Dear Sir,

Some months ago, this newspaper printed a missive to which the present is a sequel. That first epistle was called 'An Open Letter to the Relevant Authorities Whose Business It Is the Registering of the Pedigree of Dogs.' In it, you will remember, I outlined the peculiar situation of my admittedly mongrel dog, Eddie, who by cause of the serious expenses he had incurred upon himself, by the vet's strange bestowing upon him of a surname, and by his general show-off-ness in life, had earned himself (I felt) an upgrade. I suggested that though Eddie might look like a mongrel, though he might come from a long line of mongrels, if one would but look closely and consider his life and ways, behold, old things would pass away, and all things would become new.

letter was a mistake

I am forced to admit that the publication of that letter was a mistake. It is well known that the lives of pedigree dogs aren't safe in this country, especially if they are the gentle kind, unwilling even to protect themselves and bite off the hands of bad-minded people like you who have never done an honest day's work but come towards them with crocus bags. You and your lot are in the habit of jumping fence, snatching the fluffy members of our family, then ransoming them back to us, if not selling them to someone completely new. How my letter must have appeared to you like an advertisement: Pedigree dog, come and steal!

Sir, to tell the plain and simple truth, I thought you couldn't read or write. I thought you were one of those who left high school without any subjects. That was my own arrogant mistake. Beg pardon. You must have read my letter; you must have installed yourself in my mango tree that very day; you must have watched how that conceited dog Eddie had lay down in the yard all afternoon licking his brown fur and his balls with a frightening ferocity, as if to say, Look nuh man, I am not no screbbe-screbbe dog anymore and star dog can't afford to look or smell any old way! Poor Eddie ... did he know then, that the only thing he was destined for was your bag?

true pedigree

The following week, many neighbours and friends, who finally noticed my dog's true pedigree and nobility, called the house wishing to come and visit. But what message was there to give this crowd of well-wishers - what to say when the morning after Eddie was gone. Clean. Kaput. Vanished. Poof. Like a thief in the night, so to speak.

People tell me I am being stupid - that despite my letter, Eddie was a mongrel through and through. They tell me Kei, the dog definitely was not stolen! But sir, if I do not believe he was stolen, I would have to believe he is dead. I am not ready to write an obituary, so I insist upon your existence and your crime. In any case, it is months now and the dog hasn't been found - not in any neighbour's yard, not in the middle of any road, not, as mongrels tend to be, curled up under some bush attracting flies with their newly dead selves. But there is another possibility: if I do not believe he is stolen or dead, then I imagine him off having some grand adventure. I have begun to write these down - 'The Completely Imagined Further Adventures Of Eddie'. You are a thief with an appreciation of the literary, so I will share three of these with you:

1) Eddie Transcendent

I imagine that the thorough grooming and licking that Eddie had started on that fateful Sunday carried on straight through into the night. He licked his fur into such a brilliant sheen that if someone had been awake and looked into the yard they would have seen Eddie glowing brighter and brighter. Eddie smiled. Stupid and vainglo-rious, he continued in this same way, licking, licking, shining, shining, brighter, brighter until he was utterly transformed into light. Eddie discovered then, that light was light - that is to say, weightless - and he began to float. This upward-moving fluorescent globe even passed our windows. Inside the house we twitched at the sudden overwhelm of orange - a glow like daylight behind our eyelids. And still the dog rose, as Elijah caught up in the fiery chariot. He rose, but not too far.

to the thieves

Dear thief, call the astronomers to verify this fact: that from Hope Pastures and perhaps from Mona, there is a new star that can be seen.

2) Eddie Transcribing

I imagine Eddie slipped into a parallel universe. You see, he caught wind of my letter - a letter that was about him. What an indignity - to be written about without an interview or any permission or any waiver duly signed by his paw print. This inspired in him an anger that he could feel more than he could describe. The language of dog (which mind you is very much a language!) is still, like most languages of this world, smaller than English. It does not have the breadth of vocabulary or the flexibility of syntax. Eddie was angry that he was being exploited - that he wasn't even the writer of his own story - and he trembled himself into a crack between worlds, and then he slipped straight through.

Emerging on the other side, Eddie has discovered opposable thumbs, the sudden ability to hold pens, to type. He has a library of books which include his own. He is a poet and a professor of creative writing. When I imagine this, I like to think that it is Eddie who is telling the present story. He has simply invented me as a narrator. I do not really exist. I imagine that I am imagined, and that you too are imagined, and that this letter and this world are figments of Eddie's imagination.

3) Eddie in a Trance

Dogs, of course, have a magnificent sense of smell. I imagine all the dogs in Hope Pastures must have sniffed in the air the scent of Eddie's new found acclaim. Eddie, former-mongrel-of-no-esteem, became instantly attractive to all the female dogs, especially the mongrels who wanted to have children of high colour. The bitches howled and howled all night wondering, each one of them, how they could ensnare this fine specimen of a dog. In the course of the night many desperate attempts were made, and Eddie snubbed each one of them saying - I don't sleep with dog who have flea, or, I don't sleep with dog who don't have a collar, or, I don't sleep with dog who eat out of ice cream dish and not a proper bowl! Well, finally the successful dog jumped into the yard and released, from her anus, a perfume. This eau de toilette would have been repulsive to anyone else, it would have curled the toes of humans and caused them to run indoors. To Eddie, it was like a fragrant rose. He fell under that smell and was led away.

Do we feel sorry for him? - his nose is now permanently stuck up another's arse; he has become absent-minded in the truest sense; he is being led like the Pied Piper's children. But isn't all of that just another way of saying - Eddie has fallen in love. As Ruth, he has declared to his loved one: beseech me not to leave thee, for thy people shall become my people, and thy God my God. And wherever you go, I shall follow.

Eddie, wherever you are, do not rest yet. Rather walk, bark, and most of all, live in peace.