I recently posted about a man in Tamil Nadu named P. Selvakumar who was advised by his astrologer to marry a dog to atone for his past cruelty; when he was younger, he had stoned a pair of mating dogs and then hung them from a tree, to die. After his deplorable act, he apparently lost his hearing and became paralyzed.
If only he had been the son of a powerful politician in Amreeka. Then he would have blessed enough to get away with it, grow up and continue to display very disturbing behavior!
You see, once upon a time mutineers, in a state far, far away…okay, it was Arkansas, but still, there was a teen who was wicked. His name was David Huckabee and while he was leading a boy scout camp in 1998, he murdered a defenseless dog.
Do you see where I’m going with this? Of course you do, clever readers. Because while some of you impugned my decision to post about P. Selvakumar’s wedding to Selvi the canine as an “about-as-veiled-as-that-one-belly-dancer-at-Prince-Cafe” dig at Hinduism, most of you realized that what haunted me was how the whole thing occurred because two dogs had been stoned and then strung from a tree. I love dogs. I’ve had three, all of whom sadly are gone. Out of an overwhelming sense of loss, I now stop and pet every pup who will have me; that is how much I love dogs. They are fiercely loving, ever adoring, loyal, fuzzy angels with paws.
Once, when I was a senior in college and considerably angst-ridden (for very good reason), I put “Strangeways Here We Come” on my turntable, dropped the needle and then dropped myself down on the lush, odd red carpet we were infamous for having installed in our ENTIRE Home. It was time for some emotional bloodletting, though I didn’t have any Johnette nearby.
When Morrissey started keening, I went still, except for the unceasing crying, of course. A few songs in to the album, I was vaguely aware of a strange noise but I was too morose to move. My eyes were closed. I was despondent. I really didn’t care.
But my wolf-German shepherd hybrid did. He had broke through the once-sturdy patio screen door in his haste and worry to get to me. I opened my eyes because of the oddest sensation–a very concerned puppy was licking all the NaCl off my face. Torn between being utterly grossed out (it was my first pet!) and utterly in love with such love (it was my first pet!), I chose the latter and sat up, as my dog visibly relaxed at my not-being-dead.
That’s what kind of sweetness dogs contain.
And maybe, just perhaps, the dog that David Huckabee executed had licked away some other kid’s tears. Even if it hadn’t, I’m sure it would have been inclined to, if it hadn’t been hung from a tree and left to choke to death by the son of a Preacher man. Continue reading →