I taught him to not to make fun of anything, but he is still an instinctual being, and the wickedness of men stops at nothing, wickedness and ignorance. The forest is carpeted with warning and mementoes of puppies who have been unlucky. When I see him, I stop crying and my heart lightens.
I am apprehensive, like a mother.
I watch them dozing and I photograph them in my memory, as well as on my mobile phone, putting the new impression next to many others, and I think that right now they are two helpless beings, in need of care, warmth, love.
So different, we know that a dog and a cat do not get along, yet the two of them have become inseparable and scramble to pamper each other, hiding them behind a fake, infite “guerrilla” warfare.
When White goes out for his walk, if the weather is nice, Black sits on the corner of the house and is still there when he returns, ready to run up to him and give him a kiss, which White reciprocates, each time looking surprised (I suspect that he does it now to make Black happy).
But it is while they sleep that their hidden nature appears, and their fragility is revealed. White is the most exposed, he who gives you the soul (which they say he does not have) to make you happy, he is an easy prey to the aggression of other dogs, of his own sense of guilt and of fear of abandonment.
Sometimes I look at White with greater intensity, I look at him as if I saw the life inside him, and then anguished images arise in my mind: White alone, lost, unable to look after himself, ready to believe anyone who shows him a little affection.
I go so far in the search of verisimilitude, that at a certain point I can not stand them anymore, I feel a pain that is not only spiritual, even my body reacts, my breathing accelerates, my heart gallops, my stomach spams. I have to work hard to reject these visions, which are capable of taking my breath away, until they disappear and I go back to not thinking about death, like all of us.
Black is different, she conveys more confidence, more tenacity and the ability to fight to survive. I can think of her in the rain, all wet and cold (like in that wonderful movie that is Breakfast at Tiffany's, when Holly goes to pick up Cat in the pouring rain. It is hard to hold back the tears, it is true love, absolute, free. The intimate elegance of Audrey Hepburn and the genius of Truman Capote expressed themselves in an unforgettable film, symbol of the birth of the modern woman, to whom the presence of the cat gives even a greater echo), yet she would get away with it, as shown by her haughty air, her straight tail, the impudence and insistence with which she asks me to feed her when she is hungry.
Black's appearance is deceiving: she seems aggressive, a panther, instead she is sweet and affectionate, soft and smooth like a toy.
What always strikes me about her is that Black never overdoes it.
She always goes out into the garden with caution, she really likes to sit in the center of the outdoor space, observing with her eyes, ears, whiskers. She can stay there for a good quarter of an hour, then, silently, when you forget about her (that is, the spell she set in motion has been fulfilled), she disappears among the bushes.
If it happens that she hears my voice calling her to her table, she does not rush in even once, she does everything with measure and rule, but then she arrives, very much on her own, nevertheless grateful: I caress her, she purrs and straightens her tail, forgetting for a minute the food, her essential necessity. Since she was a kitten, she devoured everything in no time at all.
Black has an easy-going nature, if she is in a place where she cannot go out, she adapts, finds other occupations, does not protest. It amazes me because my other beloved cat was very different, she protested scratching sofas, furniture, rushing from one part of the house to the other making many objects waver. If White occupies her favorite pillow of hers, she gets on her paws on the other one and stares at him, undeterred, but she does not flinch.
She has all the malice of the cat, given to her by Mother Nature; you do not see her for a whole day, then something soft clings to my legs: it is she who asks me to caress her neck or smooth her hair. She crouches near to her adoptive human mom, and she follows me closely, at a safe distance, (if ever you brush her fur, she should start the big cleaning) never losing sight of me.
When she arrived she must have had two months: she was in the palm of my hand, yet she was very lively, hungry, reckless, and courageous. For a couple of months the whole family was the victim of her assaults on our face: a lobe, a nose, a mole on the surface were all substitutes for the breasts of her feline mother, and she sucked, sucked, with a stubbornness and an insistence from champions, although, or perhaps precisely because it was absolutely devoid of any liquid.
She lived for some time isolated in a room, we did not know how White would react, although we knew his peaceful nature, until, inevitably, they saw each other: White immediately barked, and then tried to smell her. Black has seen fit to get under the bed. For a few days the routine was always the same: he pushing to get to smell her, she spun under the bed. Then, out of the blue, Black took the initiative and walked over to White and rubbed against his paws. He, surprised at first, then welcomed the news with pleasure, since it was possible to play with her. A little rough in his movements and big in size, he might have hurt her, but she, already at that time, defended herself very well and he never took advantage of being more vigorous.
This balance of power did not last long, it was soon clear, even to White, that she was the strongest, that he was a frog who loved to play and who barked to establish his own supremacy (moral and physical), while she did not need external gestures, aware of her own "spiritual" superiority, of her divine indifference, she simply looked at him curiously, wondering what he had to yell so much.
Now that she is a little older, Black has developed some unusual behaviors in a cat: she lies down on the floor, licks shoes, fingers, turns on her stomach to be stroked, on the other hand she has grown up with a dog companion, she has never seen her fellows, so she must have adopted White as her elder brother and, observing him, imitates him naturally. Observing her when he does not notice, it is clear that she does not care about the rules of behavior, White is her brother or hers, and there are no "buts".
Spying on them when they play is a mystical experience. They sniff, nibble, Black ambushes White, White squeezes her between his forelegs in an all-male attempt (nature is truly extraordinary, males are males, in every breed!) to possess her, she meows, squirms and runs away, but briefly, then returns to resume the game or tease White.
And White laughs as she jumps peacefully and happily. He laughs, that's right, this dog is capable of laughing. Amazing!
Mystical because we abandon reason, we adopt other faculties to enjoy their moves, we immerse ourselves in a non-human world and we believe we understand, have insights into their true nature, their truth.
Yet White's proximity can cause extraordinary events to happen.
White arrived because he had fled, indeed he had been taken away from where he lived by his beautiful Labrador mom. Unfortunately it was a place of suffering and dirt and the mother, who did not want her children to suffer like her, one day, there were two, took them around the woods (like the parents in the tale of Tom Thumb) and abandoned them, sure that their fate would be better. A female dog would never abandon her puppies, the Labrador mother must have been desperate, and so she pretended to forget them. White had been seen since the morning that he was chasing cyclists, or that he wanted to play with cars, until he literally landed in front of our house. It seemed that since then he was smiling, maybe it was a new game, he was not scared at all, he watched and wagged his tail, happy to be there.
He was a clumsy puppy, still not very firm on his paws, and the poor thing had ticks everywhere, some had pierced his ear (which for a few months suffered from otitis); the next day