Basket

Brumi was born five years ago in January, the first of eleven puppies. For her mother Vidra this was the first – and as we had to admit, the last – litter, so she almost had no milk, and I had to feed the puppies five times a day as I had done to Muska.


The kids were intended for our friends, but Brumi was born with such a severe dysplasia that we decided to keep her for ourselves. Our veterinarian told us that from the age of three she would gradually deteriorate and would finally die in great pain.


Brumi slept away yesterday morning, when the computer stopped short. At the age of five, without pain, after having apparently prepared for it for weeks and having taken leave of the other dogs, with that peaceful final breathing out as newfoundlanders used to put down their head like “well, now everything is all right”.

We take leave of her and say thanks for her with the poem sent by Wang Wei at their birth.

PRIMERO se toma una mimbre, y se la pone en agua, para que pierda altanería, se haga dulce, mandible, y tenga amor; luego se la trenza como un sueño, y, cuando ya está hecho el cesto, puede ponerse en él la ropa blanca, unas frutas rojas, doradas, o un gatito. A veces crujirá en la noche; pero así se hizo el mundo, y así, a veces, se lamenta.

FIRST take a wicker and put it in water so that it gets rid of its arrogance, it becomes soft and pliable, it fills up with love; then braid it like a dream, and when the basket is ready, you can put in it the clean clothes, some red and golden fruits, or the kitten. Sometimes it will creak in the night but this is how the world was made up and this is how, sometimes, it complains.