THIS WAY, PUPPIES! (for a shoe filled with water) (2011)
"I am walking along a street, busy with market stalls. The crowds part, and I see him there. He is beautiful. He’s giving his ear a scratch.
The Kingdom of Morocco, the streets of Essaouira, are alive with dogs. They jump out to greet you, expectant and trusting.
You see them everywhere: here, one runs alongside a group of children, like another member of the gang. Here, on the outskirts of the city, they loiter like teenagers, proud and carefree. Here, one sleeps in the afternoon sun, turning the fishing boats into a postcard, or a picture from a travel magazine.
They are no threat to humans. More often than you could believe possible, these dogs are friends to cats. On some days, it seems as if the dogs are cut from the very fabric of the city itself. Stretching outside a doorway, this one looks as if he’s made from soot and rust. This one’s preparing to give birth. Can you spot her? She's next to the reception desk; she has the same markings as the city wall behind her.
One morning, I follow a dog, wondering where he’ll go. He takes me under the skin of Essaouira, into the shells of buildings waiting to be rebuilt. I find more dogs: a mother and her shy, uncertain puppy. They cuddle, kiss, and then sit for their picture. You can see them on the poster in the hallway outside. Later, I find them sleeping: the puppy protected by a circle of fallen rocks; the mother with a stone for a pillow. There they are, in the corrner of the room.
There’s a place high on the city ramparts where visitors go to see where the opening scenes of Orson Welles’s Othello were filmed, and it’s popular with locals, too, because there’s toilets and running water where you can wash your hands and face, and the dust out of your ears, before prayer.
One afternoon, we all stand together, looking down into the sea, in anxious and helpless silence. Far below us, there is a thirsty, skinny dog on the rocks, lost, confused and exhausted. A young boy calls out to it, but is quickly hushed by his mother who understands the dog would respond but would not be able to follow her child’s cry to safety. Turn back! Turn back! we beg in our heads, as if our thoughts alone could save the dog. But the dog staggers further out to sea, and we turn away, our hearts heavy and pounded and bruised."
The Kingdom of Morocco, the streets of Essaouira, are alive with dogs. They jump out to greet you, expectant and trusting.
You see them everywhere: here, one runs alongside a group of children, like another member of the gang. Here, on the outskirts of the city, they loiter like teenagers, proud and carefree. Here, one sleeps in the afternoon sun, turning the fishing boats into a postcard, or a picture from a travel magazine.
They are no threat to humans. More often than you could believe possible, these dogs are friends to cats. On some days, it seems as if the dogs are cut from the very fabric of the city itself. Stretching outside a doorway, this one looks as if he’s made from soot and rust. This one’s preparing to give birth. Can you spot her? She's next to the reception desk; she has the same markings as the city wall behind her.
One morning, I follow a dog, wondering where he’ll go. He takes me under the skin of Essaouira, into the shells of buildings waiting to be rebuilt. I find more dogs: a mother and her shy, uncertain puppy. They cuddle, kiss, and then sit for their picture. You can see them on the poster in the hallway outside. Later, I find them sleeping: the puppy protected by a circle of fallen rocks; the mother with a stone for a pillow. There they are, in the corrner of the room.
There’s a place high on the city ramparts where visitors go to see where the opening scenes of Orson Welles’s Othello were filmed, and it’s popular with locals, too, because there’s toilets and running water where you can wash your hands and face, and the dust out of your ears, before prayer.
One afternoon, we all stand together, looking down into the sea, in anxious and helpless silence. Far below us, there is a thirsty, skinny dog on the rocks, lost, confused and exhausted. A young boy calls out to it, but is quickly hushed by his mother who understands the dog would respond but would not be able to follow her child’s cry to safety. Turn back! Turn back! we beg in our heads, as if our thoughts alone could save the dog. But the dog staggers further out to sea, and we turn away, our hearts heavy and pounded and bruised."
