The Caravan Moves On

In an extended metaphor, this story explores the forces that shape a "dog's" life and demarcate the boundaries of its existence.

This is a story about a dog. The year was 1965 in one of the impoverished villages of the south. In those days, unwanted pups were often dropped into a bucket of water and drowned. Five siblings of this particular pup were already floating motionless or sank to the bottom, when a neighbor, who happened to come around for a visit, called, “Hold it! Let me have that one.” The pup was handed over, and thus lived. Whether its fate was more merciful than those of its siblings is not for us to decide.

It grew up to be an average-looking mongrel - nothing to catch the eyes, or to melt the heart. At any rate, the eyes of men in those days were busy looking for the next meal, and their hearts hung by a thread, shriveled, huddling behind thin skin stretched over rattling bony cages. Its owners never thought it necessary to name this dog. Quickly it had to learn that it was required to alert its masters to the presence of strangers, or creatures of the night that might come trying to steal one of the master’s chickens. Once the dog was conditioned to perform this task, it was left alone except for feeding time, which happened once a day, and consisted of scraps, or kitchen waste.

To prevent it from roaming and digging up the vegetable garden, the dog was restrained by a chain which was tied around a tree. Thus this circle, that measured about 8 feet in diameter, became the dog’s whole world in which it moved, in which it lived, from which it looked out to observe the rest of existence.

Now, this dog’s owner’s house happened to be on the outskirts of the village, next to the train tracks. Three trains would pass the house daily: two commuter trains, and a freight train. The dog showed great excitement upon seeing the gigantic, moving objects. It barked with all its might and, moved by its chase-instinct, it set out to pursue this “creature” - but naturally, it was always yanked back by the chain around its neck. So, the train came and went daily paying no mind to the yelping, barking dog. And this seemed to be its lot: to be a powerless, neglected animal chained to a tree, doomed to persist on scraps, forced to serve its keepers.

It performed its duty as best as it could, but still, occasionally, the dog received a beating for no other reason than to alleviate the master’s own frustration with life, or with the way things were going in the world. This the dog could not understand, of course, but it learned to fear the master’s hand, sticks, rocks, and anything that resembled these things.

Still, as this very small, very brutish world was the only one it knew, the dog accepted it, and could even find joy in it. For one, the change of seasons was always something to look forward to, and to feel giddy about. Its body would grow a thicker coat in anticipation of winter, and then with the arrival of spring it would shred the fur. In spring, the air was filled with life! Bees, butterflies, and other flying critters buzzed around busily, at times even taking the time to come close to the dog. Some exceptionally brave ones would even land on the dog’s nose, causing the dog to feel such sensations that it never knew before. Being touched and tickled made it feel alive with joy. It happened that it craved this sensation so much that it’d chase its own tail.

At night, it watched the moon and its changing phases, the stars, and in the silence of the dark there was such peace, such a sense of something inexpressible, that it made the dog rise, throw its head back and howl. These were times it heard sounds just like the ones he made coming to him from the distance. With pricked up ears it listened, and wanted to run, search, seek out the source of these sounds, but the chain and the collar inevitably brought it back to the sad reality of its situation.

Sometimes this would drive it mad, and it would rage, bark, howl, whine and tug on the chain till the collar ate into its neck and blood trickled down its fur. The master would also emerge from his abode on nights like this, and give the dog a good beating. This was almost too much to bear, and the dog would sink into itself, stop eating, and not even the passing train would excite it anymore.

As time went by, this feeling came more and more often. On occasion it would stretch itself out on the ground, under the sun on a lazy afternoon, and would drift away from the tree to which it was bound, drift away from the master, from the dirty, cracked bowl, from the scraps, from the beatings, from the nagging feeling that something was wrong, that there might be something beyond the fence, beyond the gate, out there in the unknown.

They say ignorance is bliss, and perhaps it was true in this dog’s case as well. For better or worse, it knew nothing of other dogs living in palaces, or of ones with pups, or of ones living with a loving family. But, neither could it imagine dogs hobbling on three legs on muddy dirt roads in the back country, nor ones searching for food in rubbish bins in the cities. That is how it is with the unknown. What the dog imagined, or what it wanted, of course we cannot guess.

In some fairy tales - and history books - one often hears about dogs educating themselves, and getting the idea of starting a revolution, or a self-help group maybe. They might turn to the arts, to music, painting, sculpture or writing to distract and comfort themselves, and to give expression to the strange feeling that eats them on the inside: that there must be more to life than this! They might explore some possibilities of escape, or at least negotiate a better deal with their keeper. But, this is a story about the real world; this is a story about a dog.

Eventually, the dog’s spirit broke. It learned to accept and to be grateful for the daily meal of scraps, for the indifferent grunts from its keepers, for the ramshackle little doghouse it lived in. They provided a rhythm, a sense of harmony and reliability to its life. In short, it made peace with its fate which could’ve been worse, but certainly should’ve been better.

In its last days it lay quietly, listlessly, still waiting for the train to come around, still hoping that it might stop, or at least slow down. Dogs, of course, do not grasp the notion that they really do not have the power to exert any influence on the outside world. “Dogs bark, but the caravan moves on,” as they say.

Now, some might say that they know many a man that live lives no better than the dog portrayed here. However, let them be reminded that all characters and events in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This is a story about a dog.

Reviews

[Dave Brown]

your story brought some tears
there is an a*****e down the road that leaves his dog tied up outside, fortunately, not always
I have always had dogs and loved them dearly
On another terrible note, North Korea has demanded all dog owners hand over their pet dogs to be killed
What else to expect from that 'person'
No more sad dog stories please