispered the promise of tomorrow.
While wandering near a neighbouring farm during one school break, I spotted something that made my heart skip. A little puppy was tumbling about by a vegetable garden fence in the golden afternoon light. He was small, with soft, golden fur that glowed like sunlight through honey. Amang Sinom, the owner, stood nearby, watching him with a smile.
Now, Amang Sinom wasn’t the man’s real name. Among us Bidayuh in the Serian District, “amang” means father, and Sinom was his son. So, calling him Amang Sinom means “Sinom’s father”. He was a kind-hearted man who always had a twinkle in his eye and a story to share. He must have seen the longing in my gaze because he called me over.
“Come,” he said, waving me closer. “Meet my new dogs!”
The moment I stepped closer and saw the golden-furred pup, I felt something I could only describe as destiny. Without a second thought, I blurted out, “Bobo!” I paid no attention to the other puppies as I was captivated by the sight of the golden little one.
Why Bobo, you might ask? I didn’t know. It just felt right. It rolled off my tongue with certainty, as though the pup had been waiting for me to name him all along.
Years later, I would learn about the many meanings of “Bobo.” In English, it can mean a fool or someone a bit naive. In French, it’s short for “bourgeois-bohème,” describing a blend of bohemian and bourgeois lifestyles. In Spanish, it simply means “silly”. But back then, none of that mattered. To me, Bobo was the ideal name — short, sweet, and easy to call.
“Isn’t he a sight?” Amang Sinom said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I just can’t resist his antics.”
“He’s perfect,” I breathed, unable to tear my gaze away from the playful pup.
“Well, he can’t be yours, you know,” Amang Sinom said gently. “Your family … they’re not too keen on having a dog around.”
“I understand,” I sighed, my shoulders slumping slightly. “But can I still visit him?”
“Of course, my child,” Amang Sinom replied, a warm smile spreading across his weathered face. “Bobo will be here, waiting for you, every weekend and school holiday.”
“Thank you!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be here as often as I can.”
“I’m sure you will,” Amang Sinom chuckled, watching as Bobo bounded over to me, his tail wagging furiously.
“Bobo, you’re the best dog ever,” I said, wrapping my arms around the pup and burying my face in his soft fur.
“Ah, but he’s not your dog, is he?” Amang Sinom teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“No, he’s not,” I conceded, “but I’ll care for him as if he were my own.”
“I do not doubt that,” Amang Sinom said, his voice reassuringly. “Now, why don’t you and Bobo go explore the fields? I’m sure he’d love the company.”
“Race you to the river, Bobo!” I shouted, sprinting off. The pup bound alongside me, his joyful barks echoing through the air.
And so, Bobo became my not-quite-dog, my half-dog. I would race to Amang Sinom’s farm every weekend and school holiday to see him. We roamed the fields and jungle together, played in the river, and napped under the sprawling branches of an old wild fig tree near my family’s farmhouse. Bobo brought a kind of joy I’d never known before. I liked having friends, but Bobo was different. He had a special place in my heart. Even though he wasn’t entirely mine, he felt like enough.
As Christmas approached, I wanted to do something special for Bobo. My little brother, Little B, and I concocted an idea. With the help of our cousin Ratum and a few friends, we built a secret bamboo hut in the forest near a quiet mountain stream that flowed behind our house. It was a secluded spot, away from the village’s main paths, and we transformed it into a festive hideaway.
We worked tirelessly, decorating the hut with homemade ornaments, garlands of flowering vines, and tiny kerosene lamps crafted from sardine cans. When it was done, it felt magical — a little oasis hidden in the wilderness.
One evening, just a week before Christmas, we borrowed Bobo from Amang Sinom and brought him to our secret shelter. The clearing outside the hut glowed with the warm light of a bonfire, and the air was alive with the scent of evergreen and the sound of laughter. We played games, told stories, and feasted on sticky rice cakes, homemade fish crackers, and sweet lemonade made from lemons, limes, and sugarcane juice. Bobo, with his joyful barks and wagging tail, was the life of the party.
Sitting by the bonfire that night, I felt an overwhelming contentment. It wasn’t just about Bobo. It was about the love and connection we shared. I realised this was a big part of what Christmas is about, second only in significance to the birth of Jesus Christ. We jokingly called that year’s celebration ‘Half a Dog Christmas’, but in every way that mattered, it was the same old Christmas that comes every year.
Christmas Eve brought the village’s annual carol-singing tradition. Groups of singers split up to cover every house, and when we finished our rounds, we ended at our hideaway, singing under the stars as midnight approached. The next morning, we attended church for the Christmas service, a mix of solemnity and joy as the nativity story was re-enacted.
Later that afternoon, we gathered once more at the hideaway, each person contributing whatever food or drink they could. Bobo, as usual, was the centre of attention, bounding around with endless energy and licking everyone he could reach.
As the sun dipped behind the hills, we called it a day and our celebration ended. Walking Bobo back to Amang Sinom’s house, I felt a bittersweet pang. The year was over and we had grown a little bit more. We would never return to the hideaway again because members of the group would go in different directions in the coming year.
The years slipped by, as they always do. Bobo grew older, as did I. Life changed, pulling me further from those carefree days of my youth. Even now, decades later, the memory of that ‘Half a Dog Christmas’ lingers in my heart. I can still see the soft glow of the kerosene lamps, hear the bonfire crackle, and feel the warmth of Bobo’s fur under my hand.
For over half a century now, I have been living in Kuching where having a dog feels like a distant dream. The kind of life I could offer wouldn’t suit the dogs I long for. So, I let the dream rest. Let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying goes. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I let my imagination wander. I picture Bobo in Dog Heaven, his tail wagging, his golden fur gleaming in the sunlight.
And in that imagined place, we’re together, running through the fields, my childhood joy alive again.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
