bark collar: The naming of a dog
By ALBINA PECSON FERNANDEZ
In memory of Samuel P. Fernandez (October 25, 1965 to April 26, 1980) who brought home a dog named Yougo.
He was once a sad, sad dog. He did not know who he was. He had no name. His father was crushed to death by a speeding cargo truck and his mother died soon after. So taken up was she with grief that she forgot to give a name to her only child.
Because he had no name, the sad, sad dog did not quite know whether he was being spoken to or not. To be on the safe side, he learned how to be quiet. From when he felt like barking, he just did not. He imprisoned all his barks inside his thin little body. He was the quietest dog ever. He was kicked, stoned, cursed, chased with broom and cuss words, but he never barked.
For sure, he was nobody’s dog. No one patted his head. No one ever gave him a bone. No one ever beckoned him with a whistle. Oh, how he ached to wag his tail to welcome into his life anyone at all.
One day, he decided to carry out a plan. The plan was aimed at acquiring a master. The dog bathed himself so he would look real nice and clean just like that poodle he once saw inside a passing car. As he bathed himself by a broken fire hydrant the alley cats and dogs watched him, with great interest, for once. They were amused by him. For there he was, drying himself under the hot sun and making great efforts to wag his tail in order to catch the attention of passersby. His face was getting blue already, but his tail would not move at all. It was stuck between his legs. It had simply forgotten how to wag.
"Oh, never mind," the dog told his tail wordlessly. "I can bark to attract attention."
And so he forced himself to bark. He was so sure that if he could bark like that German Shepherd guarding the gates of the big house someone was bound to look at him. And take him home, maybe. And so he tried again and again to bark. He was getting blue in the face already but not a single bark would come out of his throat. The dog only then realized that he had forgotten how to bark, too.
Because he was nobody’s dog, he had no home. And so he moved from place to place. And everywhere he went he always heard a voice say, "you go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear?"
Of course, he always heard. At least he had not lost his ears that he had to go somewhere. He couldn’t possibly be nowhere. A place in time must always be there, even for a dog like him. And so. . . .
The dog without a name became a vagabond. He rose with the sun each day to look for a place where he could be even just for a little while. Here was the church by the side of the road, which the dog believed led directly to Heaven. Many a time he had tried to enter the church, but always there was the priest. "You go away, you dirty dog," the priest would say. "Don’t you know that this place is not for you? This is only for God’s own chosen people."
At other times, the dog would try entering the schoolhouse. How he loved to watch the children with their books. He wanted to be with them. But each time he tried to pass through the school gate the teacher’s voice would thunder. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for the intelligent."
He, of course, also tried to enter the Municipal Hall. But there was always that policeman guarding the entrance. And so the dog settled for the second best place. At noon the people working in the place threw their leftover lunch inside a garbage can standing under a fire-tree. Sometimes, when luck was with him, he could get chicken bones, fish tails and sometimes, oh, goody, even slivers of fact and meat. But always he ended his meal feeling bad. Always, somebody would suddenly come out of nowhere and shout at him, "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you. Don’t you see that you are eating dirty garbage and messing up the whole place?"
One day, getting really worried about the germs he must have inside his belly for having eaten a lot of garbage, he tried entering the hospital. Of course, that was not the only reason. He had been feeling weak and sick for quite sometime. Dragging himself to the hospital door, he was met by a doctor. The doctor told him, "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for those who can afford the cure."
Oh yes, the dog without a name also tried to enter a military camp from time to time. He liked to watch the soldiers in their crisp, handsome uniform. How he liked to be just one of them. He would help them track down the enemies of the people. His nose was made for the job. Why, he was even willing to die for the people! But even before he could set foot inside the camp he was always discovered by the guards by the gate. They would always tell him. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for patriots."
On Saturdays the dog without a name usually passed by the marker. Many people were always there to buy or sell something. How he wished he had something to sell so he could buy some food. It was really here, where dreams are made of. Because the dog had nothing to sell he relied on the next best thing to do. He would park himself near any butcher. Any butcher at all might take pity on him and throw a bone or two. But that never happened. The moment his fleas on his body transferred to the butcher’s fat legs there it would go again. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for those with goods and money."
Oftentimes he tried to enter the rich man’s house. The big house was sandwiched between the church and the municipal hall. He had heard from the cats and dogs, and of course, the rats too, that the rich man’s garbage was full of good things to eat. But each time he tried to join the other animals, he was always told. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? The place is for us only. We found it first."
Once he tried to join people marching behind a red flag. He had heard from hushed conversations that those who followed the red flag got home of their own. And so, when one sunny summer day he saw this red flag waving wildly in the air, he ran as fast as he could to catch the tail-end of the long march. He was so deeply impressed by the marching feet and the chanting that went with them. Gathering all his strength the nameless dog tried to match the marchers’ feet with his. After a few attempts, he felt very good indeed.
Why, he could march. He could march! He probably could chant, too. Clearing his throat to find out whether indeed he could, he tried releasing his bark long imprisoned in his wasted body. He was about to release the first bark when he felt a kick hit his stomach. As he lay motionless on the hot pavement he heard the voice of the people: "You go away, you dirty dog. This is not for you, do you hear? This is only for the oppressed and the injured."
The dog without a name really had nowhere to go. Even in the cemetery he could find no place. Much as he wanted to smell the flowers on fresh graves he never quite succeeded in doing so. Just as he got near them a stone would hit his head. The gravedigger always caught him by surprise. Spade in hand, and the other pointed at the dog, the gravedigger would intone, "You go away, you dirty dog. Don’t you know you damn dog that flowers are not for you? They are for the dead."
The dog without a name held out from day to day for as long as he could. He did not want to die yet. He wanted to get a name first. For as he roamed around the cemetery he noticed that everybody in the place had a name. That is why they are lovingly remembered. People cry over them. People light candles for them. People clean their graves. People pray for them. People also bring food for them even if they are too dead to eat.
One day the dog without a name couldn’t take it anymore he decided to die once and for all. "Who cares if I died? He asked himself wordlessly. Even if I get a name and then died, who would remember me?" he added, "Life is sad, life is sad," he repeated wordlessly over and over again. While saying these wordless words he looked for a place to die. Now already too weak from lack of food and too much wandering, he could not really have his choice—the churchyard where birds sang all day long, He had to settle for a patch of grass he knew not where. Nestling himself on the soft grass he waited for death to carry him away to his father and mother. Wondering how he might recognize them, considering that he never saw his father and he no longer remembered his mother’s face. Just as he was about to see dog faces in a land he had never seen before, he felt something touch him. Hands were putting a dog bark collar around his neck. And then, he heard the voice: "You go home with me, little doggie." Upon hearing this, he no longer wanted to die. All that he wanted just now was to open his tired eyes. At last he had a name. "Why didn’t I realize it before?" he asked himself. "My name is Yougo. Yes, that is my name."
"What a lovely name," the voice said.
Yougo wagged his tail.
In memory of Samuel P. Fernandez (October 25, 1965 to April 26, 1980) who brought home a dog named Yougo.
He was once a sad, sad dog. He did not know who he was. He had no name. His father was crushed to death by a speeding cargo truck and his mother died soon after. So taken up was she with grief that she forgot to give a name to her only child.
Because he had no name, the sad, sad dog did not quite know whether he was being spoken to or not. To be on the safe side, he learned how to be quiet. From when he felt like barking, he just did not. He imprisoned all his barks inside his thin little body. He was the quietest dog ever. He was kicked, stoned, cursed, chased with broom and cuss words, but he never barked.
For sure, he was nobody’s dog. No one patted his head. No one ever gave him a bone. No one ever beckoned him with a whistle. Oh, how he ached to wag his tail to welcome into his life anyone at all.
One day, he decided to carry out a plan. The plan was aimed at acquiring a master. The dog bathed himself so he would look real nice and clean just like that poodle he once saw inside a passing car. As he bathed himself by a broken fire hydrant the alley cats and dogs watched him, with great interest, for once. They were amused by him. For there he was, drying himself under the hot sun and making great efforts to wag his tail in order to catch the attention of passersby. His face was getting blue already, but his tail would not move at all. It was stuck between his legs. It had simply forgotten how to wag.
"Oh, never mind," the dog told his tail wordlessly. "I can bark to attract attention."
And so he forced himself to bark. He was so sure that if he could bark like that German Shepherd guarding the gates of the big house someone was bound to look at him. And take him home, maybe. And so he tried again and again to bark. He was getting blue in the face already but not a single bark would come out of his throat. The dog only then realized that he had forgotten how to bark, too.
Because he was nobody’s dog, he had no home. And so he moved from place to place. And everywhere he went he always heard a voice say, "you go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear?"
Of course, he always heard. At least he had not lost his ears that he had to go somewhere. He couldn’t possibly be nowhere. A place in time must always be there, even for a dog like him. And so. . . .
The dog without a name became a vagabond. He rose with the sun each day to look for a place where he could be even just for a little while. Here was the church by the side of the road, which the dog believed led directly to Heaven. Many a time he had tried to enter the church, but always there was the priest. "You go away, you dirty dog," the priest would say. "Don’t you know that this place is not for you? This is only for God’s own chosen people."
At other times, the dog would try entering the schoolhouse. How he loved to watch the children with their books. He wanted to be with them. But each time he tried to pass through the school gate the teacher’s voice would thunder. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for the intelligent."
He, of course, also tried to enter the Municipal Hall. But there was always that policeman guarding the entrance. And so the dog settled for the second best place. At noon the people working in the place threw their leftover lunch inside a garbage can standing under a fire-tree. Sometimes, when luck was with him, he could get chicken bones, fish tails and sometimes, oh, goody, even slivers of fact and meat. But always he ended his meal feeling bad. Always, somebody would suddenly come out of nowhere and shout at him, "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you. Don’t you see that you are eating dirty garbage and messing up the whole place?"
One day, getting really worried about the germs he must have inside his belly for having eaten a lot of garbage, he tried entering the hospital. Of course, that was not the only reason. He had been feeling weak and sick for quite sometime. Dragging himself to the hospital door, he was met by a doctor. The doctor told him, "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for those who can afford the cure."
Oh yes, the dog without a name also tried to enter a military camp from time to time. He liked to watch the soldiers in their crisp, handsome uniform. How he liked to be just one of them. He would help them track down the enemies of the people. His nose was made for the job. Why, he was even willing to die for the people! But even before he could set foot inside the camp he was always discovered by the guards by the gate. They would always tell him. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for patriots."
On Saturdays the dog without a name usually passed by the marker. Many people were always there to buy or sell something. How he wished he had something to sell so he could buy some food. It was really here, where dreams are made of. Because the dog had nothing to sell he relied on the next best thing to do. He would park himself near any butcher. Any butcher at all might take pity on him and throw a bone or two. But that never happened. The moment his fleas on his body transferred to the butcher’s fat legs there it would go again. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? This is only for those with goods and money."
Oftentimes he tried to enter the rich man’s house. The big house was sandwiched between the church and the municipal hall. He had heard from the cats and dogs, and of course, the rats too, that the rich man’s garbage was full of good things to eat. But each time he tried to join the other animals, he was always told. "You go away, you dirty dog. This is no place for you, do you hear? The place is for us only. We found it first."
Once he tried to join people marching behind a red flag. He had heard from hushed conversations that those who followed the red flag got home of their own. And so, when one sunny summer day he saw this red flag waving wildly in the air, he ran as fast as he could to catch the tail-end of the long march. He was so deeply impressed by the marching feet and the chanting that went with them. Gathering all his strength the nameless dog tried to match the marchers’ feet with his. After a few attempts, he felt very good indeed.
Why, he could march. He could march! He probably could chant, too. Clearing his throat to find out whether indeed he could, he tried releasing his bark long imprisoned in his wasted body. He was about to release the first bark when he felt a kick hit his stomach. As he lay motionless on the hot pavement he heard the voice of the people: "You go away, you dirty dog. This is not for you, do you hear? This is only for the oppressed and the injured."
The dog without a name really had nowhere to go. Even in the cemetery he could find no place. Much as he wanted to smell the flowers on fresh graves he never quite succeeded in doing so. Just as he got near them a stone would hit his head. The gravedigger always caught him by surprise. Spade in hand, and the other pointed at the dog, the gravedigger would intone, "You go away, you dirty dog. Don’t you know you damn dog that flowers are not for you? They are for the dead."
The dog without a name held out from day to day for as long as he could. He did not want to die yet. He wanted to get a name first. For as he roamed around the cemetery he noticed that everybody in the place had a name. That is why they are lovingly remembered. People cry over them. People light candles for them. People clean their graves. People pray for them. People also bring food for them even if they are too dead to eat.
One day the dog without a name couldn’t take it anymore he decided to die once and for all. "Who cares if I died? He asked himself wordlessly. Even if I get a name and then died, who would remember me?" he added, "Life is sad, life is sad," he repeated wordlessly over and over again. While saying these wordless words he looked for a place to die. Now already too weak from lack of food and too much wandering, he could not really have his choice—the churchyard where birds sang all day long, He had to settle for a patch of grass he knew not where. Nestling himself on the soft grass he waited for death to carry him away to his father and mother. Wondering how he might recognize them, considering that he never saw his father and he no longer remembered his mother’s face. Just as he was about to see dog faces in a land he had never seen before, he felt something touch him. Hands were putting a dog bark collar around his neck. And then, he heard the voice: "You go home with me, little doggie." Upon hearing this, he no longer wanted to die. All that he wanted just now was to open his tired eyes. At last he had a name. "Why didn’t I realize it before?" he asked himself. "My name is Yougo. Yes, that is my name."
"What a lovely name," the voice said.
Yougo wagged his tail.
