Since I was raised by my grandmother, who abused me physically, I hadn’t experienced much warm, human contact—except for those infrequent visits from my aunt and uncle during my early years. It was rare for me to be allowed to speak or play with other children, so any interaction with Nature and animals was always welcomed. I had a special bond with another neighborhood dog named Moulouk, a tall black dog with pointy ears, who often came to visit me. He was a poor, wretched creature, mistreated by his owner, especially when she was drunk. We spent what seemed to be hours at a time playing on the beach, wading in the water, eating oysters and mussels on the rocks, or, when the tide was high, playing in the woods on the other side of the road. And when I was craving tenderness, which I had rarely experienced, Moulouk gave me, in a different form, the warmth I was looking for. To rest on his belly felt like I was cradled by someone who loved me.
One day, since I hadn’t seen him for a while, which was unusual, I decided to find out what happened. As I was walking up the path leading to his house, I saw him lying in the dirt. I called out, but he did not respond. I found it very strange that he did not move, for he had been my friend for as many years as I could remember, and he was always very excited to see me. A closer look showed me he was tied up beside the front door of his house and had become very skinny and dirty. As I approached him, he barely moved. He lifted his head a bit wagged his tail slightly, but seemed unable to get up. His hair was matted, and his ribs were showing quite a lot. His owner had beaten him to the point that a bone protruded from a big gash on his side. I didn’t know what to do except pet him and quietly talk to him. There was nobody I could ask for help, and I was very afraid the owner would come out and tell my grandmother I was trespassing.
The next day, I was home and heard a dog howling at the end of the road. I looked and saw my wounded friend standing right in the curve of the road. I ran up to see him, but he had already disappeared into the woods. The following day, a man said he found Moulouk dead, lying near the pond in the woods—a place where he and I went quite often. I don’t know how he managed to escape and where he found the strength to walk so far. But I do know my best friend came to say goodbye and then went to the place he and I visited often, a special place where we had fun and peace, away from those who mistreated us.
To this day, I cannot think about Moulouk and his last days without a tug in my heart. He came into my life at a time when I had no friends and rarely had the opportunity to play with other children. His frequent visits were always a great source of joy. Although he was not ours, he must have spent a lot of time with me, for I remember him as almost a constant companion.
I’m convinced he was sent to me by my Spirit Guides not only to help me survive the years of my difficult childhood but also to learn love and compassion. I was going to catechism and learning about love and kindness, yet it was not what I could observe around me. I had a hard time trusting people.
By Liliane Fortna
