High. Way up high.
Someday.
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Of Dogs and Bitches
My grandmother once told me a story.
There was a bitch who produced children. She fed them and brought them up. Gradually, the eldest dog turned into an adult. He left the bitch one fine day and searched for a new home. He established an identity in the outer world, formed a region of his own, never to come back to the bitch. The second child followed the same trend, so did the third, the fourth, and so on and so forth.
Then came a day when the youngest was the only child that remained with the bitch, still learning to bark, a young adult. The youngest dog refused to go away from the bitch, without caring about a new region, sacrificing his future, for the mother she had been to him. He saw the bitch through the torment of aging, through the pain of worldly isolation, and looked after her till the last day of her life.
Then came the siblings of the youngest dog, the dogs and the bitches, to wave their mother a final goodbye. And as went their mother deep down into the earth, they hugged the younger dog, paid him their respect and proclaimed him to be the king of the region, for all that he had done, and moreover, for all that they could never do.
This was the story that my grandmother told me, of dogs and bitches. But we are humans, aren't we?
There was a bitch who produced children. She fed them and brought them up. Gradually, the eldest dog turned into an adult. He left the bitch one fine day and searched for a new home. He established an identity in the outer world, formed a region of his own, never to come back to the bitch. The second child followed the same trend, so did the third, the fourth, and so on and so forth.
Then came a day when the youngest was the only child that remained with the bitch, still learning to bark, a young adult. The youngest dog refused to go away from the bitch, without caring about a new region, sacrificing his future, for the mother she had been to him. He saw the bitch through the torment of aging, through the pain of worldly isolation, and looked after her till the last day of her life.
Then came the siblings of the youngest dog, the dogs and the bitches, to wave their mother a final goodbye. And as went their mother deep down into the earth, they hugged the younger dog, paid him their respect and proclaimed him to be the king of the region, for all that he had done, and moreover, for all that they could never do.
This was the story that my grandmother told me, of dogs and bitches. But we are humans, aren't we?
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