A death

I tell my Maman that I have broken my hand on the phone and she is concerned. I tell it is fine and ask how my dog is doing. I am told he is making progress. When I arrive home on Sunday night, Beaugarde isn’t where I left him and he is not next door. My sister tells me he is out with my Maman. She arrives home a moto fifteen minutes later, without Beaugarde of course.

“Where is Beaugarde?” I say. “Oh Jamie, he is dead. I didn’t want to tell you with your hand and everything.” End of story, sort of.

Later my sister tells me he isn’t dead and that he wasn’t tied up and he wandered off and they couldn’t find him. The whole village was out looking for him, she tells me. Then later I tell this story to someone in my concession, when my aunt, she is nuts and grates on me, says that story isn’t true, but that Beaugarde hung himself on his leash. I talk to my post mate a couple days later and she tells me how bad of shape Beaugarde was when she saw him after I had left. I don’t know what happened to my dog. I would like to believe that maybe he knew he was going to die and wandered off somewhere to do so, but the realistic part of me thinks perhaps my Maman gave him away, which ultimately means here for eating. I haven’t even bothered to ask where his collar went and I have made it clear, I don’t want another dog.