“It is better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all”- Lord Alfred Tennyson from In Memoriam A.H.H
I pause at the mouth of the dark alley. The stream of tourists brakes around me, a blur of unheeded swirling colour and noise. They cannot see what is down there in the shadowy darkness amongst the dirt and the filth. They cannot hear its irresistible call, like that of a long dead lover’s from the grave. Its call beckons and pleads for you to come, to step through, to enter the mouth of the shadowy alley.
They are oblivious as they shop in the bright light of the main bazar, they see only what they want to see; the muddled wood, bone and leather handicrafts displayed on trestle tables, the patchwork colours of the spice dealers wares, the curtains of bright Indian saris and tourist trinkets cheapening the air. They pass me by, as I stand in the mouth of the dark alley, with barely a glance.
They choose not to see and they choose not to hear it. They are ignorant of it, blissfully so perhaps. Death is like that, I suppose. The Unwanted Visitor is not somebody you want to meet down a dark alley. Not in India, not anywhere.
The dog lies dying at our feet. The Unwanted Visitor and I stand over it, we look at each other, then down at it.
The puppy lies trembling in the pool of oil, or chemicals, or whatever, somebody has poured over it. They poured something over it and then left it to die in the overflowing skip bin down a dark alley. Whoever it was, left it to die with its brothers, a litter of three other puppies I could see lying motionless amongst the piles of steaming human refuse, of rotting vegetables and other stinking waste. But this puppy must have managed to crawl away, perhaps clawed its way out of the bin to plummet with a meaty slap onto the packed earth of the alley.
It is now too weak to go any further, so it lies in its slowly spreading pool of oozing black chemicals that has soaked through its once soft fur, which fills its mouth and nostrils, which drips into one of its eyes, forcing it shut. With every breath, the puppy lifts its head slightly from the packed-earth, away from the spreading ooze.
Every time the puppy exhales, it sounds like the air being let out of a balloon in a bath tub. It wheezes and bubbles, choking slowly on its last gasps of life, its last sweet taste of existence.
The sound is heart wrenching, soul crushing; it cuts through me, piercing something deep within me. Thin cracks spread across that thing within, spreading like fissures in ice. Jagged chunks of it break away, floating off into the flowing current, drifting through my veins, spreading through my thoughts; becoming an idea.
With every breath, the puppy opens its one eye and looks at me. It looks me in the eye; a delicate string joins us across the void of fate that has conspired to bring us together. Its unflinching gaze meets my shame, wonders at my obvious revulsion and is saddened by my instinctive look of loathing. I look back. I read pain and confusion within the black depths of its one eye.
The Unwanted Visitor crouches down beside it and the puppy pitifully tries to wriggle away, pawing the ground, struggling and slipping in the pool of ooze. Its one eye watches with trembling fear as the Unwanted Visitor lovingly strokes its greasy, once-soft cheek, with a finger. The Unwanted Visitor coos and makes soft hushing sounds until the puppy stops trembling and lays still. How can it, just a puppy, understand what is about to happen when we, humans, have only the smallest of ideas ourselves?
After some time, the Unwanted Visitor, still crouching beside the limp form of the puppy, looks up at me and asks;
Who are you?
Confused, I don’t answer and the Unwanted Visitor continues to look up at me expectantly.
Finally;
“I am Jed, I suppose.”
“Wrong.”
“Jed Anderson-Habel?”
“NO! NO! NO! I ask, who are you? Your name is not you, just like you are not your name!”
“Well, I guess, I am studying international relations; you know politics and stu--”
With a rustle and a flap, the Unwanted Visitor springs to its feet, looking down at me, towering over me.
“NO! NO! NO! I did not ask what you do- or what you a have to do- how you sell your time, your occupation, is only a small part of who you are”- he softens his voice- “It only occupies you, it should never ever define you.”
I try again, “I am a Christian, I believe in God, so am—”
NO! and NO! and NO! again. Christians can be good and bad, they can do ugly things and create beauty, it is not good enough to say you believe in God, you are only saying it. Your words are empty without your actions to fill them. Why are you, this is what I want to know.”
The cries of the puppy interrupt us. Two tourists holding hands walk down the alley from the other end. They talk in whispers, raising their voices over the whimpers of the puppy. Their shoes clump loudly on the packed earth, lifting the heavy hanging silence that fills the shadowy alley. They stare straight ahead, stepping over the wriggling, whimpering puppy. They walk straight pass us and back into the chaotic swirl of life in the bazar.
“You know what you must do?” the Unwanted Visitor begins as soon as they are gone. “It is not something I can do.”
I know what I must do, I have known ever since hearing the puppy’s cries from the mouth of the alley and seeing the Unwanted Visitor standing over it.
“But first, we need to find out if the puppy knows the answer, if it knows why it is.”
The Unwanted Visitor crouches beside the ear of the puppy and silently whispers into its ear. The puppy replies, just as silently, and the Unwanted Visitor nods knowingly.
“It knows,” says the Unwanted Visitor.
The last testament of a puppy that lived and died a wonderful life
The heavy thundering rain has turned the mountain path into a water slide. My paws are caked in thick mud from the path. I sink and slip up the steep mountain side, sometimes needing to grip a protruding root or branch with my teeth to stop myself sliding backwards. My fur sticks to my back and the rain drips into my mouth and nose and ears and it filling me with a wild, savage joy. I slip again with a surprised bark and slide down several metres to end up squirming around on my back at the base of a tree, my four paws flapping uselessly above my head. I feel like an idiot and am glad nobody is around to see me.
I start up the mountain again. The thundering drumming of the waterfall gets louder and louder as I slip higher and higher. The rain eases but the wind picks up, coming howling from further down the valley to flatten my ears against my back and to push my fur into my eyes. I squint and hunch my back into the winds whistling withering whiplash.
I slip down a ridge and there it is; the waterfall in its thundering, pouring, sound drowning glory. I am flattened by it, all the water and sound and energy makes my heart race. I loosen a joyous howl that joins the choruses of the wind and is soon lost.
I leap into the shallow pool at the base of the waterfall. The water is from a spring high in the mountains and icy. It stings my nose and tongue as I lap mouthfuls of the stuff, so different from the brackish gutter water back home, so clear and pure. I can imagine drinking from this pool and never needing to eat again, never needing to scavenge in a bin, or beg or anything again. I loosen another long joyous howl and run in excited circles around the pool, splashing and diving into it. I am not ashamed to say, I went completely mental, not caring if anyone saw or heard me. And it was great!
Afterwards, I scramble up behind the waterfall, across the slippery rocks and moss, to crouch behind that endlessly falling curtain of falling mountain-river. I close my eyes and open my mouth and let the waterfall fill me, the energy and wind and mountain water and everything. It feels like I am breathing electricity, as if I am plugged into a nature’s power. I listen to the beating of my heart, almost lost in the thundering of the water. I am aware of being tense and afraid. I consider life and discover that despite my fear, my faith is still alive in my soul and driving me onwards. I open my eyes and see everything.
I hold the brick in one hand, test its weight and feel its roughness. I know what I must do, I have known ever since hearing the puppy’s cries from the mouth of the alley and seeing the Unwanted Visitor standing over it.
I take a deep breath and slam the brick down, hard. I feel the skull crack. I see the blood squirt across the packed earth. I see the brains ooze out to mix with the pool of chemicals. The puppy’s body spasms one last time and is still.
The Unwanted Visitor gently picks up the puppy and, without another word, walks off down the alley.
“Wait!” Something shouts from inside the Unwanted Visitors cradled arms and the Unwanted Visitor turns back towards me.
The puppy looks at me with two bright gleaming eyes and loosens a joyous howl.
Jed Anderson-Habel
-believe it or not, this is not completely a true story. As my Dad would say, 'based on a true story, only the facts have been changed.'