Rest in peace, dear friend

  I love dogs. Especially stray dogs, since one wouldn’t fit in my house. A cat ended up being the fitting partner on an “asocial life”, but every day when I went to and came back from my walks in the morning, a few dogs would always be there to play with me, homeless dogs with no name and a happy face, playing with trash and each other, chasing cats and other small animals, barking at the disgraceful drunks that would throw bottles at them and scream so loud in the middle of the night that the poorly paid day-workers would throw bottles at them. Those dogs did not live a perfect life, never required to, never been offered to, but they were happy, making a handful of new puppies every year, a group that had an awful survival rate, either being killed by unaware cars or people or horses, or tortured to death by uncaring teenagers. Even though Mama Dog always did what she could to prevent the worse, almost all pups went to heaven early, and when they were all gone she would lay around sad all day everyday, in a way not even the treats and petting or the playfulness of the other dogs helped. I saw this cycle repeat a few times, and never did anything to prevent it; it is always preferable to let nature do her thing.

 Besides Mama there were other four: Leviathan, Roberts, Washington and Chicago. Leviathan was the big boy, the leader and protector of the bunch, also Mama’s brother and father of her kids. He hunted for food and always got two biscuits from me; a beautiful black dog with white paws, just like the rest of the family. Washington and Chicago were the only puppies that survived out of 18, and now with two years of age were the coolest dogs on the block, running left and right from dawn to dusk, never getting tired and always begging for more treats. And Roberts, well, Roberts was my favorite. In contrast with the other similar ones, he was a white poodle that turned brown from rolling on the dirt road all day. He was the only one with an actual home and a collar, but spent countless nights without anyone letting him inside.  When that happened he would sleep with the other dogs in the abandoned house until about 04:00AM, when their days started. Roberts followed me jumping around from my house to the end of the street, and was waiting for me there an hour later to get me home. He always showed up on weekends when the owner was out partying, sometimes on holidays, and I’d expect him on those days, enjoying his good company getting my black jeans dirty.

 He wasn’t waiting for me this Saturday. Nowhere to be seen under the lampposts, not hiding behind parked cars to give me a scare, or running to me when I was already midway through the street because he woke up late. He did not show up at that moment, but I still felt like I would see him later to give the treats I had brought.

 Happens I did see him an hour later when the sun was bright, dead, grim, his body thrown to the side of the street amongst the bags of garbage. His fur partially shaved, his legs broken and neck twisted; half of his cut tail inside his mouth, teeth and eyes a few feet from the rest. A bullet hole on the belly made a puddle of blood around the body, and the jaw was so far detached from the head he looked like a demon, a spawn from hell, not my doggo friend. After a few minutes of mourning I went home, took a shower and got through with my day.

***

 Sunday. He’s still there. Leviathan didn’t want the treats.

***

 It’s Wednesday and Leviathan won’t let me near the group, and I’ve never seen Chicago and Washington so gloomy. Roberts is still there, his rotten corpse decaying under the sun of April’s summer.

***

 After a few weeks the pack moved to another street. I still see them from time to time but it’s like they don’t know who I am. Roberts is still there and everyday I follow the decomposition of the cadaver, turning more and more purple and dry with time, and everyday I cry a tear in his name.

 When you see as much people dying out of nowhere as I did, dear people, you think that could not affect you anymore, but it does. Whether they kill themselves or someone kills them, the fact that you’re not going to see them anymore never change, and you change. Living off of memories does nothing good for you, but some people can’t help but mourn for the lost ones for the rest of their lives. I am one of these people, and when Roberts died it felt like a piece of my heart fell off, another one; I became so aware of new friendships, even with animals, that I cannot meet new people anymore. I started to fear connections, be a stone cold stranger to the world around me, having in the memories of better times the only piece of hope that gets me going though life. I miss them so much, and every day I cry thinking of what I lost to time, the engulfing dark flood of time’s hand, destroying the structures of my personality, my happiness, making of me, as time passes, nothing but a statue of what I was[...]

Annie, 07/2020