{"product_id":"dont-lets-go-to-the-dogs-tonight-isbn-9780375758997","title":"Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • \u003cb\u003eA worthy heir to Isak Dinesen and Beryl Markham, Alexandra Fuller shares visceral memories of her childhood in Africa, and of her headstrong, unforgettable mother.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“This is not a book you read just once, but a tale of terrible beauty to get lost in over and over.”—\u003ci\u003eNewsweek\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e“By turns mischievous and openhearted, earthy and soaring . . . hair-raising, horrific, and thrilling.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Though it is a  diary of an unruly life in an often inhospitable place, \u003ci\u003eDon’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight\u003c\/i\u003e is suffused with Fuller’s endearing ability to find laughter, even when there is little to celebrate. Fuller’s debut is unsentimental and unflinching but always captivating. In wry and sometimes  hilarious prose, she stares down disaster and looks back with rage and love at the  life of an extraordinary family in an extraordinary time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From 1972 to 1990, Alexandra  Fuller—known to friends and family as Bobo—grew up on several farms in southern and  central Africa. Her father joined up on the side of the white government in the Rhodesian  civil war, and was often away fighting against the powerful black guerilla factions.  Her mother, in turn, flung herself at their African life and its rugged farm work  with the same passion and maniacal energy she brought to everything else. Though  she loved her children, she was no hand-holder and had little tolerance for neediness.  She nurtured her daughters in other ways: She taught them, by example, to be resilient  and self-sufficient, to have strong wills and strong opinions, and to embrace life  wholeheartedly, despite and because of difficult circumstances. And she instilled  in Bobo, particularly, a love of reading and of storytelling that proved to be her  salvation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexandra Fuller writes  poignantly about a girl becoming a woman and a writer against a backdrop of unrest,  not just in her country but in her home. But \u003ci\u003eDon’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight\u003c\/i\u003e is  more than a survivor’s story. It is the story of one woman’s unbreakable bond with  a continent and the people who inhabit it, a portrait lovingly realized and deeply  felt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eDon’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Riveting . . . [full of] humor and compassion.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eO: The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“The incredible story of an incredible childhood.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“This is not a book you read just once, but a tale of terrible beauty to get lost in over and over.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNewsweek\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “By turns mischievous and openhearted, earthy and soaring . . . hair-raising, horrific, and thrilling.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The Africa of this beautiful book is not easy to forget. Despite, or maybe even because of, the snakes, the leopards, the malaria and the sheer craziness of its human inhabitants, often violent but pulsing with life, it seems like a fine place to grow up, at least if you are as strong, passionate, sharp and gifted as Alexandra Fuller.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eChicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Owning a great story doesn’t guarantee being able to tell it well. That’s the individual mystery of talent, a gift with which Alexandra Fuller is richly blessed, and with which she illuminates her extraordinary memoir. . . . There’s flavor, aroma, humor, patience . . . and pinpoint observational acuity.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This is a joyously telling memoir that evokes Mary Karr’s \u003ci\u003eThe Liars’ Club\u003c\/i\u003e as much as it does Isak Dinesen’s \u003ci\u003eOut of Africa\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—New York\u003ci\u003e Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Riveting . . . [full of] humor and compassion.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eO: The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “The incredible story of an incredible childhood.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Fuller’s look back at her early life in an English family at the violent tail end of colonialism is sad and hilarious.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eAlexandra Fuller\u003c\/b\u003e was born in England in 1969. In 1972 she moved with her family to  a farm in Rhodesia. After that country’s civil war in 1981, the Fullers moved first  to Malawi, then to Zambia. Fuller received a B.A. from Acadia University in Nova  Scotia, Canada. In 1994, she moved to Wyoming, where she still lives. Fuller is the author of several memoirs, including \u003ci\u003eTravel Light, Move Fast\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eLeaving Before the Rains Come\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eCocktail Hour Under the Tree of Forgetfulness. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003erhodesia, 1976\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum says, \"Don't come creeping into our room at night.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey sleep with loaded guns beside them on the bedside rugs. She \u003cbr\u003esays, \"Don't startle us when we're sleeping.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why not?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We might shoot you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"By mistake.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Okay.\" As it is, there seems a good enough chance of getting shot on \u003cbr\u003epurpose. \"Okay, I won't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo if I wake in the night and need Mum and Dad, I call Vanessa, \u003cbr\u003ebecause she isn't armed. \"Van! Van, hey!\" I hiss across the room \u003cbr\u003euntil she wakes up. And then Van has to light a candle and escort me \u003cbr\u003eto the loo, where I pee sleepily into the flickering yellow light and \u003cbr\u003eVan keeps the candle high, looking for snakes and scorpions and \u003cbr\u003ebaboon spiders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum won't kill snakes because she says they help to keep the rats \u003cbr\u003edown (but she rescued a nest of baby mice from the barns and left \u003cbr\u003ethem to grow in my cupboard, where they ate holes in the family's \u003cbr\u003ewinter jerseys). Mum won't kill scorpions either; she catches them \u003cbr\u003eand lets them go free in the pool and Vanessa and I have to rake the \u003cbr\u003epool before we can swim. We fling the scorps as far as we can across \u003cbr\u003ethe brown and withering lawn, chase the ducks and geese out, and then \u003cbr\u003elower ourselves gingerly into the pool, whose sides wave green and \u003cbr\u003elong and soft and grasping with algae. And Mum won't kill spiders \u003cbr\u003ebecause she says it will bring bad luck.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI tell her, \"I'd say we have pretty rotten luck as it is.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Then think how much worse it would be if we killed spiders.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have my feet off the floor when I pee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hurry up, man.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Okay, okay.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's like Victoria Falls.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I really had to go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI have been holding my pee for a long, long time and staring out the \u003cbr\u003ewindow to try and guess how close it is to morning. Maybe I could \u003cbr\u003ehold it until morning. But then I notice that it is the \u003cbr\u003edeep-black-sky quiet time of night, which is the halfway time between \u003cbr\u003ethe sun setting and the sun rising when even the night animals are \u003cbr\u003equiet-as if they, like day animals, take a break in the middle of \u003cbr\u003etheir work to rest. I can't hear Vanessa breathing; she has gone into \u003cbr\u003eher deep middle-of-the-night silence. Dad is not snoring nor is he \u003cbr\u003eshouting in his sleep. The baby is still in her crib but the smell of \u003cbr\u003eher is warm and animal with wet nappy. It will be a long time until \u003cbr\u003emorning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Vanessa hands me the candle-\"You keep boogies for me now\"-and she pees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"See, you had to go, too.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Only 'cos you had to.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a hot breeze blowing through the window, the cold sinking \u003cbr\u003enight air shifting the heat of the day up. The breeze has trapped \u003cbr\u003emidday scents; the prevalent cloying of\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ethe leach field, the green soap which has spilled out from the \u003cbr\u003elaundry and landed on the patted-down red earth, the wood smoke from \u003cbr\u003ethe fires that heat our water, the boiled-meat smell of dog food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe debate the merits of flushing the loo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We shouldn't waste the water.\" Even when there isn't a drought we \u003cbr\u003ecan't waste water, just in case one day there is a drought. Anyway, \u003cbr\u003eDad has said, \"Steady on with the loo paper, you kids. And don't \u003cbr\u003eflush the bloody loo all the time. The leach field can't handle it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But that's two pees in there.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"So? It's only pee.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Agh sis, man, but it'll be smelly by tomorrow. And you peed as much \u003cbr\u003eas a horse.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's not my fault.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You can flush.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're taller.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'll hold the candle.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVan holds the candle high. I lower the toilet lid, stand on it and \u003cbr\u003elift up the block of hardwood that covers the cistern, and reach down \u003cbr\u003efor the chain. Mum has glued a girlie-magazine picture to this block \u003cbr\u003eof hardwood: a blond woman in few clothes, with breasts like naked \u003cbr\u003ecow udders, and she's all arched in a strange pouty contortion, like \u003cbr\u003eshe's got backache. Which maybe she has, from the weight of the \u003cbr\u003eudders. The picture is from Scope magazine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe aren't allowed to look at Scope magazine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Because we aren't those sorts of people,\" says Mum.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But we have a picture from Scope magazine on the loo lid.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's a joke.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh.\" And then, \"What sort of joke?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stop twittering on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pause. \"What sort of people are we, then?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"We have breeding,\" says Mum firmly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh.\" Like the dairy cows and our special expensive bulls (who are \u003cbr\u003enamed Humani, Jack, and Bulawayo).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Which is better than having money,\" she adds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look at her sideways, considering for a moment. \"I'd rather have \u003cbr\u003emoney than breeding,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum says, \"Anyone can have money.\" As if it's something you might \u003cbr\u003epick up from the public toilets in OK Bazaar Grocery Store in Umtali.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ja, but we don't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum sighs. \"I'm trying to read, Bobo.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Can you read to me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum sighs again. \"All right,\" she says, \"just one chapter.\" But it is \u003cbr\u003eteatime before we look up from The Prince and the Pauper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe loo gurgles and splutters, and then a torrent of water shakes \u003cbr\u003edown, spilling slightly over the bowl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sis, man,\" says Vanessa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou never know what you're going to get with this loo. Sometimes it \u003cbr\u003erefuses to flush at all and other times it's like this, water on your \u003cbr\u003efeet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI follow Vanessa back to the bedroom. The way candlelight falls, \u003cbr\u003ewe're walking into blackness, blinded by the flame of the candle, \u003cbr\u003eunable to see our feet. So at the same moment we get the creeps, the \u003cbr\u003eneck-prickling terrorist-under-the-bed creeps, and we abandon \u003cbr\u003eourselves to fear. The candle blows out. We skid into our room and \u003cbr\u003eleap for the beds, our feet quickly tucked under us. We're both \u003cbr\u003epanting, feeling foolish, trying to calm our breathing as if we \u003cbr\u003eweren't scared at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVanessa says, \"There's a terrorist under your bed, I can see him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"No you can't, how can you see him? The candle's out.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Struze fact.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I start to cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jeez, I'm only joking.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI cry harder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Shhh, man. You'll wake up Olivia. You'll wake up Mum and Dad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich is what I'm trying to do, without being shot. I want everyone \u003cbr\u003eawake and noisy to chase away the terrorist-under-my-bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Here,\" she says, \"you can sleep with Fred if you stop crying.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I stop crying and Vanessa pads over the bare cement floor and \u003cbr\u003ebrings me the cat, fast asleep in a snail-circle on her arms. She \u003cbr\u003eputs him on the pillow and I put an arm over the vibrating, purring \u003cbr\u003ebody. Fred finds my earlobe and starts to suck. He's always sucked \u003cbr\u003eour earlobes. Our hair is sucked into thin, slimy, knotted ropes near \u003cbr\u003ethe ears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum says, \"No wonder you have worms all the time.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI lie with my arms over the cat, awake and waiting. African dawn, \u003cbr\u003enoisy with animals and the servants and Dad waking up and a tractor \u003cbr\u003ecoughing into life somewhere down at the workshop, clutters into the \u003cbr\u003eroom. The bantam hens start to crow and stretch, tumbling out of \u003cbr\u003etheir roosts in the tree behind the bathroom to peck at the \u003cbr\u003ereflection of themselves in the window. Mum comes in smelling of \u003cbr\u003eVicks VapoRub and tea and warm bed and scoops the sleeping baby up to \u003cbr\u003eher shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI can hear July setting tea on the veranda and I can smell the first, \u003cbr\u003efresh singe of Dad's morning cigarette. I balance Fred on my shoulder \u003cbr\u003eand come out for tea: strong with no sugar, a splash of milk, the way \u003cbr\u003eMum likes it. Fred has a saucer of milk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Morning, Chookies,\" says Dad, not looking at me, smoking. He is \u003cbr\u003elooking far off into the hills, where the border between Rhodesia and \u003cbr\u003eMozambique melts blue-gray, even in the pre-hazy clear of early \u003cbr\u003emorning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Morning, Dad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sleep all right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like a log,\" I tell him. \"You?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDad grunts, stamps out his cigarette, drains his teacup, balances his \u003cbr\u003ebush hat on his head, and strides out into the yard to make the most \u003cbr\u003eof the little chill the night has left us with which to fight the \u003cbr\u003egathering soupy heat of day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003egetting there:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ezambia, 1987\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo begin with, before Independence, I am at school with white \u003cbr\u003echildren only. \"A\" schools, they are called: superior schools with \u003cbr\u003ethe best teachers and facilities. The black children go to \"C\" \u003cbr\u003eschools. In-between children who are neither black nor white (Indian \u003cbr\u003eor a mixture of races) go to \"B\" schools.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Indians and coloureds (who are neither completely this nor \u003cbr\u003ecompletely that) and blacks are allowed into my school the year I \u003cbr\u003eturn eleven, when the war is over. The blacks laugh at me when they \u003cbr\u003esee me stripped naked after swimming or tennis, when my shoulders and \u003cbr\u003earms are angry sunburnt red.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Argh! I smell roasting pork!\" they shriek.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Who fried the bacon?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Burning piggy!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy God, I am the wrong color. The way I am burned by the sun, \u003cbr\u003escorched by flinging sand, prickled by heat. The way my skin erupts \u003cbr\u003ein miniature volcanoes of protest in the presence of tsetse flies, \u003cbr\u003emosquitoes, ticks. The way I stand out against the khaki bush like a \u003cbr\u003elarge marshmallow to a gook with a gun. White. African. White-African.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But what are you?\" I am asked over and over again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Where are you from originally?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI began then, embarking from a hot, dry boat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBlinking bewildered from the sausage-gut of a train.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eArriving in Rhodesia, Africa. From Derbyshire, England. I was two \u003cbr\u003eyears old, startled and speaking toddler English. Lungs shocked by \u003cbr\u003ethick, hot, humid air. Senses crushed under the weight of so many \u003cbr\u003estimuli.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI say, \"I'm African.\" But not black.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I say, \"I was born in England,\" by mistake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut, \"I have lived in Rhodesia (which is now Zimbabwe) and in Malawi \u003cbr\u003e(which used to be Nyasaland) and in Zambia (which used to be Northern \u003cbr\u003eRhodesia).\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I add, \"Now I live in America,\" through marriage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd (full disclosure), \"But my parents were born of Scottish and \u003cbr\u003eEnglish parents.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat does that make me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum doesn't know who she is, either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stayed up all night once listening to Scottish music and crying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This music\"-her nose twitches-\"is so beautiful. It makes me homesick.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum has lived in Africa all but three years of her life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But this is your home.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"But my heart\"-Mum attempts to thump her chest-\"is Scottish.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh, fergodsake. \"You hated England,\" I point out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum nods, her head swinging, like a chicken with a broken neck. \u003cbr\u003e\"You're right,\" she says. \"But I love Scotland.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What,\" I ask, challenging, \"do you love about Scotland?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh the . . . the . . .\" Mum frowns at me, checks to see if I'm \u003cbr\u003etricking her. \"The music,\" she says at last, and starts to weep \u003cbr\u003eagain. Mum hates Scotland. She hates drunk-driving laws and the cold. \u003cbr\u003eThe cold makes her cry, and then she comes down with malaria.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer eyes are half-mast. That's what my sister and I call it when Mum \u003cbr\u003eis drunk and her eyelids droop. Half-mast eyes. Like the flag at the \u003cbr\u003epost office whenever someone important dies, which in Zambia, with \u003cbr\u003eone thing and another, is every other week. Mum stares out at the \u003cbr\u003ehome paddocks where the cattle are coming in for their evening water \u003cbr\u003eto the trough near the stables. The sun is full and heavy over the \u003cbr\u003ehills that describe the Zambia-Zaire border. \"Have a drink with me, \u003cbr\u003eBobo,\" she offers. She tries to pat the chair next to hers, misses, \u003cbr\u003eand feebly slaps the air, her arm like a broken wing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI shake my head. Ordinarily I don't mind getting softly drunk next to \u003cbr\u003ethe slowly collapsing heap that is Mum, but I have to go back to \u003cbr\u003eboarding school the next day, nine hours by pickup across the border \u003cbr\u003eto Zimbabwe. \"I need to pack, Mum.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat afternoon Mum had spent hours wrapping thirty feet of electric \u003cbr\u003ewire around the trees in the garden so that she could pick up the \u003cbr\u003eWorld Service of the BBC. The signature tune crackled over the \u003cbr\u003esyrup-yellow four o'clock light just as the sun was starting to hang \u003cbr\u003eabove the top of the msasa trees. \" 'Lillibulero,' \" Mum said. \u003cbr\u003e\"That's Irish.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're not Irish,\" I pointed out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, \"Never said I was.\" And then, follow-on thought, \"Where's \u003cbr\u003ethe whisky?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe must have heard \"Lillibulero\" thousands of times. Maybe millions. \u003cbr\u003eBefore and after every news broadcast. At the top of every hour. \u003cbr\u003eSpluttering with static over the garden at home; incongruous from the \u003cbr\u003ebranches of acacia trees in campsites we have set up in the bush \u003cbr\u003eacross the countryside; singing from the bathroom in the evening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut you never know what will set Mum off. Maybe it was \"Lillibulero\" \u003cbr\u003ecoinciding with the end of the afternoon, which is a rich, sweet, \u003cbr\u003ecooling, melancholy time of day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Your Dad was English originally,\" I tell her, not liking the way \u003cbr\u003ethis is going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe said, \"It doesn't count. Scottish blood cancels English blood.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time she has drunk a quarter of a bottle of whisky, we have \u003cbr\u003elost reception from Bush House in London and the radio hisses to \u003cbr\u003eitself from under its fringe of bougainvillea. Mum has pulled out her \u003cbr\u003eold Scottish records. There are three of them. Three records of men \u003cbr\u003ein kilts playing bagpipes. The photographs show them marching blindly \u003cbr\u003e(how do they see under those dead-bear hats?) down misty Scottish \u003cbr\u003ecobbled streets, their faces completely blocked by their massive \u003cbr\u003einstruments. Mum turns the music up as loud as it will go, takes the \u003cbr\u003ewhisky out to the veranda, and sits cross-legged on a picnic chair, \u003cbr\u003ehumming and staring out at the night-blanketed farm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis cross-leggedness is a hangover from the brief period in Mum's \u003cbr\u003elife when she took up yoga from a book. Which was better than the \u003cbr\u003ebrief period in her life in which she explored the possibility of \u003cbr\u003econverting to the Jehovah's Witnesses. And better than the time she \u003cbr\u003ebought a book on belly-dancing at a rummage sale and tried out her \u003cbr\u003etechniques on every bar north of the Limpopo River and south of the \u003cbr\u003eequator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe horses shuffle restlessly in their stables. The night apes scream \u003cbr\u003efrom the tops of the shimmering-leafed msasa trees. The dogs set up \u003cbr\u003ein a chorus of barking and will not stop until we put them inside, \u003cbr\u003eall except Mum's faithful spaniel, who will not leave her side even \u003cbr\u003ewhen she's throwing what Dad calls a wobbly. Which is what this is: a \u003cbr\u003ewobbly. The radio hisses and occasionally, drunkenly, bursts into \u003cbr\u003esnatches of song (Spanish or Portuguese) or chatters in German, in \u003cbr\u003eAfrikaans, or in an exaggerated American accent. \"This is the Voice \u003cbr\u003eof America.\" And then it swoops, \"Beee-ooooeee!\"[quote]--Newsweek National bestseller","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300449538277,"sku":"NP9780375758997","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375758997.jpg?v=1767725522","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/dont-lets-go-to-the-dogs-tonight-isbn-9780375758997","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}