It’s amazing what you get used to. I was flicking through my text messages the other day when I found one from an American friend living here. "Hey, nothing much happening at my place. We slaughtered a sheep this morning and had it for lunch. Things are pretty quiet."

Over these past two years, I feel I’ve adapted to quite a lot of cultural - and practical - norms in Dakar.

Not handing over objects with my left hand (the hand which is seen as impure). Washing out of a bucket of cold water because the water’s off (yet again). Keeping PDAs (Public Displays of Affection) in the street down to a minimum.

But, however long I stay here, there are certain things I will never get used to and will never accept. Polygamy for one thing (!) Another...the stunning lack of anything vaguely resembling animal rights.

Animals are ever present in Dakar life. From the herds of horned cattle who hold up main road traffic as they lumber towards their chosen destination, to the hundreds of teeny tiny froglets who hop into life every Rainy Season and bound around (albeit in teeny tiny leaps) my place of work.

There are the chickens who sit forlornly at the market stalls with their feet tied together, and some who are plucked alive.

There are the horses with protruding ribs who strain to pull a cart which is too heavy.

I’ve been known to shout out at unsuspecting cart drivers “Stop hitting that horse!” I just can’t bear to see it.

Cats are shooed away or stones thrown at them, as many Senegalese people think they are malignant spirits.

Then there are the particularly sadistic young men who have come up with the trick of imprisoning sparrows in a wood and wire box...and approaching Toubabs (or other ‘tourists’) to ask for money in exchange for their freedom.

You can imagine my reaction to this hostage taking with an ornithological twist... I know that poverty can push people to some desperate lengths...but surely there’s a limit?

One conversation I had with a taxi driver says a lot. A sheep had wandered in front of the car. A chap approaches to shoo it forward (you’d think). But no, he grabs a hind leg and yanks it backwards.

Me: "In my country you can go to prison for hurting animals."

Taxi driver: "Oh."

Me: "Animals feel things too.

Taxi driver: "Really?

Me: "They have rights, you know."

Taxi driver: "No, no, no."

I went AWOL for a while before Christmas. The feast of Tabaski, at the end of November, had just been all too much for me.

Slaughtering sheep is a fixture at a number of festivals, but Tabaski is THE sheep day of the year – a time to commemorate when Abraham offered to kill his son Isaac for God...but a ram appeared in his place.

In the run-up to the big day hundreds and hundreds of the poor souls start to assemble around the city, tethered or penned in on any spare land, blissfully ignorant that it’s soon to be ‘baa chop’.

The family downstairs had their pretty impressive fella tied up in the backyard.

Each time I’d see him (or smell him!) from my bedroom window, bleating balefully, I had a sick feeling in my stomach, all too aware of his impending fate.

At least he didn’t know what was happening. Or did he..?

On Tabaski morning there’s an eerie silence and, in parts, the streets literally run with blood.

Twice I’d accepted invitations to share in a family’s celebration. To see the carcass being meticulously cut up; to eat the freshly grilled meat; to learn from these alien traditions and experiences. But my third Tabaski...I boycotted it.

I took myself off to the south of the country, to a region called Casamance.

At its worst it’s a place known for separatist guerrilla violence, but at its best it’s a paradise of lush greenery and traditional mud huts; an African countryside idyll.

And, of course, an abundance of animals and birds. Monkeys would dash out onto the road and scarper into the long grasses.

Chickens would peer into the cooking pot, trying to get a peck of rice.

At night, a goat and her kids slept, propped up against the outside toilet.

One day, washing clothes at the standpipe, I got the feeling I was being watched. I turned round slowly. A pair of wild pigs, with their long, tough snouts, were eyeing me with interest.

It’s not like I’m vegetarian though. Yes, I eat pork and I eat chicken. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite?

I just know there are some ‘ways of the world’ which are evident here in Africa that I need to turn a blind eye to, to shelter my sensitive soul.

The thought of seeing – and ‘getting to know’ – the animal you will later eat is unfathomable to me. But maybe that’s because I’ve had the luxury for it not to be a necessity.