Every year
when I visit home, I see him pacing the terrace. And every time, without fail,
I wonder, “How did he get up there?”
Over the
last many years he’s been a fixture on that terrace — precariously balanced on
the ledge to us, Lord of the Terrace to him. From his vantage point, he looks
down on people, observing vigilantly. Any time of the day or night, you look
out and you’ll find him there, staring out facing the front gate. Does he not
sleep, not eat and most importantly, does he not tire? It’s unnatural and
fascinating. When you walk through the gates, a short, sharp bark greets you.
Bad enough, you know he’s looming over you, threateningly poised to jump, but
that bark startles you no matter how ready you are. There’s nothing ferocious
about him—just a common bred pariah but his eccentricity makes him famous, almost
like a landmark—“I’m just across the house where the dog walks on the parapet.”
I asked the
family if he ever stepped down. It was a mystery to them, much like his sudden
appearance and his strange affinity for the ledge. Neither rain nor renovation
managed to move him.
On my last
night at home, I found him still standing there—poised and haughty like Mufasa
from The Lion King. If he had a mane, the likeness would be complete.
(Not a very clear pic but you get the idea.)
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