Existential haiku

The most vibrant leaves
Are plucked off from their branches
Well before their time.


In Memoriam, Tatiana Sisquella.

http://www.ara.cat/media/Mor-periodista-Tatiana-Sisquella_0_1080492057.html

Memoir #1

I wish I remembered more than I do about our first dogs, Linda and Cadell.  The few memories I have of them both are among my most precious ones.

Linda came to us when she was already a senior.  A majestic German Shorthaired Pointer, she had been used as a hunting dog most of her life.  Her former owners, Paco and Maria, were also Catalan immigrants in Mexico, and were good friends of my parents — though they were closer to my grandparents in age.  They bred Springer Spaniels, too, so their home was always alive with dog licks and wagging tails.  I remember spending many a happy time at the dog haven they called home.

Maria babysat me once, I believe it was for a few days, actually.  Now that I think about it, it might have been when my brother was born, because I was two and he wasn’t there.  I should ask my mother next time I call her.  Anyway, Maria was a generous woman — both in spirit and in girth — had an easy, warm soprano laugh, and a humble heart.  She could choke the life out of you with her loving welcome hugs at her doorstep.

There are a couple of tapes of my short stay there — the format was the so-called Super 8, with flickering color images, but still no sound.  The kind one had to physically feed  into a projector and then feed it on the opposite end to another reel.  —  Anyway, in one of them Maria is sitting on her couch along with several of their dogs to her left.  I, a small two year old in a short little dress, am seen struggling to squeeze my little bottom, unsuccessfully, between Maria’s opulence and the arm of her sofa.  She laughs and talks to the camera, petting her dogs, thoroughly unaware that I am even there.

In spite of what that last image might imply, though, I do know for a fact that she loved me very much.  One day, — not sure if during this same visit or some other time, — I decided to first, bathe a doll in her toilet, and then flush it down.  She never yelled at me or scolded me once, though years later I heard from mom that she had been quite upset by this.  

The other tape features only me.  I am in their garage, frantically trying to open door into their home, with a very apparent urge to go pee.  After a few attempts I turn to the camera and beg for whomever is taping to open the door for me.  But I digress.

There is a particular anecdote of Linda’s I remember fondly.  It is a story we were told from the time before she came to live with us.  Paco was the master of the house, but Maria was the one who fed her.  So one day they decided to test her loyalty and see who she would rank as a higher alfa.  They all went hunting together, and Paco shot a duck.  As they waited for Linda to go and retrieve it, they each stood several feet apart on opposite sides of the road.  When Linda finally showed up with the duck, they both began to call for her, asking her to give it to them.  Linda took one look at him, then at her, and promptly chose to deposit the duck neatly on the ground, right smack in between them.  They say she went to lay under the truck to take a nap after that, leaving the two of them to sort it out.  

Paco was a man with a very short temper.  He and dad went hunting together often, and later dad would tell us of Paco’s tirades whenever the hunting was not going his way.  One day, Paco decided to turn his anger on his dog, Linda, and aimed his rifle straight at the dog’s head, ready to put her out.  But my dad, who thankfully was with him, had a soft spot in his heart for Linda, and asked Paco not to kill her, but to let him take her instead.  And that is how Linda came to join our family.

My brother and I, about three and five at the time, loved Linda to pieces.  She was ever so patient with us, as we rode her like a horse, sat to watch TV with her, fed her our leftovers, played fetch with her, and turned around and hugged her out of the blue.  She was our buddy and our protector.  Our toy, and our older sister.  

My mom, even though skeptical at first, ended up falling in love with her too.  Especially after Linda showed her prowess as a guard dog.  Our house at that time was basically a box (like most houses in Mexico at that time) with a flat roof where we hung the wash out to dry, and where we kept the dog.  The house also had an interior garden, a square hole cut right smack in the middle of the floor plan, with glass walls all around, a glass door, and open to the sky.

Well, one day, when my dad was away — on a business trip, as was often the case — my mom awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps, barking, growling, and a loud, frantic scuffle, coming from the rooftop.  She only stood below, listening, waiting, terrified.  The racket ended abruptly, and my mom decided to step outside and call for Linda.  She was well aware that this was dangerous: Linda might have died, and the robber (robbers?) might still be up there, but she had to find out what had happened.  After calling her name a few times, Linda poked her little head out, panting and wagging her tail, and earning a special place in my mom’s heart.  And a special corner in doggie heaven, I’m sure.

She died of old age, they told us.  My brother and I did not see it happen.  All remember is dad, crumpled on a chair in the kitchen, crying.  My dad never cried.  Except that one other time, many years later, the day my Avi, his father, passed away.  But that is another story.