The Dog in the Night-Time

A warning to the sqeamish: Disturbing pet-related events follow...

I have a sometimes unfortunate pact with myself that compels me to eat anything that I have never eaten before; it has led to some unfortunate incidents including a sheep-head eating experience in South Africa which I don't wish to dwell upon. I can almost taste it all over again...

So when it came to making a decision as to how I would celebrate the New Year, I was faced with the dilemma of whether to disappear off somewhere by myself which, being a curmudgeonly old misanthrope, was my natural inclination, or to celebrate with some Bataks and experience how they see in the New Year. I was left with no other option than to follow my stomach.

The Bataks are a tribal people native to Sumatra and, although many have converted to Christianity and Islam over the years, they are still culturally distinct in many ways when compared to the rest of the population; their conversions have not prevented them from continuing some of their Animist customs and beliefs. New Year in Northern Sumatra is not a good time to be a dog.

While not quite naïve enough in my cultural quest to believe that I was going to be surrounded by palm-frond huts and natives with grass skirts and spears, I was a little disappointed to find myself in a bare and dirty warehouse for the festivities. On arrival, I hopped off my motorbike and was greeted by a friendly, tail-wagging dog and my first reaction was to give the little fellah a tickle behind the ears but I reared back at the last second with a sudden thought: “Is this dinner??!” I cried.

“No, no, no,” one of my hosts smiled and patted me reassuringly on the back. I relaxed and gave the dog a scratch under the chin. “Dinner's over there,”he said, and pointed to a distant area of the warehouse.

All the reality of what was about to take place now crashed into my tiny little world. Trussed up in a sack with its head poking out of the top was a very scared looking dog. The imagined romance of seeing a tradition native to the exotic 'Spice Island' that I was living on, now came down to seeing man's best friend butchered in an old warehouse. I was having severe second thoughts about the whole matter; what on earth was I doing here? However, I couldn't leave now without offending my hosts and so it was time for a sharp bit of moral and mental justification:

• The dog was going to get it whether I was there or not, so there was no point in burying my head in the sand.

• If I wasn't prepared to see an animal that I was going to eat get slaughtered then I was as hypocritical as the millions who buy their shrink-wrapped lamb from Tescos and steadfastly refuse to equate it with the bouncing, spring-time, farmyard favourite they coo over every year.

• This was a cultural experience so I'd better just accept it and take part.

• I was hungry.

In Islam, an animal must be slaughtered in the correct manner. Known as dhabiha, the animal has a swift cut to the jugular and death is quick and painless. Unfortunately this wasn't a Muslim feast and what followed certainly wasn't halal. Five men removed the yelping animal from its sack and held it while another pushed a knife into its lower throat; it wasn't a swift, deep slice, it was a lengthy probe to find the correct artery. It took about thirty seconds to find it and the dog did not die painlessly. Or quietly.

Once bled, the dog was placed on top of a barbecue. A blow-torch was lit and the hair singed from its body; a rather unpleasant smell to accompany our pre-dinner drinks. Use of the bathroom was then out of the question for the next thirty minutes or so unless you wished to step among dog entrails; it was here that poor Rover, for that had become its name in an attempt to gloss over the event with some black humour, was butchered. Within an hour, Rover had been chopped into more easily acceptable, mentally digestible pieces of meat and slapped upon the barbecue. A more enticing aroma began to pervade the warehouse and before you could say, “Here boy!” we were served up a dish of hot dog.

The result? Rather beefy in taste but quite tough and gristly. I am reliably informed that puppy is more tender but I think I've had my dog days. Apparently the consumption of dog meat is meant to give you energy and make you feel quite invigorated but after several beers and vodkas in Rover's name it was a little hard to tell.

I was unsure about whether to write this story as I have many dog-loving friends. However, in the interests of serious anthropological research, cultural study, not a little bedevliry, and a distance of several thousand miles between us, I decided to go ahead. It's with these reasons in mind that I've also posted some photos on a separate page for those of you who wish to see a dog being slaughtered. Here...

Happy New Year.