I can’t sleep. I have not cried in a long time, months certainly, perhaps years. But this afternoon my chin trembled and one lone tear fell from my eye, smearing the dirt and dust on my right cheek, partially hidden by the sunglasses that give me the look of a raccoon. I have not cried in a long time, but I cried today.
It’s late. I have an early morning and long day, but I still can’t sleep. I’ve seen a lot in the few short months I have been in Afghanistan. Not as much as some, but enough. Is there a darkness in my soul eating at the light? Are the two fighting for space, hoping to force the other into submission? Or is it just a reinforcement of my nature as a human being to be a Killer Angel, and to have the capability for both good and evil? Why am I still awake?
An image of two dogs playing leaps into my head, forcing out all other thoughts like a bully pushing and shoving his way to the front of the lunch line. One is a puppy, small and full of cheer, the other massive, unknown age, but friendly. And kind. And gentle. But sad. Both are playing on the concrete, oblivious to the shuffling of feet nearby, the taunts thrown from person to person, the gentle swoosh of the ball going through the basket. All each can see is the other. And it is fun, and it is right.
Another image bursts into my brain, although I was not there to see it. The same gentle giant is alone this time, without friends, pushed against the wall, surrounded by Afghans kicking and punching the poor animal. He does not fight back, only his sad eyes and his whimpering and cries betray his unhappiness. No friends nearby to help him, he who had many amongst the Americans. Alone and forlorn and without protection from the cruelty the Afghans consider fun. It is wrong, but they are too ignorant to know it. Or do they know better?
I see my hand next to a massive paw, heads near touching, tail wagging, him hoping for attention. I oblige, and smile at the dirty, sad, gentle, newly adopted canine. We left him water on our porch, enjoying the sight of our honorary pet. We called him Cujo/Bruce.
Images flash through my mind like a slideshow on fast forward. Walking on patrol with an additional member of the patrol not accounted for on our trip ticket. A massive beast sprawled out in the middle of the basketball court, ignoring the game swirling around him. Cujo’s gigantic jaw swallowing an entire steak in one bite. The gentle resistance put up by him as we led him to his last resting place. A final rush of images: his sad look, the resigned stance, the lack of any effort by him to escape his fate during his last seconds on earth.
Pop!
The dog seems to sit down, but collapses onto his right side and begins convulsing. There is no pain, only muscle contractions. His paws flutter briefly, futilely. My heart hurts. I watch the whole thing. I must watch. I can’t look away. I cry. Did he know what was coming? Why didn’t he try to escape?
I can’t stop watching. I know he’s dead. He is certainly not the first animal I have seen die. Had I been the one to pull the trigger, he still would not have been my first animal or my first dog. But watching him die still stung my heart.
He died as he lived: sad and gentle with no fuss or struggle against human hands. We sent him to the canine afterlife on a funeral pyre of diesel fuel and trash. The smoke blackened the earth, twisting up into the sky, dispersing into the wind, leaving only ashes below. I stood vigil over him as he burned, watching his fur catch on fire, then burn off entirely into ashy flakes that joined the wind. I grieved, but not just for him.
Why am I mourning a mongrel? What about HIM makes me melancholy? Is there a reason for his death? Is there a reason for any death? Why is he killed but another spared? Was he diseased? He had bloodshot eyes, but they were always bloodshot. His latent vomiting and diarrhea? Isn’t that a typical symptom for anyone, human or animal, beaten severely in the ribs and abdomen? Does the new unit just hate local dogs? He was killed with dignity and respect, served a last meal of several juicy steaks, and given attention up to the bitter end. But he is still dead, killed by our hands.
Regardless of the reason behind his death, he is dead. He no longer walks among the living. He will never place his huge head in my lap again, hoping for attention. He will never roll over onto his stomach, wanting only a belly-rub. He will never eat another steak. He will never walk on patrol with us again, a silent guardian, a gentle coward.
The night goes on, I still cannot sleep. Life and death. Death and life. Change. Movement. Thought. The brutal reality of life is that life is brutal. Why did my friend Daren step on a landmine and not me? I was close to stepping on an IED on multiple times, but I didn’t. I don’t know how many occasions we simply did not find an IED on patrol. But that does not mean they were not there. How many times have my Soldiers nearly died? I am fortunate. I know I am. I have never had to write home to any of my Soldiers’ parents or wives. Not all of my friends and peers can say that. I know I am indeed fortunate.
Time has no meaning. Days blend from one monotonous day into another. How much longer do I have in this purgatory? I am going to be back in Germany in less than a month. I am going to travel throughout south-east Asia on my block leave. I will see my family in spurts throughout the next year. I will go home. I will tell my story, such as it is. Many will hear me, others will listen, and some few will comprehend. Life does not end for me here. I did not cry when Daren died. I do not know why. But I cried for one lonely, gentle dog. I think I cried for all of the times I did not. I think I cried for the friends I have lost, the friends I will lose. I cried for my continued growth as a man. I cried for the loss of my boyhood. I cried for all of those who cannot.
I cried one teardrop for all of this, making a clean streak on an otherwise dirty cheek. One teardrop.
Cujo is dead, but I am going to live. And remember.
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