mercoledì 20 luglio 2011

He Was A Friend

I am having trouble grasping the real fundations of friendship, lately. Not in the usual, whiny way that seems to curse the modern emo youth, with people questioning what a "true friend" is about. I am just realizing that i might lose an importanrt person in my life, one that i let go out of lack of attention and now is fighting against a black hole that might as well suck him in. And i dont know what to do to hold on to him. And mostly, as the cowardly sentimental and passive person i am, i'm plagued by memories. And i have a werird realtionship with memories. For a lot of people, memories are a good thing, a source of strength and emotion. To me they're just something that crushes me. I need to forget good things, or i'll start regretting and thinking about what i did not do, about what i dont have anymore. About what has gone and wont come back.

While thinking about this, in a weird cinematic moment, i was watching my neighbour's dog, an annoyingly loud German Shepherd.

And i started thinking about the past.

My parents didnt like dealing with my father's relatives. They were all bad, obnoxious people, spreader of false rumors, passive aggressive bastards who loved to start wars even on the smaller topics. So whenever i was brought to my grandmother's summer house in the mountains, my parents went there, had a fight and left me alone with my relatives for the rest of the summer. So i can take some fresh air.

Up there, growing up, i would've learned how my parents were despised. No one had any issue about bad mouthing them in front of me. My grandmother loved to tell me every day how her son, my father, was a loser and a bad person that married an even worse one. And how i was just an undesired guest there, so i should just shutup and make myself invisible.

It was painful at times. When years passed and i became an adult, i would start talking back. And things would change. But when i was a kid, i couldnt do much but cry in silence, try to call home asking for help that i wouldnt get and wait to run away.

I dont have many good memories from that early times. But looking at pictures, i always see a couple that kinda strike a nerve: the ones with me and a good looking German Shephard named Pablo.

Pablo was my uncle's dog. Pure bred German Shepherd. His fur was shiny, he was strong, athletic, fierce. He was an old school dog that could chase down criminals and slash their throat if he wanted to. He had a gentle female companion named Rya. Rya was a submissive dog. She never barked much, she had gentle eyes and was all cuddles and tail wagging.

My uncle loved to abuse those dogs, whenever he was angry. He generally kicked Rya like she was a sack of potatoes, mercilessly. But not Pablo. Pablo growled back and showed his fangs. He was a great guard dog and a terrifying one too, so even if he undermined his "master" 's authority, he survived cause he did what he was supposed to do. Although my uncle hated him.

In the Summer house, when i was a tiny, chubby, sensitive thing, Pablo took care of me. I hugged this giant wolf like dog. Played with his tail, ears and paw. He licked me, let me ride him, protected me. He let me fall asleep next to him. There's pics of that.

I dunno why. Pablo roared towards everyone. Rya was a gentle dog and everyone could touch her. But Pablo was a warrior. Except with me. Something in my rotund appearance made his dog heart love me.

I grew up and became less soft but also more scared. The mindfuck of my father and my relatives was starting to dig holes in my head. I was a nervous kid.

One day Pablo tried to play with me and he made me land, hitting my head and scaring me to death. Of course that was enough for all the cuntry relatives. The chanting began:

"He's dangerous"

"He couldve killed you"

I believed them.

Pablo was locked into a secured area and i never reached him again. I was even scared to see him. He just stared at me with those intense eyes and i ran away.

Years went by.

One summer i went to the house and Pablo wasnt there anymore. Neither was Rya. The only dog there was their kid, Pisolo, a wild headed doggy who caused more trouble then them combined.

I asked what happened. During the year, Rya had died of some dog illness. They didnt even try to cure her, she was too far gone. Pablo, between that and the age, became aggressive and a bit gone in the head. He started attacking people way more. So one day, while my uncle was cleaning his courtyard, Pablo tried to bite him.

My uncle, who probably had waited that moment all his life, had Pablo put down.

I dont remember feeling bad or crying at the news. I had forgotten those times. I was over them.

Actually now its the first time i recall them.

One forget the good friends, until they're gone.

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