On the day my canine family was slaughtered by an RSS security guard, I didn’t hear a peep.
I’m a Shaman – you would’ve thought I’d have heard their cries of pain as they were gunned down, wouldn’t you?
I’m not going into the whole retro guilt trip, at all. Some things are just as they are, and on that day I was at work – plugged into an iPod, in front of a computer, surrounded by electronica, 3 stories above the ground. It makes for deafness.
However, that night, as we transported their poor bodies to the veterinary facility at Onderstepoort, packed with ice and covered in their favourite fluffy blanket, I called my Ancestors to guide and take charge of their spirits.
My Grandfather Anderson showed up promptly. He loved dogs. Rarely have I seen such anger on that dour Scotsman’s face. He gathered the three boys and shepherded them up the ladders and through the doors. Chippy was the only one who needed prodding – he was such a Mummy’s Boy, he wanted to hang out with his humans some more. But Grandpa Anderson managed to get him rounded up, too. I know they all made it back where We came from.
On the ride home, I was unsurprised to find a huge storm breaking. It was New Year’s Eve, and the bloody city was all set to celebrate with loud bangs. The fury of the rain and thunder, lightning striking the ground at regular intervals, put paid to that idea.
Well, a couple of major dog-loving deities had just been royally pissed off.
I still find myself stopping, heart contracting, as I open the cupboard for doggy biscuits, and find only the Girlie showing up with bright eyes and wagging tail, for the treats. These moments have the power to fell me in my tracks . But the call and beauty and joy of incarnation still call me to Life. Joy doesn’t disappear because you’re grieving – that’s the point.
We’re all still enmeshed in Lila, as the HouseMartins tell me, wheeling and snap-rolling exultantly in the morning red-cloud bedecked sky.
And it’s Good. It’s still All Good.
Pic: Scylla and Charybdys