Asta nu e poezie, nici proza, nici metafora, e confesiune, e justificare, e felie de viata pe paine. Cei inteligenti, vor intelege, de restul, nici ca imi pasa...
Dragostea si respectul fata de animale le-am avut in sange, mostenire genetica de la tata, nu prea am avut de comentat in legatura cu asta. Copil fiind, am invatat cum sa ma comport cu animalele, astfel incat nu am ezitat niciodata sa mangai toti cainii de pe strada, chiar cu protestele mamei.
Mama iubea animalele, dar nu in casa, asa ca nu am avut voie sa crestem decat hamsteri, pe care i-am iubit generatii de-a randul, de la albi, crem, gri, mari, mici... Din cand in cand mai ingrijeam cateva zile cate un puisor de guguta cazut din cuib, plangeam o vrabie calcata de masina, mangaiam pitigoii care intrau in casa, ca a doua zi, dupa ce ii eliberam, sa se intoarca...
Asta pana in dimineata aia, cand a sunat mama la o ora imposibila, de la munca, sa ii spuna lui tata sa vina repede, ca la ei in curte este un catel frumos. A fost scanteia care ne-a adus-o in viata.
Aveam vreo 13 ani. Telefonul m-a trezit, asa ca am asteptat cu sufletul la gura sa se intoarca tata. Imi amintesc si acum cand au intrat pe usa, el grijuliu, ea, eleganta, increzatoare, cuminte, cel mai frumos caine urat pe care l-am vazut vreodata! O boxerita de vreo 4-5 ani, roscata, cu botul negru si nasul cret. Abandonata de ceva timp sau neglijata, dupa cum se vedea dupa numarul coastelor la vedere, batuta cu piciorul, pentru ca avea rani si vreo 2 coaste rupte, purta la gat o lesa improvizata de tata dintr-o fasa medicala.
M-am napustit asupra ei cu o inocenta si o dragoste de care numai un copil este in stare, facandu-l pe tata sa paleasca pregatindu-se sa ma scoata din coltii animalului strain. Dar ea a acceptat imbratisarea ca si cum ar fi asteptat-o de mult.
Timp de o saptamana mama ne-a amenintat in fiecare zi ca "Maine o ducem la curte, la bunici", insa Lassie a ramas cu noi, membru al familiei, cel mai inteligent, docil, recunoscator, cuminte si educat caine din cati credeam ca exista. 2 ani si jumatate ne-a luminat fiecare zi si ne-a facut sosirile acasa o sarbatoare, agitand ciotul ei de coada si gudurandu-se de parca s-ar fi indoit ca ne va mai vedea vreodata. Ne-a creionat personalitatile, ne-a sadit in suflet ceva din bunatatea ochilor ei, ne-a ajutat sa ne gasim calea si sa ne descoperim principiile.
Lassie mi-a murit in brate, la 7 ani, varsta la care, de obicei, boxerii se duc. I-am vazut lumina disparandu-i din ochi, i-am simtit ultimul spasm si, daca sufletul ar fi fost material, l-as fi prins si l-as fi mai tinut cu noi o vreme, dar n-am putut. Am plans-o si o plang si acum, o simt in ochii fiecarui maidanez pe care nu ezit nici acum sa il mangai pe strada si pe care nu ezit sa-l compatimesc.
Pentru ca fiecare familie are nevoie de o Lassie care sa-i deschida ochii!
***
This is not poetry, nor prose, nor metaphor, it is confession, it is justification, it is slice of life on bread. The intelligent ones will understand, the rest, I don't care...
Love and respect for animals was in my blood, genetic inheritance from my father, I didn't have much to say about it. As a child, I learned how to behave with animals, so I never hesitated to pet all the dogs on the street, even with my mother's protests.
My mother loved animals, but not in the house, so we were only allowed to raise hamsters, which we loved for generations, from white, cream, grey, big, small... From time to time we would take care of a little dove that had fallen out of the nest for a few days, we would cry over a sparrow that had been run over by a car, we would stroke the bluebirds that came into the house, so that the next day, after we had freed them, they would come back...
That was until that morning, when my mother called at an impossible hour, from work, to tell my father to come quickly, because there was a beautiful puppy in their yard. It was the spark that brought her into our lives.
I was about 13 years old. The phone woke me up, so I waited with bated breath for my dad to come back. I remember even now when they walked in the door, he thoughtful, she, elegant, confident, well-behaved, the most beautiful ugly dog I've ever seen! A little boxer about 4-5 years old, red hair, black muzzle and curly nose. Abandoned for some time or neglected, as you could see by the number of ribs in sight, kicked, because she had wounds and a couple of broken ribs, she wore a leash improvised by her father from a medical bandage around her neck.
I swooped down on her with an innocence and love that only a child is capable of, making my father pale as he prepared to pull me from the fangs of the foreign animal. But she accepted the embrace as if she had been waiting for it for a long time.
For a week my mother threatened us every day that "Tomorrow we're taking her to the yard, to Grandma and Grandpa", but Lassie stayed with us, a member of the family, the smartest, most docile, grateful, well-behaved and well-mannered dog we thought existed. Two and a half years she brightened our every day and made our arrivals home a celebration, wagging her tail stub and gurgling as if she doubted she would ever see us again. She shaped our personalities, she soaked into our souls some of the kindness of her eyes, she helped us find our way and discover our principles.
Lassie died in my arms, at 7, the age at which boxers usually go. I saw the light disappear from his eyes, felt his last spasm, and if his soul were material, I would have caught it and kept him with us a while longer, but I couldn't. I cried it and I cry it now, I feel it in the eyes of every stray I still don't hesitate to pet in the street and I don't hesitate to pity.
Because every family needs a Lassie to open their eyes!
