'Askal'

PINOY KASI


‘Askal’
By Michael Tan
Inquirer

Last updated 02:09am (Mla time) 04/27/2007

MANILA, Philippines -- Funny how Filipinos idolize human “mestizos” [of mixed blood] but have the opposite attitude when it comes to dogs, taking a condescending view of the “native” dog, the mixed breed, the mongrel. “Native” determines the fate of these dogs, which are considered good only when they’re barking and guarding the house, but are otherwise kept out of sight, out of mind, forbidden from entering the house, unwashed except when it rains and fed, if lucky, with scraps.

Purebreds get names like Princess, while the native dogs go nameless, or by monikers like Whitie, Blackie, Brownie, with the owners oblivious to the racist connotations. In other instances, the dogs’ names became political barometers. For example, as Ferdinand Marcos’ popularity sank, the number of native dogs called Makoy increased.

I grew up with several generations of dachshunds and knew little about native dogs until vet school, where we would get quite a few of them at the University of the Philippines’ animal clinic. We were required to identify the patient’s breed on their records and we’d scribble “mixed.”

We’d encounter them, too, in droves, when we conducted rabies vaccination campaigns. Owners, if you could call them that, would watch in amusement in an instance of reverse class snobbery: I’m sure they derived immense pleasure seeing middle-class kids running around in the heat trying to wrestle down the “native” dogs and quickly jabbing them with the vaccine before we’d get bitten. “Hey,” women would sometimes challenge us in Filipino, “Can you vaccinate my husband as well so he won’t go ‘ulol’ [mad]?” referring not to the usual madness of a rabid dog but of a philanderer.

Friends

I could understand why the street dogs were so difficult. As puppies, they would reciprocate the attention and affection humans -- usually children -- gave them. But as they grew older, they’d be exiled outdoors, chained, cursed, kicked, beaten. To survive, they learned to keep a safe distance from humans.

But at the university clinic, I saw another aspect of the “askal” [a contraction of “asong kalye,” or street dog]. The ones we saw had owners from poor communities, who clearly loved and cared for the dogs and were willing to use part of their meager budgets for an ailing dog. The dogs would come in, often without a leash, limping behind their owners. They were easy to deal with; it was almost as if they understood we were trying to do something for them.

Later, working in rural areas and spending several weeks at a time in communities, I found it actually easy to strike up friendships with the native dogs. For all the human cruelty they experienced, Bantay seemed to be able to sense quickly when there was a gentler, kinder human. Rural people were always surprised when they’d see native dogs sitting next to me and allowing me to stroke them. “Amoy aso kasi” [“I smell like a dog],” I’d say in jest.

Sometimes I’d worry for the dogs, wishing I could teach them to be even more distrustful of the kindness that humans occasional exhibit. One time in Kalinga, many years back, I saw a man calling out to one of his dogs, which responded immediately, running to its owner, tail furiously wagging away. I did not eat lunch that day, sad and angered at the brazen betrayal of friendship.

Sinag and Britney

The native dog is changing. Drive through the streets and you see more of them carrying evidence of “aristocratic” parents: dachshunds and boxers and pugs and Rottweilers and pit bulls. Purebreds have found their way into poorer communities, occasional strays from subdivisions, but in many cases, actually being raised there in the slums. Pit bulls are popular, since they are used for dog fights. Other poor families raise purebreds, in the most cramped quarters, to sell. “Better than a piggery,” one dog breeder in a slum area told me.

The term “askal” reflects a more benign view of the dogs. “Askal” could almost pass as a breed in itself, the way it sounds like Alsatian (better known as the German Shepherd).

My parents still have two venerably ancient dachshunds, but my own dogs are askal, something that happened accidentally. I was having an old house renovated and the construction workers took in two of the most malnourished, mangy puppies, pot-bellied from worms. I’ve learned this happens quite often in construction sites, the dogs meant to help guard the premises, sometimes raised with cats that come in to go after mice and rats. I de-wormed and bathed the pups, and I would play and go “kutchi-kutchi” whenever I’d visit. When the renovation was done, they left the pups, now spry adolescents, and before I could get them ligated, they produced more askal, of all sizes, shapes and colors.

I’ve come to confirm what I learned in genetics lectures: Askal are brighter and stronger than pedigreed dogs. “Purebred” simply means dogs were inbred to obtain a particular characteristic, for example, the long bodies of dachshunds, which made them ideal to hunt underground creatures. But all that inbreeding has produced many problems for the dogs: dachshunds, for example, are prone to back injuries and paralysis. The mixed breeds, our askal, are sturdier, quite resistant to diseases. I’ve lost count of the number of slum dogs I see with a distinctive twitching that tells me they’re survivors of distemper, a disease that almost always kills a purebred pup.

Askal are probably even better adapted to human populations, having learned to decipher the entire range of human neighbors, noble and ignoble. Because they’re so independent, askal will resist training; but with the right methods (chokers and force never work), they’ll learn quickly.

I still have Sinag and Tala, the original construction dogs, and Munggil and Britney and Tisay. Munggil got her name because she was the runt in the litter, her name meaning “tiny” in Bahasa Indonesia. But after I named her, she began to grow, and grow, almost with a vengeance, and is now the tallest, most elegant dog you can imagine. Britney, well, she was always being teased as plain and ugly, but I always argued that like humans, she has her own kind of “ganda” [beauty].

The five askal have free rein of the gardens and the house, occasionally becoming too comfortable, inviting themselves to sofas and beds. They’re alert watchdogs, but will quickly move into “welcome” mode when they know the visitors are all right.

Best of all, they’re incredibly good with children. It helps that they’re of a size that allows them to literally see eye to eye with toddlers, which undoubtedly helps with the bonding.

I worry that my two toddlers, growing up with these friendly askal, might end up thinking all dogs are as tame. When they’re older, I’ll explain why I pull them away when they approach dogs in the street. With time, they’ll be able to tell, as I have, if a dog is friendly.

Meanwhile, our askal are becoming so much a part of their childhood, and will someday help me to explain goodness and kindness, and the joys of being free-spirited and “ganda,” unencumbered by pedigrees and external appearances.