Baboons have enormous canine teeth. I watched one yawning yesterday as it dangled lazily from the roof of our verandah. It was a long, languorous yawn, incredibly rude in company, followed by a finger straight up his nose and then to his mouth. He watched me watching him with something akin to disdain. Lying in my hammock just a few feet away, I felt suddenly vulnerable and broke his stare.

In the first few weeks of being here, the baboons taught us a lesson about having cushions on the verandah. They belong to the baboons. Period.

Despite their nonchalant busyness, picking through roots for insects, endlessly grooming each other and having wanton but brief sex, the baboons make surprise incursions into the house. Twice, one has run into the kitchen where my Husband had been slaving away over his IPad. By the time my Husband looked up from his screen, the scoundrel had left the building with a bag of bread and, on the second occasion, a large glass jar of pasta, which it thoughtfully smashed on the way out.

Thanks to all the wildlife we share our home with, keeping the dog alive has become a full time occupation. My Husband and I share this task more or less equally: I am more vigilant and he is less so. Beau is my beloved Hungarian Vizsla, so named because he is my very handsome admirer. He is my shadow and my best pal. I agonised over whether he would cope in his middle age with the long journey that would take 3 aircraft and 24 hours. But he wasn’t doing well in my daughter’s busy household with three young children. You can’t ask a dog what he wants, you just have to make a decision and hope you can live with yourself. The decision was made, and Beau has settled in brilliantly despite the temperature topping 40 degrees at times (vizsla’s famously hate being cold). I don’t often think about the 4x4 vehicle I could have bought for the cost of his flight. The only trouble is, there are so many things here that will kill him.

Since the rains started a few weeks ago, the once-dry lagoon has filled with water. And hippos. And crocodiles. The hippos, grumpy and extremely dangerous, blunder about on the bank, grazing, before hefting themselves into the water to cool down. The crocs sunbathe on the bank where just a few weeks ago we walked Beau in the cool early mornings before the rains came. Even these relatively safe walks were somewhat adrenalin-filled as we looked out for elephants. They can be extremely quiet and surprisingly difficult to see. I know of a man here – a trained bush scout – who died with his pants down and a gun in his hand because he didn’t see the elephant when he was caught short on a game drive. The poor guy was taken completely by surprise and didn’t even have time to adjust himself before being gored by an angry tusker. Tragedies like this are not as rare as you’d hope.

*It’s easy to be surprised by an elephant…*

So my Husband and I walked Beau each morning across the dry lagoon like a pair of hapless fugitives, glancing around nervously, twitching and flinching at every dry leaf moving in the breeze, each with our own private plans for an escape route should we be taken by surprise. My loving Husband also rather bravely but pointlessly carried a slingshot and a long bamboo pole, just in case he needed to pull a ninja move to defend me. Would I die laughing?

Bearing our limited options in mind, we kept Beau close. My Husband kept me closer.

Now the lagoon is full of water, Beau’s walks are restricted to the short stretch of dirt road between our house and the tarmac road. We have to time them carefully – too early and there’s a good chance the hippos and elephants will still be around. Leave it until 9am or later and it will be blisteringly hot. After about 17:00 hours you need to consider whether the leopards will be getting active. Just a week ago, my neighbour had her cat taken by a leopard. It was only 19:00hrs and she saw it run off with her friend of 16 years in its mouth. And I know someone here that had her dog killed by a leopard while the dog was on the end of a lead. I don’t think she has ever recovered. I don’t think I’ve recovered from hearing of it.

*Beau wondering what’s out there in the dark….?*

Whatever time of day we walk Beau, we have to consider tsetse flies and baboons. Of the two, the tsetse flies are the greatest threat, as they carry the deadly sleeping sickness or African trypanosomiasis (or Surra). The flies have a nasty bite on humans too, but it’s extremely rare for humans to contract the disease. The bite feels like a needle-stab (even through clothing) and if you’re like me, you’ll scratch and curse for a week.

In dogs, ‘tryp’ is fatal if it’s not caught early. Vigilance is key. It’s recommended you check for fever regularly. A new skill we’ve learned is how to stick a thermometer up Beau’s bottom without being bitten. This is a two-person procedure and requires rather a lot of cheese.

After an action packed day of Keeping the Dog Alive, we usually sleep like teenagers, with the frogs and cicadas providing the soundtrack for our dreams. Bedtime is early, around 9pm, because we have a 5am alarm call.

Just before sunrise, baboons are filled with boundless joie de vivre, presumably at finding themselves still alive. They celebrate by staging a mini Olympic games on our tin roof. The cutest big-eared babies cling tight as their mothers attempt the long jump, leaping with gay abandon across a twenty or thirty foot gap from a branch to our roof. Older males excel at the hurdles across our solar panels, with extra points given for disconnecting a cable en route or leaving a turd on the glass. Juveniles act as the cheerleaders, leaping from roof to branch, from branch to roof, and back again, until a fight breaks out and then it’s all teeth and fur and harrowing screams of pain and indignation. As the games continue overhead, my Husband and I cower beneath our cotton sheets, wondering what we’ll do when one of the athletes smashes through the paper-thin roof. During their quieter moments, perhaps as an après-sport relaxation, we’ve noticed our lively house guests fastidiously picking out the nails holding the roof together. One day the roof will indeed collapse and we’ll have the option of a very dirty threesome.

When it’s finally quiet and we think the baboons have moved away, we cautiously open the front door to inspect the damage and soak up the Zambian morning sunshine. And then Beau dashes out for his breakfast - hoovering up the baboon shit faster than you can say ‘Bongwe!’ *

Beau seems happily oblivious to all the dangers that Africa poses to a molly-coddled western dog (we haven’t even talked about snakes and scorpions yet!). All the new smells and sounds must blow his mind. Keeping him safe is a constant challenge and I hope we’re up to it. But because he’s with us, he seems happy. This is home because we are here. How simple is that? He doesn’t agonise over whether he’s done the right thing, or whether he should do this, or say that. He just lives in the present.

Right now, looking out of my window as another thunderstorm breaks over the lagoon, I think Zambia has helped me to live more in the present. I could be mauled by a leopard tomorrow, or surprised by an elephant early one morning, or taken down with malaria when I least expect it. This place might be the death of me, but here I am fully alive, home, open to all the possibilities in the universe, feeling grateful to be here in this extraordinary place.

* Bongwe is the local slang for Baboon

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