GOING TO THE LIGHT

Note: This is an experiment: imagine trying to understand the way that your dog conceives of itself or its environment. As far as we know, Homo Sapiens is the only creature that is self-aware, so strictly speaking there is no “I” in the dog’s world. But personally I find it difficult to think without the relationship of anything to my “I”. Aside from that, we know that dogs do have a small vocabulary: “walk”; “sit”; “come”; their names; etc — and then unique individual words derived from their individual repeated experiences — but most of their comprehension occurs through body language, voice tone, smell (their sense of smell is several hundred times more acute than our own) and touch. So they would have their own way of identifying each of us, and of relating to each of us. Let’s try this. Tell me what you think:

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Big moved his leg to make room for my back, and I grunted happily. The fire crackled. I listened for a while. Down the passage I could hear Fat swishing eat things in the water place. Musi@c came from somewhere. What was Big doing? I looked up at him. He was looking at a paper, and cut his food with one hand without looking. Yap was in the food room with Fat, waiting for his nightfood.

Big looked at me and noised. “Jesse, Jesse”, he made my name as he looked at me. He always looked at me with special eyes, and I looked back that way, while he noised. Even a very long time ago when I was a little one, he looked at me that way. He never changed, and I was warm inside when we looked at each other like that. Fat came in, and Big and Fat noised at each other for a while, and they looked at me. What? I waited for the word “walk”, tightened my muscles, got up slowly, looked at Big and Fat, but the word did not come. They didn't say “walk”, so I woofed and sat down again. They looked so sad. They noised quietly to each other some more. Big patted me. And then Fat patted me. Fat went out of the room. I closed my eyes. I could smell Yap’s food in the food room. He got better food than me, but he was smaller. I didn’t really mind. He wouldn’t finish it, and I would steal it later.

Loud was coming. He bumped a table outside the room, and came in, noising loudly. He was holding something for Big to look at. Big looked happy. They looked at the thing, and noised happily at each other. Loud patted me roughly. I looked at the fire. If I went to walk now, I would have to leave this fire, and that would be bad. There were lights and shapes dancing in the fire. What were they? Little creatures? If you watch a fire for long enough they get tired, and slow down, and in the end, they go to sleep. Or away. But they can be woken. Big knows how. And Fat. Loud was noising all the time, like one of me under the moon, and then Thin came in, and Thin and Loud started noising terribly at each other. They were angry.

I got up. I hated this. Oh! my back legs were so tired that I lost my balance, and I had to get up again. It hurt. My back hurts all the time now, and my legs are always tired. Loud and Thin had stopped noising: they were looking at me sadly. They were sorry for me. I was also sorry. I went out of the opener of the food room, into the garden. Cold air blew into my face. It was not so dark. There was light in the sky, and although I could not see them anymore, I knew that there used to be many tiny little lights there too. I supposed that they were still there, but I couldn't see them any more.
What are they? Every night, they call me — very quietly, but they call me anyway. I went far out into the dark, and then I heard the little lights above calling again with their silvery voices.

Yap came out of the opener. He was looking for me. Yap come see. Come see Yap. Come see the little lights. Come see them with me, Yap. Yap doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Look up, Yap. Can you see them?
I looked up, to show Yap what to do.
Yap looked up.
“Yap!” said Yap. He sees them now. It’s a whole new thing for Yap. “Yap!” he says. He bounces on his front paws and he is smiling. “Want to play with them Yap?” I smiled at him. “Well, you can’t. They're' too far away. Just look. Look and listen.”

A soft, silvery call came down from the little lights. “How beautiful”, I thought. How did I know beautiful? — I thought. Beautiful? — What is beautiful?

Beautiful is the dark, and the little lights that I can only see in my head now, and beautiful is that silvery call from the sky. I am lying down now, and Yap is looking at me with a question. I am very tired. Very, very tired. I didn’t walk today — or run. But I’m as tired as if I had. So tired am I. Where is our home? I look around the garden. Home is so far away now. There it is, but I am too tired to walk there. Home is just a smudge of light in the dark. I can’t see the opener, but I know it must be there. Why does it look so far?

Oh, hey, the pain in my back and hips is gone. Altogether gone. No pain. Wow, no pain!

Yap has walked halfway back to the house now, and he is yapping madly into the opener. “Yap, yap, yap, yap! Yap, yap, yap, yap!” Why is he doing that? He looks back at me, then he turns back to the house and yaps more, madly. I start to fall asleep, then I see Big and Fat in the opener. Big and Fat and Yap are looking at me, running to me. Big and Fat are noising loudly, loudly, and Yap is yapping all the time now.

I am light. So light. All my heaviness is gone. And my pain is gone. I am floating up off the ground now. Up, up, up. All the sounds get softer. Fat is crying now, but I can’t hear her. I just see her. Why are you crying, Fat? For me? Are you crying for me? Don’t cry for me Fat. I am happy. So very happy! Be happy for me, Fat. This is so nice. The sky is cold but I am not cold. I think I am going to the little lights. Goodbye, Big. Goodbye, Fat. Goodbye, Yap. Goodbye, garden. Goodbye, house. Goodbye!

______________________________ © HARRY FRIEDLAND — Medium

STOMPIE

STOMPIE

Simone is the patron saint of wounded animals.

 

The seagulls of Sea Point never had such a good time as they had since we arrived here. Every time a bird gets its claws tangled in nylon fishing line, or gets its toes chopped off, it heads straight for our patio where it gets untangled and top quality whole-grain bread, and shelter, and sympathy.

 

You’d be amazed how many seagulls lose their toes or get tangled in nylon. You have to get to know seagulls in order to learn this.

 

And then there is Stompie.

 

He is easily recognisable – his left foot is missing completely, and he hobbles around on a stump, although he flies normally. He is the tamest of the seagulls (and now he is also the fattest, although when we first got here, he was emaciated), and if Simone doesn’t feed him to his satisfaction, he follows her into the kitchen, saying, “hey, wassup, what are you going to do about my supper then, hey??” – Frikking cheek, hopping around on his stump …

 

I think we’ve known Stompie for at least two years now. Even Princess knows him, and calls him by his name, as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do (work for the Friedlands, get to be like the Friedlands …) Of course, Stompie thinks its perfectly normal too. I wonder if he knows our names (or maybe he just knows us as “Feeder” and “Asshole”)

 

Then last week when I was taking down the succah, I noticed that one of our plastic patio tables had blown over in strong wind the previous night. As part of the general clean-up, I flipped the table back onto its legs – and there, under the overturned table, was a squashed dead seagull. Omigod, I thought, some bird must have sought shelter from the wind under the table, because this is a natural place for a seagull to seek shelter (after all, this is where the food comes from), and then *wham!* the table got him …

 

Then an awful thought struck me: the tamest bird of all was Stompie. It was probably Stompie. Simone wasn’t on the patio at the time. I’d better get this off here, I thought, before she comes back outside and gets all grief-stricken and we all have to sit shiva for a week. Gingerly I got hold of the dead bird by its wing and flipped it over. One gnarled claw pointed at the sky. I couldn’t see another claw. Oh, shit. Its Stompie, I said to myself.

 

I walked into the kitchen as if nothing had happened, fetched a plastic bag and returned to the patio. Looking around quickly, I checked that Simone wasn’t in sight, then deftly flipped the carcass into the bag, tied it closed, took it into the kitchen, and dropped it into the bin. “I’d better get that bin out of here quickly”, I said to myself, “or the smell and the bird-lice will be all over the place” …

 

“I’m just taking the rubbish out, Sim”

(inaudible answer from the bedroom)

And off I went …

 

I wondered when Simone would notice.

 

Days went by. Every now and then I’d enquire casually, “so has Stompie had his supper yet, Sim?” - and I always got a non-committal answer which didn’t make it clear whether Simone had actually seen the damn bird or not.

 

Eventually I couldn’t take it any more. This morning I put the question to her directly: “have you seen Stompie recently?”

“Well, he doesn’t come every day – sometimes days go by and he doesn’t show up”. This wasn’t helpful. Simone was going to start wondering if I was obsessed with the bird or something – I couldn’t keep pretending that I was just asking casual questions like this.

 

I was quite sure that the bird was dead and done for, I was just worried about how Simone would react when the awful truth dawned on her – although I suppose there must be a billion ways that a seagull could meet its maker – in the Cape, I suppose that that would happen by a weaker bird being blown into the sea (which isn’t a bad way to go, if you think about it – I once knew a girl who told me that she would like to die one day by falling off a high cliff into the sea – but she was quite stoned at the time we had that discussion).

 

So imagine my relief when Stompie suddenly appeared on the patio this afternoon, stomping around cheekily, marching behind Simone and demanding his supper (he gets fed separately from the other seagulls, so that they don’t steal his crumbs – Simone stands between him and the others, and they hop about in impotent fury at this shamelessly preferential treatment). He was obviously hungry, because he followed her into the kitchen, and I had to shoo him out.

 

Good old Stompie. Must have been someone else under that table …

 

Finally, I can tell Simone this story.

 

© Harry Friedland 2008

View my blog posts at https://hjfriedland.blogspot.com/ 

KNYSNA FOREST

 

Picture this: 

It is a busy Thursday afternoon in the forest. We have just finished our hike to Jubilee Creek, and are heading back to the National Road in Mike Summers' 4X4. Mike is running low on diesel and we are sure we saw a small filling station somewhere around the intersection with the track leading off to Millwood.

The main road through the Tsitsikamma Forest is a dirt-track running from the National Road, past Jubilee Creek and Millwood Gold Mine, up into the hills and finally down to The Hell.

Right there at the intersection, at a clearing in the forest, is a general dealership with two dusty old fuel pumps out front.

As we get there, another 4X4 pulls up and the driver drops off two hitch-hikers - a local farmer, obviously, and the hikers look like Americans. There are two attendants lounging on the stoep, a brak who barks at everything that moves, another old bakkie with farm labourers and children spilling out of every opening.

And then we arrive, in a cloud of orange dust. We pick up the details as we go along. The one attendant, Gert, launches himself off his chair and in our general direction, determined to be of service. He is very, very drunk. The other attendant, Kleinbooi, has already started on the bakkie full of labourers, but he looks like a better proposition, although Gert is wearing something akin to a Caltex overall and Kleinbooi is in "civvies".

Mike gets nervous and gets out to take the pump hose away from Gert, who is jabbering all the while but hasn't managed to detach the hose nozzle from the pump rest, by the time Kleinbooi has finished with the bakkie. I get out too, in case Mike needs backup.

A young girl (whose name is unknown and remains one of the lasting mysteries of this tale) arrives on a bicycle with a flat wheel. Gert is distracted, abandons his attempts to win the pump back from Mike, seizes the air hose and hurls himself over the girl's bicycle in a froth of officiousness, so that he and the bike lie in a tangled heap in the driveway.

The girl is one of those humble country types who have obviously been taught (with the help of a whip, probably) to respect their elders, even if they are obviously and desparately drunk. She stands back mutely while Gert sweats and puffs his way out under the bicycle, to reattach the air-hose (which has by now unwound itself from its storage reel all around the driveway) to the bicycle wheel. Mike and Kleinbooi close in to wrestle the air-hose away from him, but alas! Too late! The over-inflated tube explodes like a pistol-shot, leaving the rueful girl standing indecisively with her useless bicycle, while this circus rolls on.

Somewhere in the mayhem Kleinbooi has got control of the fuel hose and has filled Mike's tank. Then he disappears with Mike's petrol card, only to reappear with a shredded piece of plastic to announce that "Die kaart werk nie, meneer ..."

Meanwhile, Gert has transferred himself to the diesel pump, which he is embracing like a bride, lovingly winding the air-hose round and round the thing, the hoses at its sides pinned back like the arms of a prisoner. Simone and Cindy, in the back seat of the truck, are laughing hysterically at the rolling comedy - and Mike, who usually has a short temper and is not to be messed with, is laughing at his shredded petrol card - which is just as well, because otherwise he might have killed Kleinbooi.

The problem now arises of how we are supposed to pay for the petrol, since the card has been destroyed: the manager is called, and Tannie Van Wyk, (measuring about 4X4 herself) appears in the doorway of the shop.  Mike holds up the petrol card, explaining that Kleinbooi was too rough on the thing - but no problem, says he, he does happen to carry some paper vouchers which are usable, so long as she has one of those old credit-card machines. Yes she does ... somewhere ... under this counter ... no ... lets see ... ok mebbe here ... nope ... ah, there it is!

Unfortunately, its been so long since the credit card machine was used that the levers are jammed, so Tannie has to loosen them up with a hammer and screwdriver before we can make progress.

Then Mike tells the tale of the girl and the bicycle and Gert's misdirected efforts to help her. If Tannie could tell us the girl's name (she has disappeared in the interim), we will, just for kindness' sake, leave her the money to patch her tyre. No, Tannie doesn't know the girl's name. Maybe Gert ... ? Oh, no - we reply, definitely not Gert - well then Kleinbooi ...? We go outside and try Kleinbooi - but he struggles so with the question that it strikes me that he may have difficulty recalling his own mother's name. DOES ANYONE KNOW THE NAME OF THE GIRL WITH THE BICYCLE? - Mike yells in frustration.

"Girl? What girl?" The locals look at each other questioningly, 

"Anyone remember a girl who was here trying to pump up a bicycle tyre fifteen minutes ago?"

"Here? Bicycle? Pump ...?"

We are not making progress here.

The American hitch-hikers move over to the other side of the road and look on nervously. I think they are looking for cover, in case of gunplay.

Time to go. Everyone back into the wagon. Have diesel, will travel. Leaving a trail of orange dust, two wary Americans, and a motley collection of assorted farmhands behind, we make our way out of the enchanted forest, back to a world we know better.

© Harry Friedland 1990