Memoir: Tiger the Dying Dog

A Childhood Surrounded by War

In Okinawa we had a dog named Tiger. We got him as a pup. My father wouldn’t allow him in the house so he slept under our back patio, and during the day roamed the fields behind our house. By the time he was full grown Tiger was feral and would not allow anyone to pet him. But he liked the kids in the neighborhood and would come by and watch us when we played. 

We lived on a 100-mile long island south of Japan. Our parents all worked for the U.S. Government. Their jobs supported the war in Vietnam. Fathers were diplomats, engineers, pilots, analysts, and drill sergeants. Mothers were mothers and housewives. Some, like mine, were secretaries for Colonels. Some of the younger wives were schoolteachers. Everything and everyone on the island was there for the purpose of winning the war against the communists.

We kids went to school on military bases. Our buses were waved through the gates by armed guards at security posts. We’d drive by tarmacs crammed with new helicopters and armored infantry vehicles, all neatly lined up and on their way to firebases, airfields, and bivouacs 1,500 miles southwest. We’d see soldiers at the post exchange, the base rec center, and the ice-cream stand - ubiquitous, baby-faced and unremarkable in their identical olive drab uniforms and black boots. We saw only the ones on their way to the war - the ones returning took an entirely different route.