Moroccan dog rescue - Part One

Image credits - Nina Athill

Back in 2017, I visited Morocco for the second time with a friend, Molly.

We were staying with her grandparents in their apartment in Essaouira, spending most of our days lounging on the beach and wandering the streets of the souk, and most of the nights doing much of the same (and finding late-night food).

Image credits - Nina Athill

Towards the end of our week there, we drove a few hours down to Imsouane, a little surfing town in the middle of nowhere. I immediately fell in love with the place, and Molly and I unpacked our bits into the boat-on-a-cliff that we'd be sleeping in before making our way down to the town proper.

On our way, we came across three puppies chewing on a bit of garden hose that was slowly leaking a trickle of water into the dusty ground. Of course (because how could we not) bent down to say hello to them, and they ceased their chewing to nuzzle into us, tails wags and little teeth chewing our hands.

One in particular, the biggest of the three, hung back a little before approaching us. She was shy and leggy, her limbs gangly like a little deer. It was love at first sight (for both of us!).

She followed us around the town for the rest of our stay, sleeping on my lap, insisting on being carried, finding a comfy spot to rest her head on my shoulder and bounding up to me whenever I called her.

Morocco has a pretty big problem with stray dogs (and cats) and, unfortunately, some smaller areas still cull the animals. One of the ways they do this is by leaving out poisoned meat, which one of the three puppies ate while we were there.

Without going into the horrible details, she became very sick. The idea of leaving the big gangly one behind, knowing that she would likely meet a similar fate, was horrible.

When we were due to leave, she watched us pack up and go and I knew what I had to do.

Molly and I spent the next 24 hours ill but, between bouts of sickness, I trawled through Facebook to try and find anyone who could help me with the plan I was trying to hatch.

By some crazy stroke of luck, someone tagged someone else in a post I'd shared in an ExPat group, and I got in touch with a woman who knew a woman who fostered dogs while they waited for the necessary documentation to leave the country.

The first woman offered to drive me back to Imsouane before dropping me and the puppy (provided I could find her again) with her friend (who'd agreed to foster her for the next few months until she was allowed into the UK, following a number of vet appointments and a lot of paperwork).

Image credits - Molly Young

The next morning, much to Molly's horror, I met the woman and her (other) friend (who'd actually be doing the driving) in the car park of Essaouira's Carrefour.

'You can come with us,' the woman said to Molly, 'But we only have three seats, so you'd have to sit in the back of the van...'

Molly took photos of the van and its number plate, got the woman's contact details and told her in no uncertain terms to keep her updated on our whereabouts - because I had no data.

The three of us set off, and I watched as Molly grew smaller and smaller in the wing mirror as we left her behind.

The drive was a few hours long, and I can't remember what we spoke about - the woman spoke French and a bit of English, her friend spoke Arabic and a bit of French, and I spoke only English. Somehow, we did chat, and thankfully all got on pretty well.

After some rather hairy roads and inclines, through sandy landscape dotted with Argan trees and goats, we reached Imsouane.

I made a beeline for the main square in the town, asking everyone I came across if they'd seen the puppy. I held up my phone to them, showing photos of her. Unfortunately, Moroccan strays, called Beldis, all look pretty similar.

No one had any information on her, except one man who said she'd been killed and taken off to the rubbish dump that morning. I refused to believe him, sure, in some strange way, that I'd know if she wasn't alive.

I ran up and down the cliffs, looking everywhere I could, for hours. As I was making my final way down, deflated and sad, I asked what seemed like the last man in the town if he'd seen her. As he was shaking his head, something small and leggy and furry bounded up the cliff, tongue lolling out and mouth pulled into a canine grin.

Image credits - Nina Athill

I scooped her up and made my sweaty way back down to the van, the puppy clinging onto me as she was carried to a new life.

On the drive back, now with the puppy and a tiny ginger kitten in tow, we stopped off at a petrol station the woman had been past before, home to a puppy who'd been too scared to come near her. After some coaxing, she finally came close enough for us to catch her. She and my puppy curled up in the footwell of the van, and then we were on our way back to Essaouira, surrounded by these three strays who were about to be introduced to a completely new life and family.

The woman's house was home to a lot of other stray dogs, cats, and horses, and we stopped off briefly to administer some flea and tick treatment to my puppy before continuing on to the foster home.

After a lot of reassurance that my puppy would be well-fed and looked after, it was time for me to leave her with the foster family. It was heartbreaking to say goodbye, for me at least - she’d almost immediately fallen asleep in the grass, her tummy round from the meal she'd just scoffed.

She'd be living alongside a few other foster dogs, one fairly close to her in age, and the woman who'd be looking after her was clearly a fellow animal lover.

While I knew she'd be ok and I'd be back in a few months, it was still so stressful to drive away and leave her with these strangers (even after the whole day had proved that some strangers really are ok).

I was dropped off in the Carrefour car park, said goodbye to the woman and her friend, and promised to stay in touch over the next few months.

Molly and I left for London the next day, and landed to a few photos of my puppy in her new temporary home - her first vet appointments were booked, and she'd already taken a shine to a particular armchair.

She was so small and skinny, but she looked happy and it settled my nerves and uncertainties to see the photos.

And with that, I was home and planning for the next few months was in full swing.

I named the puppy Zizzi - short for Aziza, meaning 'beloved' in Arabic. It seemed only fitting that she had an Arabic name, and one that meant she was eternally loved.

Image credits - Chantal