i call him lobito.
he is a chow that lives with the mexicans in the old house across the road. lobito means little wolf.
always smiling when i come home or for a walk. he has the spirit of a great warrior and possesses nothing like the disposition often given to chows.
sweet and spirited. funny as hell. a good dog.
well, anyways...
lobito was hit by a car and has one its bones in its back broken.
so,
we are all in vigil in this small little hamlet. our other neighbor, a vet by chance, but not the nicest in all the land...he thinks that we should put him down. he thought the same of my dog when he broke his leg. my dog is still living and seems quite happy to be doing so.
and...
i can't help but think of this writing by the great barfly charles bukowski,
which, in the spirit of lobito and in the
hope of his recovery, i will recite here.
(switching to raspy whiskey voice)
Charles Bukowski - The History Of One Tough Mother****er
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…”
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
“you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!”
but they don’t understand, they say something like,"you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine?”
“no,” I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it’s bull**** but that somehow it all helps.
you can do it lobito. i know you can.
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