It was two o'clock in the morning, and I had taken shelter within the safe walls of my home. All was quiet until a convoy of dogs passed by, their howling echoing through the neighbourhood. I found no reason to get up and follow them, so I let them bark and run around the walls that separated them from me. Eventually, they left, and the place was calm once again.
However, my daughter, who had been fast asleep, came up to me and asked why I couldn't sleep. I told her that the dogs had woken me up with their howling. But my daughter was confused. She said that no dogs had come to our neighbourhood for a long time, and there were no sounds of barking or howling. Maybe, she suggested, I had a nightmare.
Despite her reassurance, fear and panic passed through me as I thought about the caravan of dogs. I knew that they were no ordinary dogs, but enchanted humans who were preparing to call their families to rid them of the magic. Anyone who lived in that neighbourhood was at risk of losing a loved one, and they had to be vigilant. The only way to save an enchanted son or daughter was to open the door of one's house and let them enter, and then beat them severely until the magic stopped them. If that didn't work, the enchanted person would be locked up in a room, and the family would begin to contact magicians, luring them with money to fulfil their requests in order to return their missing person to the human fold.
The thought of this dark magic and the dangers that lay outside our walls made me shiver. But my daughter, in her wisdom, comforted me. She reminded me of a little sister we had lost many years ago, who may have been one of the migratory flocks of stray dogs. "Well done, Dad," she said. "You didn't open the door. Our sister is now happier in the world of dogs than in our human world." And with that, she hugged me and went back to bed, while I sat there, feeling grateful for the safety of my home and the love of my family.
The disaster is that we are on two, since we left life on four limbs. Our tragedy began when our little girl returned to her first nature, and now she will no longer suffer from spinal pain or use weapons to hurl at others. She is now captive of her four limbs, living the life of a dog. It breaks my heart to think about her short lifespan, which doesn't exceed ten years. After that, she will be gone, and her life will be thrown away like trash. It's a painful reality to accept that our little one is gone forever.
But, if by any chance, she comes back and barks for a long time in front of the house, I will wake up and look at her with love. I will cherish the last moments with her and say goodbye. I will wipe the tears from her eyes, knowing that it's okay to let them flow. After that, she will depart to the distant valleys, away from people, so as not to arouse their suspicions. She will walk alone, with no one to comfort her or wipe her tears. It will be her last visit to us, and we will never see her again until her funeral procession.
I can't help but feel the pain and sorrow of losing her. She was once our little girl, full of life and energy, but now she's just a memory. I hope that wherever she goes, she finds peace and happiness. Maybe one day, we will meet again, but until then, I will always remember her barks, her wagging tail, and the joy she brought into our lives. Even though she is gone, she will always have a special place in our hearts.