Open Writing

The screen door smashed shut as Simon came running in, his boots spraying mud and weed over the lino. He stopped at the table I was sitting at, eyes wide and breath rapid, and noticed my furrowed brow. He followed my gaze and looked around only then noticing the debris he had flung around the kitchen. Turning back, his distressed face had vanished replaced by a heavy look of contrition mixed with a little sideways glance that made my heart go soft. And I loved him, even though I should not have, that little bit more.

He saw me soften and the anxiety rushed back in to supersede the guilt, along with the heaving chest, and the wide eyes.

“What is it now, Simon?”

“Nothing. I've found an animal. I think it's really hurt. It looks as if it's sick. Really sick.”

Simon was forever finding animals to save on our small farm. Little birds; lost, cold hedgehogs; the odd rabbit. Even stray old cats. If there was a sick animal around, Simon would sniff it out. And bring it home.

“And . . .?” I tested.

His head pivoted to one side, a puzzled look matching his messy blonde hair. “Don't you think we should save it? It's in a lot of pain. I reckon it's gonna die.” He was only seven and his surety shocked me a bit. This was the first time he had ever mentioned anything about the destiny of his little recoveries. Previously, all he had wanted to do was ease their discomfort. And his own.
“O.K. O.K. Lets have a look, shall we? What is it this time? A bird? a cat? What?”

“I think it's a dog, a puppy, maybe. Dunno,” making to grab my reluctant arm. It was a dog; a tiny Labrador pup, pure black, with a peculiar white-pointed nose. It was so young; its eyes were only slightly open. A sure sign that it was part of a cruelly abandoned, unwanted litter. Upon realising this I made a mental note to keep Simon off the farm for a while more, lest he come across its siblings, which no doubt would then be in far worse condition.

I need not have worried as Simon was taken up, fulltime, with the recovery and care of Sooty. But it wasn't easy. Simon could see that it was a lot poorer than even I had thought. The puppy looked to have been thrown, not gently, into the drain from a moving vehicle and so there was blood and grazes to clean and soft new bones to check for. Its front paws looked the worst and one of its ears had almost been torn off. But Simon hadn't seen these particulars. He had just seen the whole animal as one more sick tiny soul to save.

Simon looked after Sooty's comfort as best he could, keeping it on the floor, on a blanket in a redundant washing basket, in his bedroom (after much pleading to let him keep it in his bed, which we drew a firm line on). I could hear him later that evening opening his bedroom door, to be followed by a tap running as he brought it some water. On the third night, as we were just about to head for bed, he came down and asked for extra bedding. Bringing the blankets into his bedroom, I saw that Simon had given the still sickly puppy his sheets and duvet and that he, having no bedding left, had failed to keep warm with the two jerseys and three pairs of socks he had on.

Sooty died in the fifth night. We didn't know until the morning when we noticed a spade leaning against the door of the garage. Behind the garage and under the big Apple tree we found Simon, asleep, tightly wrapped up in an old sleeping bag, thumb in mouth. Close by, my flowerbeds had been disturbed, a mound covered in ragged pansies marking the spot where Sooty lay.

“Do you think he's happy now?”

I turned to Simon, his very awake, bright eyes carefully watching for any hesitation, any doubt I had in his nursing.

“I think he is very happy. Happy that you looked after him and happy to be here in our garden.” I paused, wondering what else to say. All I could think of was that next time Simon found an animal, I would not waver in helping him rescue it.

© Erik van Bommel