Dog day afternoon

I lost the plot a bit on Thursday for the first time in weeks. It was another visiting day – it must be the Christmas rush; I had a record 21 visitors – and I was having as lovely a day as you can in this place.

My lawyers showed up. They had no real need to be there, but just wanted to wish me Merry Christmas. Elizabeth brought her young daughter, Danke, who wanted to meet this “Fox” that her mum kept talking about. She looked like a fairy on the top of a tree, dressed in a Christmas-red party frock. She wants to sing you a song, said Elizabeth, but shyness overtook her, until I sat on the floor, our eyes now level, and I said I’d sing with her. We held hands and sang “Jingle Bells”, she gaining in confidence (especially the “ha, ha, ha” part) until a rousing finale.

They’d brought me chocolates and cookies wrapped in festive ribbon, which I wove through the bars of my cell. The guards will take it, I was warned, you might hang yourself with it.

A bit later I was summoned again and through the plexiglass saw Tina and Rahmat, my former house staff, and their son, Aji. Rahmat was holding something in his arms, like a baby, and I did a double take and saw it was Streaky, my dog. They tried to get her to recognise me through the glass – and even held the telephone to her ear to hear my voice – but the room was crowded and she was too excitable to notice. I signaled the deputy commander, Pak Anton, and asked if I could greet them in the guardhouse. He said no at first, but I pleaded and he relented, so I went in and sat on the floor. The door opened and Rahmat put Streaky down. I called her and she immediately recognised my voice and ran over, jumping into my arms and squealing like she always did when I would return home from a trip abroad. She was beside herself, smothering me with licks and burrowing under my arms and legs.

Streaky showed up on my doorstep shortly after I moved to Bali after my departure from Reuters. I was in a deep trough – and hadn’t had a dog since my teens – but this tiny brindle bundle staggered towards me, dragging its back leg. She was clearly an abandoned runt, but Des Wright convinced me the least I could do was take her to the vet and then perhaps a shelter. The vet said she’d been born without a right hip socket and her entire right leg was fused, but she was otherwise healthy. No one will adopt her though, he said, she’ll probably have to be put down, so back she came with me.

My staff were horrified. They’re Muslims and wanted nothing to do with her, but she first won over Aji and then the parents, and in a matter of days was part of the family (a year later I returned from a trip abroad to discover they’d taken in a second abandoned runt).

Streaky became a big part of my life. From being told she was confined to the garden, then only allowed downstairs, then upstairs but not on the bed, then on the bed, then making me sleep around her rather than move her over, was a matter of weeks. Walkies at 6 am became routine, and she was perfectly happy to jump onto the footwell of my scooter for rides to the beach, her tongue lolling and ears flapping in the wind.

Gradually my depression lifted. She’s a lucky dog, one friend said, you saved her life. I’m not sure who saved who, Andrew Cockburn replied.

On Thursday the guards let us have two or three minutes together and when it was over, I couldn’t leave the room. I stood in the corner, like a naughty child, until finally I took some deep breaths. Suck it up. Suck it up.

On Tuesday my cellmate, inside for running a dodgy spa (or rather for not paying off the cops) saw his daughter for the first time and returned after the visit in tears. I put my arm around him and told him not to be sad. I told him how happy he was going to be when he got out of here, how he had promised to spend more time enjoying life and his family, how everything would be better.

As I walked back to my cell on Thursday, Joe was standing in the next doorway, laughing at something, his grating “Ugh, Ugh, Ugh” that raises my hackles each time I hear it. A red mist descended and I flew at him. “I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll fucking kill you. You’ve fucked up my life…”, as I lunged, but one of the “boys” had clearly seen it coming and hustled me into my cell as Joe ran for the guard house. I was mobbed, but gently. “Easy Mr Fox, easy Mr Fox. Be strong. Be patient,” and took deep breaths and reminded myself to think about how happy I’m going to be when this is over and how much fun I was going to have.

Suck it up. Suck it up.