On 22 December 1975 I killed my beloved dog Bruja. (If the Reader is so inclined, please search her name in this blog for a detailed account.) Short of a-life-for-a-life all I can do is hurt and repent. Her photo on my nightstand ensures that not a day goes by. But that’s not enough.
The most meaningless expression in any language is “I’m sorry.” Sincere repentance demands: “How can I make it up to you?” Atonement.
Bruja would say: “Rescue another Red Bone Coon Hound from a killing shelter and this time, be strong, train her … don’t kill her.” Sadly, my victim is silent and so I resort to symbolism -- annual actions of atonement as banal as any religion or ritual, meant to help humans cope with their shortcomings.
This year, 47 years after euthanizing Bruja for no other reason than being a coward, I memorialize that innocent pup with some symbolic acts more to shame myself by their insufficiency than to fool myself into thinking they exonerate my action in any way.
Fittingly, Thursday 22 December 2022 is a dreary winter day when I:
- Bury my Cat Basmah, who died 95 days ago, to lay among the ashes of Bruja, Calpurnia, Magnus, Pertinax, Farhaan, Mago, and Argos, and also small animals from the surrounding wilderness interred at the “Companions Memorial Ground” by our house.
- Make additional donations to nonhuman animal causes.
- Abstain from drinking wine … when I want it most.
- Publicly confess my crime –long after the fact—in this entry.
Redemption is impossible and the burden of guilt well deserved.
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