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Writer's pictureCAFTA Co. Writer

12.01.2022

Written by Oratile Ndimande

 

Thursday.

The news wasn’t unexpected,

But it still caught Him a little by surprise

When She asked Him to come with Her that afternoon


Their favourite bitch had become, as the saying goes, as sick as a dog.

Her strides became slow and strained

And she kept tripping over her old age.

Her stumbles, more frequent and harder to get up from.

The baddest bitch in the yard, who was always a good girl,

Was slipping into the worst shape shape she’d ever been.

The princess of the house;

Whose barks were once as resonant as the thunder that sends her running to daddy,

Now slept her days and nights away unless for her daily bread and step.

Her days were numbered and the count-down was due to end.


Thursday.

The news wasn’t unexpected.

Days before She’d hinted at a heavy thought, a final goodbye.

He’d imagined finding Their favourite, old, bad bitch in a “deep sleep” any day now

So, it caught Him a little by surprise

When She asked Him to come with Her to see the doctor one last time.


They carried her, like a spoilt queen in a chariot to her palace.

They carried her, like a casket to be buried.

For more then several months, this heavy thought in Her mind

Ran round and around again to no end as thought it was chasing its tail.

And now, it stopped and sat on command; an end.


She struggled to keep Her mind at bay on the drive to see the doctor,

Her old baby was panting at the back.

Glossy eyes on the road,

She would occasionally cough up random commentary on the radio

Or that rundown traffic light to fill in the pauses in air.

For more then several months, this heavy thought in Her mind

Thought over and rethought again

It ran round and around again to no end as thought it was chasing a bicycle

And now, a final resort.


He struggled to keep His mind at bay on the drive to see the doctor,

His pet panting in the boot of the car

He struggled to inject Himself with

‘This was inevitable’ and ‘Everyone is due to die’

to numb Himself from crying

‘It’s only a dog’, His father would have said.


The last time He cried for a dog,

He found his puppy in a bloody mess in a dusty old henhouse

And He howled for the whole house to hear and His father growled back in disapproval.

Why are you crying so much for a dog? he barked

Was his reaction was an impatience with a boy whimpering at the mercy of his emotions,

Or was it barks shielding how hurt he might have been himself?

And His puppy love wrapped in a green trash bag

To be dumped/buried at a dump site.


While Their favourite bitch would leave in something more dignified

Than a green trash bag, at least

And while He loved Their ‘dog-hter’ very much

He still remembers that she was ‘only a dog’…

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