This is part III of my 3-month journey in Sri Lanka, as a volunteer for WECare Worldwide.
When I moved into my new house in Sri Lanka, I adopted one-sixth of a dog.
Not just any dog, but one-sixth of a street dog – or more accurately, a community dog. Ingrid, as she was called, had made her home in a resident complex housing six staff and volunteers from WECare. I was now one of those six, and by extension, one of Ingrid’s collective caretakers.
At first glance, Ingrid appeared to be a typical brown Sri Lankan village dog. I’d seen many like her, sometimes even mistaking other dogs for her. But Ingrid had two distinctive features: a red WECare collar, and intriguingly, only nine fingers. I never learned the full story behind her missing finger, but given Ingrid’s adventurous spirit, it didn’t come as a surprise.
Despite our unconventional arrangement, Ingrid quickly became “my” dog in many ways. Our morning walks were a cherished routine. No leash or collar was needed; Ingrid would be waiting eagerly at the gate of our housing complex, ready for our morning adventure. Sometimes Ingrid took the lead, other times I did, but we always enjoyed each other’s company up to the main road where we would part ways. I would turn left towards the WECare hospital, while Ingrid would linger in the alley or follow her nose elsewhere. I never worried about her return journey; Ingrid was street-smart; she always found her way home independently.
Ingrid had an uncanny ability to appear in the evening, just as I was preparing dinner. Whether it was a sixth sense or simply her keen nose, she always seemed to know when food was on the horizon. As I cooked, she’d settle nearby, knowing we’d soon share our meal. Like most street dogs, Ingrid wasn’t picky – she’d happily devour whatever was offered. Dhal curry. Instant noodles. The heel of a three-day old bread loaf. The only food that ever gave her pause? Bananas, oddly enough. She would walk away with disgust whenever bananas were in her bowl.
During a six-day trip I took away from Sri Lanka, I found myself thinking of Ingrid, but not with the usual worries of a pet owner. There was no need for baby cameras, no anxiety about dog sitters or stress about the dog walker arrangements. In truth, thoughts of Ingrid flitted through my mind only briefly. Yet, when I returned home, there she was at the gate, tail wagging in warm welcome, as if no time had passed at all.
As a millennial accustomed to the sharing economy – from rides to houses to wardrobes – I quickly recognized the appeal of a shared dog. Ingrid was like a living embodiment of a timeshare slogan: maximum enjoyment with minimal commitment. Everything about her was communal – her food, her treats, even her need for attention and affection. This arrangement offered all the joys of dog ownership without the full weight of responsibility.
It also seemed to suit Ingrid perfectly. Unlike a house dog, she got to light up with excitement at least six times a day, bouncing with joy at the sight of each of us returning from work. Making her rounds from one unit to another, she’d seek affection from everyone, knowing exactly what each person offered best. I was her go-to for butt scratches, while others excelled at head rubs. With six potential cuddle-givers and only one of her, Ingrid could bask in attention all evening if she wished. And it wasn’t just affection she received in abundance – she got food from all six of us, supplementing whatever she scavenged on the streets. The results of this gastronomic bonanza were evident; by the end of my stay, Ingrid had noticeably rounded out.
Yet, for all the comforts we provided, Ingrid remained fiercely independent. She was free to choose where and when she wanted to be. If our company ever lost its appeal, she’d simply saunter off in search of new excitement. Sometimes it was a passing truck that caught her interest, other times a group of wild boars meandering by. Her world extended far beyond our little community, and she relished every bit of it.
However, like any timeshare arrangement, this setup wasn’t without its drawbacks. There was no guarantee Ingrid would be waiting for me after a long day at work. Often, when I craved her comforting presence, she was nowhere to be found. She tended to follow whoever arrived home first, turning our returns into an unspoken race. Ingrid dictated the terms of her affection, deciding when she’d had enough cuddles and when it was time to leave. Come dinner time, she would often make a swift exit once the food was gone, likely off to her next “dinner date” right next door.
Control over Ingrid’s whereabouts or sleeping arrangements was impossible. None of us truly owned her, though that didn’t stop some from vying for her favor. Some even offered their beds, hoping to secure a full night of cuddles with our communal companion.
While Ingrid seemed to relish her freedom, it came at the cost of consistent protection. After our morning strolls, I’d often worry about her solitary journey home. Once, I witnessed four aggressive dogs cornered her in our alley. Surprisingly, her occasional absences didn’t cause much concern among us; we would simply assume she was with someone else. We only learned of her well-being when she reappeared, seeking food or affection.
On the surface, Ingrid appeared well-fed and exercised. But the reality was, we had no way of knowing what or how much she ate during her scavenger hunt, or how she spent her days. For all we knew, she could have been lying sick somewhere. Despite living with veterinary professionals, I’m not sure anyone kept track of her vaccination schedule. Her training, too, had lapsed with the departure of previous residents. It took me two months to discover she knew basic commands like “sit” and “paw” in exchange for treats.
In Sri Lanka, where street dogs freely roam and forage, it was surprisingly easy to let Ingrid be just that – a street dog. None of us, myself included, felt compelled to monitor every aspect of her life meticulously. More importantly, I didn’t feel an urge to change Ingrid or mold her into something she wasn’t. Perhaps we assumed others would take care of it, or maybe the lack of a physical leash loosened our sense of responsibility. Our connection to Ingrid, split among six people, might not have been as intense as a one-on-one pet relationship. Or possibly, my attention was divided among the many community dogs in our area. As a one-sixth owner, I often felt that most things were beyond my control. Ingrid was undoubtedly part of my life, but she wasn’t my entire world.
Modern, individualistic pet ownership often feels like a pursuit of perfection. Our pets become our friends, our companions, and our babies. We strive to provide them with the best care possible, aided by scientific advancements. We’ve learned optimal diets, exercise routines, grooming schedules, and training techniques. We schedule regular vet visits and even celebrate our pets’ birthdays and adoption anniversaries. While this approach captures the complete joy of pet ownership, it also places the full burden of care on a single owner or family.
In contrast, community-based ownership remains more rudimentary and practical. In Sri Lanka, Ingrid served a purpose beyond companionship, like barking at night to warn us of potential security issues. Many locals make do with what they have, feeding community dogs when they can, despite having many mouths to feed already. These dogs roam freely, facing the risks that come with that freedom. Veterinary care is typically reserved for emergencies. While the loss of a community dog is certainly mourned, there’s often another one ready to fill the void. This shared approach to dog ownership spreads the responsibilities, but also divides the joys, among many.
It’s a shift we have seen in child-rearing, where we’ve moved from the community-based approach of our parents’ generation – with children freely roaming neighborhoods and being looked after by various households – to a more individualistic model where we intensively focus resources on one or two children, confining them to arranged activities that would best position them for the future.
When my three-month stint in Sri Lanka draws to a close, I will find myself preparing for departure, packing away memories along with my belongings. Ingrid, however, will remain behind, a constant in this ever-changing volunteer landscape. Soon, a new staff member or volunteer from WECare will occupy my unit, unknowingly stepping into the role of Ingrid’s next one-sixth owner. For Ingrid, this will be yet another transition in her communal life. She may quickly bond with her new human, perhaps even more strongly than she did with me. Or she might find herself missing our familiar morning walks, the routine we’d established together. There’s no way I will ever know.
This is part III of my 3-month journey in Sri Lanka, as a volunteer for WECare Worldwide.