Kimba

For all my mind knows, I could have lived in the Disney castle for the first 13 years of my life. I did not see much of that house, after my parents divorced. It remained permanently in the realm of my childhood memories. And I had a damn good childhood, save for a bit of loneliness here and there.

There, in that foggy 8mm view of my life, it must have taken twenty minutes to run from the front door to the end of the driveway. The hill behind our house was a behemoth, and it settled into a lake surely the size of Lake Michigan. And our house! I could start in the basement. It was sectioned into two parts: The toy room where my brother kept his trains and where I kept my little green army guys and where my imagination would grow to outrageous proportions. There was a pool table in there as well, which doubled as ping pong when the mood fit. And this was the room where I cried inconsolably when Kimba died.

My entire life in that house had Kimba by my side. He had the features of a German Shepherd and the colors of a Collie, so he was as big or bigger than me. Boy's best friend is no misnomer. When I was grounded or sent to my room, Kimba was my lone companion (haha if they really wanted to punish me, my parents would have separated us. I fooled them! (I think not). Most of these semi-punishments revolved around my frequent outbursts regarding things like coming inside for the night or getting ready for bed. I also had a very strict self-imposed diet as a child: tacos, pizza, hamburgers, chili. If I refused to eat the liver or the broccoli, I was often made to sit at the table for hours (was it really so?) until I finished my meal. I got around this mostly by feeding chunks of food to Kimba under the table when no one was looking. Though looking back now, I think my parents probably knew all the clever things I thought I was doing.

Kimba was protective but gentle. When excited, he would wag his tail so hard it would thump and thwack loudly against everything he walked past. He was also the neighborhood's alpha dog, similar to the head of a wolf pack. In those days, people didn't worry too much about letting their pets roam. If they were gone for more than a half day, there would be some worry. But we always found him. Kimba and the other dogs could often be seen trotting down the street together, heading off into a patch of woods, presumably to make puppies. How politically incorrect!!!!! Kimba was always in the lead, fending off challengers for his supremacy every few years. I remember, towards the end of his life, slow and ginger and afflicted with arthritis, I took him for a walk. The challenger was a young Labrador from across the street. He came out to meet us and growled at Kimba. He could not run if he wanted to, but I seriously doubt he had any such thoughts. I can see, Kimba trotting forward to meet this usurper, gaining the advantage of first strike. In one simple, deft maneuver, he sidestepped an errant paw and charged in, knocking the lab to the ground. Kimba stood there, proudly, paw on neck. It was over before it started.

The annoying neighbor had no better luck. This was the house that got tp'd every Halloween. His were the tires that got slashed by marauding teenagers. This was a guy who had been kicked out of grocery stores because of his brutishness. He hated Kimba. he hated the barking, he hated the sniffing around the garden, but mostly, I think he just hated life. He had many tactics and schemes in mind to try to tame our wild beast, but Kimba made the best of it. Brutus, I'll call him, once (maybe twice - he was that stupid) threw a shoe at him. A nice one! Kimba promptly picked it up and ran off. I was rolling on the ground laughing. I'm not sure our lovely neighbor ever got his shoe back.

Kimba, though, had a fondness for anything he could put in his mouth. Living on a lake, there were plenty of opportunities for stray beach balls and Frisbees to end up in our yard. Kimba was swimming, always swimming. Paddling, paddling farther and farther away from the shore. I still wonder where the hell he went. Sometimes he would just go all the way across the lake, get tired, and have to walk all the way back around. Oh, God, I love him dearly to this day.

He died on a day that I had basketball practice. When I walked in the door, there was no Kimba. Even in his old age, he would always be there, always. I found a note on the kitchen table. It read: "Donnie, we have taken Kimba on an errand."

Now, when you lose something you truly love for the first time, there is an immediate despair that sets in upon the sudden realization of goneness. He was irretrievable. he would no longer come to my call. I knew what had happened, and in that moment all I wanted was to feel his fur, to hear his bark, to listen casually to his tail going thump thump against the dishwasher. What had always been there all of a sudden wasn't, and that's not an easy thing to grasp. I think that's what children see when they experience loss. I often see a simple, sad, faraway, despondent look upon their faces. I think they are learning to adjust to the absence of presence, to the finality of it. That certainly was the case for me. I always turned inward. Later in life, instead of learning to hold closer those I love, I think I learned to love less. Avoidance, I guess. I don't think it necessarily gets an easier either. Maybe a little, but I'm not sure if that's because I've become used to it or because I cannot love like I did as a twelve year old. As you can see, I'm one for sortin' shit out. And today is a new Day and Age.