Bongo, My Right Hand
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| Cow Secrets — |
Dogs were always part of our family life, having raised dogs
growing up, and having included dogs while raising-up our babies into fine
young men. Cats were another story altogether. I always loved cats, but because
of family-others’ allergies and strange fears from childhood traumas, cats were
a no-go zone. However, walking our dogs in the evening, one evening, changed this paradigm
forever. I had witnessed a birthing of kittens within a construction dumpster
around the corner. They were as loud as ever as I passed on my daily walks with
our black and white dogs, Dude and Bongo. Bongo became the lover of most other
things, but Dude was a cat-chaser by design. Pursuing felines was so ingrained
into Dude’s psyche that he wouldn’t hesitate to stick his head into a hole
filled with cats, and actually did once, only to remove it quickly with a
mother cat stuck to his face … hissing. After a month or two of passing the
dumpster, the metal debris-filled incubator became silent and then disappeared
altogether. The building that had been built was done, and the kittens had all
grown into cats perusing the neighborhood. One night, as we strolled down the streetlight
lit street, I saw a gray blur shoot from the other side in an ark straight at
us. My wife saw it too, and jumped towards me. She grabbed my arm and said
quickly that the cat must have had a brain injury; it ran right up to Bongo,
then Dude. They both had a start, but even Dude didn’t care once escape was
beyond trying for the mad cat. Mad Max followed us home and we have been
feeding him ever since, so much so that he has since become Fat Max, and now … just
The Fat.
The Fat even joined us once on our walks into the nature
reserve. He followed us down through the tiny orchard that joins our house to
the street at the entrance to the reserve. He followed us through the gate in
the fence that had been built to keep out the wild boars from entering neighborhood
gardens. And he followed us all the way around a loop trail that only just
touches the edge of the reserve and all of its wonders. We walked and visited these wonders, and we walked
the trails, Bongo and Dude, me and my dogs. We visited jackal dens, with dark
entrances strewn with gnawed bones, and we hiked to the bat cave, encrusted
with guano, which once housed a Neanderthal and his family, now all entombed
within scaffolding and barbed wire fencing to keep out the riffraff. We were enthralled
by fur and scat left by hyenas, and we lolloped about in the Bone Yard, a
graveyard for cows that features skulls and bones littering a hillside perpetually
perched above the Mediterranean Sea. On hot summer days we descended into the
shade of a spring emerging from under ancient rocks and ruins and enjoyed the
cool lapping of fresh water under our feet and over our tongues. And in the
spring we breathed in the vast space of a view to the south, from a Canaanite
graveyard covered with wildflowers, all the way to Jaffa and the towers of Tel
Aviv. Bongo was a special dog, with a special life. He loved all who came to
call. Bongo loved the tortoise that found its way into our garden. Bongo loved
the moles that dug holes in the soft earth, digging also with glee at the first
sign of motion. Bongo loved everything. Bongo loved from his essence. It was
hardwired into his existence … loving. He knew when someone needed his administrations.
He knew when someone was hurting.
I sat on a plastic chair at our veterinarian’s office. There
was a magnificent view of the sea, but I was grappling with the fine print and
failed to notice. Bongo stood next to me, in front of me, tight against my leg.
He weighed in under par. He was sick, from ingesting the eggs of tiny red worms.
Dung beetles also abound in the reserve. They lay their eggs upon grass and
dung, and Bongo became a connoisseur of grass, and of cow-pies, and he guiltily
consumed eggs from beetles locked in evolutionary symbiosis: cow, dung, beetle, dog. He had been treated for months to overcome the growth of a
cocoon embedded upon his esophagus, but to no avail. Bongo eventually,
suffering from the start, succumbed. My right hand dog sat, and then laid down on
the floor in front of me, as I spoke to my son traveling throughout South
America on his post-army trip. We videoed together and said our goodbyes,
together. My wife and I spoke. We called our son studying at Tel Aviv University,
working hard to build his mind with electrical engineering. He called us back, but just as the injection began to flow through Bongo’s veins. My phone rang, over and over, sitting on
the counter, over and over; I had to let it ring and knew my son would understand. I pet Bongo’s head and chest, hugging him, loving him as I was able. I felt his heart
beating, then stop. I felt his breathing, then not. His eyes were open when he passed;
looking into the void of what once had been the wall of the veterinarian’s
office. Bongo was gone. Then a sound emitted from outside the room - a siren.
At first I thought it was an incoming missile warning, and then I thought it
must just be the wind; then, later, realized it was only a test of the emergency
warning siren system. Bongo went out with full fanfare, as was deserved for such a
wonderful companion in so many adventures, and in so many ways.
We will miss you Bongo. Love, love, love…
