I had just sent the girls upstairs this evening and was closing down the kitchen for the night, when I saw the rear lights of The Father’s car pulling into our walled garden.

Reminded me a bit of Christine, if you know what I mean.

The Father entered the kitchen first, a rather annoyed/ bored look on his face.

How was it, I asked .

I have seen Zwarte Pieten bands play better he said, walking over to the closet to hang up his coat.

I really wasn’t surprised, after all the man is 81, the newspaper’s said that his voice was gone…

But still, I paid scalpers a nice bit of cash for those two tickets, tickets to see a Living Legend.

When The Boy entered the kitchen, rather by force of habit, I asked him how the concert was.

He said great, unbelievable !

I looked over at The Father and he said it was indeed an amazing concert, their socks where rocked off, the concert was beyond description.

On the ride home, though, The Boy asked The Father to look disappointed when I asked how it went.

Two sh*ts.

Tonight they saw Chuck Berry in concert, in the 013, Tilburg.

And the final number, Johnny Be Good was just as clean, crisp and rocking as it could possibly be.

Go, Chuck, go.

At one point in time, I actually did a Google search to see if a dog could be, uh, oh, have, be hyperactive. I know, that is really the wrong way to put it, but I can not seem to remember the initials for that *syndrome*.

Well, a dog can actually be, uh, oh, have, be hyperactive.

He followed the directions of his big ( at least 30 cm) half brother, Buddy- same father, born 3 days apart.

When Buddy died, I suppose that I was the one who changed everything concerning Elvis.

Long story, to lazy to relate.

Now, I am most likely one of the few people on earth who likes both dogs and cats equally.

But I do have a certain distaste for dogs who sit around simply salivating as they await orders from * The Boss*. I also dislike dachshunds to a major degree, having walked one for a year or so, long, long ago. I like laid back dogs, dogs that seem to have been breed in the days of the 60’s.

I like Newfs.

I also admire Border Collies, though I would never want one, you know, that salivating business.

There is a leash law in our town, and when it is my turn to walk Elvis he is always on the leash. I will actually get up at 5 in the morning to walk him, simply to avoid those small, yapping dogs. Once, when I did it at a later hour, the constant yapping of two small dogs ended up with me being dragged across the street, for Elvis can only take so much of that nonsense. The women with the yappers later asked me if I was ok, said her dogs were simply frightened , but, well, f**k it, when a dog barks, it is not out of fear.

I said that I was fine, a few bruises, my brand new jeans almost in shreds, but sure, of course, her yappers were simply frightened.

Another morning, a very tall man with a small black dog crossed my path. The dog was yapping and yapping. I told the man that I could only hold Elvis on the leash for so long, but of course, he did not simply pick up his yapper and move on. No.

I could not keep Elvis sitting for such a time and he did indeed go after the yapper. He did not hurt the dog, but the man called me just about every name in the book, if you know what I mean.

There is a man in town who has a Border Collie. That dog is never on a leash.

Now, Elvis seems to see the Girl as the leader of the pack, you know, Fonzie. The Girl’s grief is being translated into rage.

She does the after dinner walk and ran into the Border Collie. ( Bye the bye, The Father once had a run in with this dog and since then the Border’s owner carries one of those big let us play with the ball sticks). The Border, not on his leash came to Elvis, The Girl told the man about the leash law and then let Elvis go.

I doubt that Elvis hurt the dog, but one thing is clear- our little weanie of a dog will protect The Grl with all of his soul.

And the owner of the Border will never, ever complain about a 14 year old girl, walking her dog.

Elvis has changed and The Girl talks about masks and digging her own hole.

She wants to go and live with my- oh, uh,- half second cousin, Stevie.

Thoreau said something once, but it escapes me for the moment.

All that comes to mind is what was perhaps the lyrics from some pop song :

Every where you go, you always take the weather.

Perhaps that is indeed what Thoreau said.

I can not remember.

How much pain can one person endure ?

After, oh, maybe that vacation that we took in May, or even perhaps after that oh-so-jolly vacation this summer, as I made up The Girl’s bed in the morning, I noticed the name of a boy- J.- scribbled all over the place, in that manner that 14 year old girls have a tendency to do.

Chatting together one day, I asked if J. was her boyfriend. With downcast eyes and a shy smile on her face, she said no.

I then asked her if she wished that he was her boy friend. She looked up at me and smiled, saying yes.

J. has been in the hospital for a few weeks lately, his sister keeping The Girl up to date. To me, from what she told me, it sounded as if J. had pneumonia . Day after day, I told her that the Doctors would try stronger and stronger medicines, to help J.

Shortly after dinner last night, J.’s sister called The Girl ( no one but family was allowed to visit him at the hospital), and said that J. had cancer everywhere , and would most likely die that evening or today.

He died two hours later. His funeral is for family only.

I called The Girl in sick today at her school, for she loved J. dearly ( although she now has a boyfriend) .

Since August, she has (basically) given her first horse to someone that she trusts will care for him, left the manege that she has been a part of since she was 6 years old and her dog- Buddy- died.

She thought that her new horse would lessen the pain of giving away the first horse, but it has not.

How much pain can one, small soul tolerate ?

At the moment, we form a protective shield around her, the others must stay away from her or be pleasant.

Staying away from her is much easier for them, for snarky behavior is indeed a part of siblings growing up together.

My poor, dear child.