strange fruit

Not lost, no; but this scene of execution -- Ghalib pointed out to me this morning that my bananas had "fallen down" -- has reminded me all day of Chinook, my ex-brother-in-law's old dog, who did use to get lost. When I was eleven years old, the rest of my family watching the Blue Jays winning one of the battles in the World Series war inside my sister and her husband's new apartment in tiny-town Ontario, I stayed out all evening with him. I had never had a dog, and wanted one almost as much as a horse back then. He was a husky, strong and eager -- though as old as the hills -- and as I stood in the middle of the yard with him bouncing around me on a taut lead, I was sure the night would conclude with me being dragged through the grass and along asphalt at last. He had no familiarity with his new home, and had been leaping over the gate that kept him in his pen every chance he got, usually managing to detach himself from his leash in the process -- hence my role, happily volunteered for, to keep him occupied and my brother-in-law from having to drive slowly up and down side streets looking for him. That particular night brought no great mishaps, either for the dog or for me, other than mild earache from the late October chill. Shortly thereafter, though, my sister reported that Chinook had hung himself over the fence in his final attempt at escape. Unwittingly, I assumed.