[Toot!] Index: 0.05
Communism Bit: Off
Location: Job, of course
This is a post about when we were kids, two of my bros and I. You know that time when we woke up every morning to be driven to school by Ma. And my youngest bro, Bethwell, was really just a baby. We made a great set, Bethwell, my twin bro, and I.
(For those of you who didn't know: I have a twin brother, who is nothing like me. He didn't drop out, he cuts his hair, and would use his real name if he blogged.)
Anyway, so we there was four of us. Including a dog, named Klipi. Fine mutt. From the day he was a wet, shivering puppy trotting towards us, we were comrades. And as he grew up, he accompanied us on the adventures to the lake, to the forest, to wherever Entebbe kids spend their days. He fought when we fought, was wounded when we were, ran when we ran, swam when we dipped, starved when we did, slept when we did, was ready to trot when we were, and in danger when (and because) we were. That silent friendship we had is as tight as they come.
And then he vanished. Just vanished. One rainy morning, we wake up and whistle for him, to give him his food, and there is no dog. We left the food there, knowing he'd be back after we had been driven to school. When we came back, we found the food soaked and untouched.
The next Saturday, we went `to look for Klipi'. We marched along, asking about with detailed description, my baby bro mimicking the barking and wagging for better effect. Fruitless day. Then, on Sunday, Isaac, a neighbour, told us he had seen a dead dog along the road. That was all we needed to make my baby bro cry. Bitterly. It was a sad time as Isaac led us to where the dog had been knocked. What we found was rotting dog meat wrapped in tattered leather. We couldn't quite tell if this had been Klipi at any time. The fur seemed longer than Klipi's. But Bethwell was in tears, figuring out how we were going to drag it home `to show him to Mummy'. Crazy idea, kid. You don't drag a stinky carcass around.
So we walked back home. I wasn't sure it was Klipi. Bethwell was convinced, though.
After a few weeks, we got over the loss, and Bethwell had stopped putting food for the dog after he saw the road-kill. Things were usual again. Our adventures were now of three.
One day, we are being driven to school by Ma. It is raining. And my baby bro shouts `Mummy! Klipi!' It wasn't Klipi. Just another wet, wounded, limping dog too stinky to be liked by anyone ... wait! That is Klipi!
Now you know why the story of the Prodigal Son really talks to me. We were shooting across the road before Ma had digested it. And Klipi was
We got there, washed Klipi, made Ma call up the vet for an appointment (and all the while she's saying `You have X minutes ... we are already late for school.'), made warm dog food, started playing catch, pulled out our old adventure plans ...
And Ma was getting impatient. Bethwell's kindergarten was a bit far from home, so she was getting hysterical. `Hurry up, get your uniforms back on! This is not the first or last time he's getting lost and found. It's no big deal—dogs are lost and found every day!' And Bethwell saw that she needed some re-education.
'No, Mummy, no!' he explained, in that slow lisp of a five-year-old, words thick with importance he had not yet discovered words for, his fat cheeks shaping the sounds delicately. `Klipi was not lost. He was dead, and now he is back!'
Ma, looking at her chubby baby educating her about the importance of the reunion, this funeral of death, couldn't stop the tears. 'Okay, boys. No school today.'
(This is one of the last posts, comrades. Not forever, but I am going to be vanishing for some time, in about a week or two. I'll be telling you stuff when I be back. If I'm generally missing in action for a while, that's why. (o:)