One more for Musings.
Again, and again we are brought face to face with the fragility of life. Only a few days ago I had observed an ancient street dog pottering around, quite obviously on the brink of death. His fur had almost completely fallen out, and his thin, bony tail trailed limply along the ground as though he had neither the strength nor the will to hold it up high. The eyes were nearly sealed shut by years of inflammation and disease. His rail thin frame shook with every step, as though in silent protest against the ravages of an unkind life. Pathetic as his physical condition was, it wasn’t the worst thing. As I drew close to him, maybe to offer the solace of company, he jerked away violently as though stung. It was as if a once noble and proud spirit had been battered to the ground by years of wanton cruelty. My sadness was only slightly tinged with surprise. In school, everyday, I was forced to listen to the heart rending cries of stray dogs, mercilessly stoned by bored watchmen. Why can’t we just let things be? What was their crime? Is it that they had the temerity to try and eke out a living from scraps in a concrete hell? A hell that might once have been their home. As I watched, he limped away, looking for some other place where he would be left in peace. Such places were only diminishing by the day. He slowly made his way across the street, oblivious to traffic and people. Watchmen fingered their batons eagerly, seemingly hoping that he’d come close enough to receive a thrashing. His diseased and emaciated appearance commanded no sympathy from the men and women living out their lives in their own happy worlds. Instead, they looked suitably disgusted and avoided him. He simply walked on. He reached a shady corner in the street where a handy depression in the ground (was that one of his homes?) welcomed him. He lay down for a nap. My insensitive brain inquired if that would be his last action in this world. Like all good people in the world, I allowed him a moment of meaningless sympathy, and went back to my music. At the turn of the street, I looked back, perhaps driven by remorse. A large shrub completely obscured the pit, and the dog couldn’t be seen at all. The path I took that day leads to the lecture halls; I walk it every day. And yet, I have never seen the dying dog again. Maybe he has finally found a place where he would never be disturbed again.
Again, and again we are brought face to face with the fragility of life. Only a few days ago I had observed an ancient street dog pottering around, quite obviously on the brink of death. His fur had almost completely fallen out, and his thin, bony tail trailed limply along the ground as though he had neither the strength nor the will to hold it up high. The eyes were nearly sealed shut by years of inflammation and disease. His rail thin frame shook with every step, as though in silent protest against the ravages of an unkind life. Pathetic as his physical condition was, it wasn’t the worst thing. As I drew close to him, maybe to offer the solace of company, he jerked away violently as though stung. It was as if a once noble and proud spirit had been battered to the ground by years of wanton cruelty. My sadness was only slightly tinged with surprise. In school, everyday, I was forced to listen to the heart rending cries of stray dogs, mercilessly stoned by bored watchmen. Why can’t we just let things be? What was their crime? Is it that they had the temerity to try and eke out a living from scraps in a concrete hell? A hell that might once have been their home. As I watched, he limped away, looking for some other place where he would be left in peace. Such places were only diminishing by the day. He slowly made his way across the street, oblivious to traffic and people. Watchmen fingered their batons eagerly, seemingly hoping that he’d come close enough to receive a thrashing. His diseased and emaciated appearance commanded no sympathy from the men and women living out their lives in their own happy worlds. Instead, they looked suitably disgusted and avoided him. He simply walked on. He reached a shady corner in the street where a handy depression in the ground (was that one of his homes?) welcomed him. He lay down for a nap. My insensitive brain inquired if that would be his last action in this world. Like all good people in the world, I allowed him a moment of meaningless sympathy, and went back to my music. At the turn of the street, I looked back, perhaps driven by remorse. A large shrub completely obscured the pit, and the dog couldn’t be seen at all. The path I took that day leads to the lecture halls; I walk it every day. And yet, I have never seen the dying dog again. Maybe he has finally found a place where he would never be disturbed again.
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