Speaks volumes already
Light snow falls and renews the paths we walk,grey skies soften raw, wintry day with bright light
my beard freezes in clumps of ice along the way ...
I call puppy Bella: Come! She loves to play,
I tell her to heel, hold her tight to my side,
she picks up her stride, the tension is present
no slack with this dog. We ride joyfully along,
give me a sled, pull me through the world
with glee and wonder ...
the white snow covers the earth, the air is fresh
and cold, the walk is walking my soul,
Bella runs free, I wonder at this animal's grace and
strength, she stretches now and sleeps
so soundly, restful, in such repose my teacher ...
By Richard Bredsteen
Alas, while their lives are relatively brief compared to humans', the memories that dogs leave us with are timeless. I am grateful to the Canadian author of the poem above, who, each week, reads what is published in this space. Thank you, Mr Bredsteen.
Your poem stirred my memory. Let me share my first dog encounter with you as well as with others who read Green Left Weekly.
To keep himself from sinking into the mud and drowning, the pup pranced, like a frantic ballet dancer, atop the tiny patch of soggy earth. He was surrounded by swiftly rising, rushing floodwaters.
I struggled to bring the little flat-bottom boat's bow close enough so that the marooned animal might chance a leap into it. Paddling backward, against the treacherous current, I fought to keep from being swept away.
I somehow managed to manoeuver the hard chine of the boat onto the patch of mud, and for a moment held the small, rocking craft in that spot. The rushing waters pushed forcefully against the opposite chine.
He leaped for the boat, but fell short. His little paws were bent like hands as he desperately clawed at the top edges of the port bow. He was being pushed off of the muddy space by the boat's continual flanking motion.
I held out the makeshift paddle in the pup's direction. He bit hard into it and hung on for his life. I pulled, extracting his mired hind legs out of the sucking mud with a resounding plop!
I took him home. When no one claimed him after about a week, I named him Uno. I was ten years old.
In the winter of that year, I walked five miles to school in snow as high as my knees. Uno's steps, as he struggled to keep up, were more like endless leaps into the air.
Later, when I walked out of class at three o'clock, he would be faithfully sitting there, ears skyward, with his tail fanning ice and snow in much the same way a windshield wiper would on a car. To this day, I have no idea where Uno stayed, or how he kept warm, while I was in school all day.
A dog will wait for you no questions asked, and be glad when you finally return, Rheta Grimsley Johnson wrote recently in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Well, that is true.
Let me get on to the point of this article. Not long ago, a Georgia woman took her sick dog, Daisy, to a local animal clinic. Thinking that Daisy was terminally ill, the woman asked that the pup be euthanased. Dr Walton Waller, the veterinarian, agreed to carry out the owner's wish.
To make a long story short, instead of honouring the agreement, he treated, and cured Daisy's liver problem. Last February he returned Daisy to her thoroughly surprised owner.
I say good for him, good for her and, of course, it has all been especially good for Daisy.
Well, word of Daisy's odyssey with such a happy ending got out. Responses have been varied.
Animal lovers throughout the region, as you might have guessed, are more than a little angry with Daisy's owner; the Georgia State Board of Veterinary Medicine is investigating Dr Waller for breach of contract â for not euthanasing Daisy. He may well be subject to the board's disciplinary sanctions.
How sad that Daisy cannot speak to the board on Dr Waller's behalf, but then, on the other hand, the pup's completely healthy presence in this life speaks volumes already.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns (include your name and full return address on the envelope, or prison authorities may refuse to deliver it). He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-63, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA, or e-mail <BrandonAstorJones@hotmail.com>. You can visit the author's web site at http://www.BrandonAstorJones.com>>.]
BY BRANDON ASTOR JONES