― My
wedding night started with the sounds of Arman's dog howling along
with the wolves in the distance. I knew that my child, conceived on
that very night, would be a boy. And so it was.
The
men gladly accepted the drinks Arman offered and they often returned
the favor with an invitation for a toast, but were nevertheless weary
of him. Many of the women were curious about the way he was living in
his lonely little home at the end of Down Street, but still avoided
him when they were alone. But, children loved him, they loved playing
with his dog, and they loved the way he laughed as he told the
stories of his adventures or fairytales. They eagerly awaited the
moment when old Arman would go to the river, with a stick under one
arm and his dog by his side. Old Arman and his dog would go to the
river every day. They would always head for the same exact spot. Old
Arman would sit by the river and watch the waves slide along the
surface of the water, caressing his dog with one hand. He would then
take out the pocket knife and carve something into the stick he
always carried with him. He would carve in the drawings and the
signs, or improve on those letters and signs that were already carved
in. He would then stand up, make a few steps and throw a stick into
the water as his eyes followed its path through the air until it
splashed into the water. His dog would jump at the first gesture of
Arman's hand. He would storm into the shallow of the water, near the
bank, and run like a thunder, creating a firework of sparkling and
glistening droplets, and then he would break the still surface of the
river as he dove in. For one minute he would disappear underneath the
water, but only to emerge on its surface the next, swimming and
cutting the currents with his powerful neck and relentless stroke of
his paws. Catching the stick with his teeth, he would then turn and
swim back to the shore to place it at his master's feet. Then, the
stick would fly back towards the river again, and the dog, and again
and again. After the final throw, the dog would shake the water off
his body, soaking everything and everyone around him. Arman would
then dry him with a cloth, giving him a good rub, and then the two of
them would head home. They were always followed by a company of
children. Tired from all the clapping and cheering, the children
would walk, smiling and content, already looking forward to the new
game tomorrow.
How
many generations of children have witnessed the play between Arman
and his dog? Every generation had its own memories and
interpretations of it. One time, during summer, when the water was
low, and the river much narrower, someone wondered, why not throw a
stick to the opposite bank, so that the dog can run over the bridge
to fetch it. The youngest of the group offered an answer: The dog
loves to swim, he loves to play, that's why! Arman laughed and nodded
in agreement.
One
day, as usual, Arman rose and picked up a stick and threw it towards
the river. The children were cheering and clapping with anticipation,
waiting for a dog to run and fetch a stick, but the dog didn't move.
Old Arman turned to his dog with a look of surprise on his face, and
then he turned back, his eyes searching for a stick as it went
further downstream. He found it, stuck between two rocks. Arman
looked back at his dog, pointing at the stick that was jumping and
shaking between rocks as if calling for help. His hand stood hanging
in the air, pointing towards the river. The dog didn't get up; he
didn't charge to fetch the stick, like he always did. He didn't move.
He just lay there motionless, with just a couple of hairs around his
ears, fluttering in the breeze. Arman's hand, still raised in the
air, just trembled slightly, and then he turned the palm of his hand
towards the sky, like one does when checking if it rains. His gesture
was not a command; it was a plea, and then not even that. The hand
was begging. Praying. Arman went to his dog, his hand still raised in
a silent prayer, forgotten. A cool summer breeze ran through his hear
and his beard as he kneeled next to his dog and caressed him gently.
― Go,
kids. Go back home. Go now!
Hesitating,
the children started to leave, moving along the river, turning back
to look at Arman and his dog. They couldn't understand.
Old
Arman stayed next to his dog. He heard the wolves as soon as the
night fell. He got up, took his dog into his arms, and started to
walk. Old Arman and his dog swam together towards the stick.
The
fishermen found them the next day. Arman, his dog, and their stick.
The stick was covered countless bite marks of Arman's dog and the
name that was carved in it again and again - Woolfy. Arman and his
dog Woolfy.
No
one ever saw Arman without his dog. No one. He was always referred to
as "old Arman and his dog." No one ever called him anything
but that. Everyone knew of his house, with a bench by the door, and
the bowl of water and another one for food for his dog next to it.
Old Arman would sit by the river and watch the waves slide along the
surface of the water, caressing his dog with one hand. He would then
take out the pocket knife and carve something into the stick he
always carried with him. He would carve in the drawings and the
signs, or improve on those letters and signs that were already carved
in. Then he would get up and say:
― Come
on children. Come on, let's go home.
