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I was seated on my favourite chair. Kupa, my old bitch, lumbered into sight from around the house. She was now an old creature, no doubt, although she could still manage to produce a hoarse bark. Ten years now.
Kupa had been my pet all of that time, every last day of it. We had run, chased and hunted together. We had shared meals. What hadn't we done together. Ten years....
There was a cool breeze blowing in from the east. White, woolly clouds drifted lazily in the sea-blue sky. The sun's intense heat was softened by the breeze in such a way that the effect was pleasant. It was the type of day that puts you in a relaxed holiday mood.
Kupa came to where I was seated and stood unsteadily beside my chair. She was really old now. Something caught my attention. It was Kupa's uncharacteristic posture. She never ever used to stare at me the way she was now. This only used to happen when she saw that I was nibbling at a morsel of food. Dogs will eat anyghing that man eats. If he swallows a stone, they too will. I was not eating anything right now, but there was Kupa, staring.
There was a look in her eyes I had never seen before. A sad, tearful look. Her large brown eyes gazed at me with the sadness of a suffering throat-cancer victim who cannot use his voice to tell of his pain but has to use his eyes for the expression of all his feelings.
I reached out and caressed her neck. All dogs and bitches like having their necks caressed. But Kupa's response was amazing - she, unlike at all other times I ran my hand over neck, did not even alter her posture to show pleasure. Instead, she continued staring at me with the same mournful expression. She stared and stared. Stared and stared.
I thought, maybe it's hunger. I remembered that there was some food left over from the previous night's supper. And I thought, I will give it to her.
I went into the house to get the food. As I was passing through the sitting room, I saw little Joe, one of my sisters' children, sleeping on the couch. Joe was very attached to Kupa. He would always remind me to give the bitch food whenever I forgot. He was always asking questions. Where did Kupa come from? Who is her mother? Why does she sleep outside? Can't she come and sleep with us here inside?
Of course all little boys and girls are full of questions, but some are exceedingly inquisitive. Joe was such a type. He was just five. Joe was a gay child. He never cried unless he was really in distress, like if he is very badly hurt. I let him enjoy his slumber.
I went into the kitchen and fetched the food for the bitch. I carried it outside.
I found Kupa curled up snugly at the base of the chair, apparently deep in sleep. I called out to her. Kupa did not respond. She did not even stir. Now, this was strange. Not that she even had to be called. Whenever there was the slightest smell of food, Kupa reacted with spontaneous vigorosity. She would bound up and down, wriggling her body and wagging her tail from side to side, eyes alight with lustrous delight. But now there she was, as inert as a dry log.
I lay the plate of food on the ground and apprehensively walked to where the bitch lay. I held my breath when I gazed at her. A thick knot gripped my heart and sent a tremor throughout my body.
Kupa was not asleep. She was dead. Quite dead.
I do not know why I did not stay there beside Kupa. I guess it was too much for me. Kupa was no more. Ten years....
I went into the house. When I entered the sitting room, I found... the child was crying. In sleep. His strangled sobs were so soft they could not be heard outside the room.
Little Joe was crying. Crying, crying.*
Misheck M'hango, 1983.