Goanetters annual year-end meet is on Dec 27, 2010 (Monday) from 4-6 pm at
Institute Piedade (near Hotel Mandovi, opp Bread & More) in Panjim. Do come
along. RSVP via SMS 9822122436, [email protected] or 2409490 (after 2 pm).
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Who the Bleep cares about a dog? By Selma Carvalho
Source: Goan Voice UK Daily Newsletter, 26 Dec 2010 at www.goanvoice.org.uk
103. Who the Bleep cares about a dog?
For the past month I can't stop thinking about that mutt Spike, named by my
brother after the infamous dog in the Tom and Jerry cartoons. For thirteen
years he lived with us and then he died. He didn't die a long lingering
death, where we watched him breathe his last in the bosom of our family;
buried him in our backyard which he had guarded all those years; mourned for
him as we put sand over his brown, slick coat, which my father always
insisted was that of a Doberman and my brother always said was of a common
mongrel. No, the miserable mutt had the audacity to spare us that pain. He
ran away from home and never came back. We knew he was dead because he had
an inoperable tumour right near his tail for some years. And now I can't
stop thinking about him.
Even though he was a family dog, he was my mother's dog really. He adopted
her from day one. He seldom left her side. Nor did he let anyone else near
her. Even her own children had to be granted permission by him to hug her.
Or else you'd suddenly find a rather large dog, snarling at you as dogs do
with their fangs bared and eyes all ferocious - as if he'd leapt straight
out of a Stephen King book.
He hated kids - the neighbour kids, grand-kids, any kids that came to the
house. Because it took my mother's attention away from him and he couldn't
bear that. In all the thirteen years, he lived with us, I'd never seen him
be kind to a kid except that once. I caught him licking the face of a
four-year old in our garden, tugging at her dress, and acting like he was
the happiest dog in the world. I wondered if he knew what we all knew, that
she had cancer. Perhaps in his own way he was trying to relieve her from
that heavy melancholy which hangs over the world of grown-ups, when there is
a terminal illness diagnosed in children. She died six months later.
When I was pregnant, he's lie on my lap and listen to my stomach. I couldn't
help thinking that he was listening to the life growing inside me. Perhaps a
heartbeat, perhaps the swish of water in my womb, perhaps the tiny sighs of
breathing inside me; a human being becoming a child. Somehow Spike's life
was richer than mine. He already knew things that I didn't know about.
The only time, that mutt left the house as he grew old and the cancer had
sapped all the life out of him, was to follow my father on his walks.
Strangely enough he knew exactly where my father wanted to go. If you saw
them in the soft lighting of early evening, when a touch of darkness
obscures the view and makes us see things differently, you'd say there was a
dog taking a man out for a walk. They say dogs are so connected to their
owners, they can read their minds. I believe that.
When my parent's children had grown and left the house, Spike remained with
them, a constant reminder they had once raised kids together. Now that the
house is empty and my parents are alone and we kids have lives of our own,
and the telephone is the only way to reach out to them, I can't help
thinking of Spike. He loved them so much; he loved us all so much. He was a
good ambassador of love and loyalty; such a role model for us human beings
as we celebrate Christmas.
Feliz Navidade to you all.
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