by Gwagwagwe
Those of us who knew that gray-muzzled tribesman we're blessed. Soon after our heart-wrenching experience with the dream twitcher a cold wind blew through the bison village. The warm sunshine could not heat the chilling nature of death as it lingered on the windy sea, which connects all experience and perception. Bison yellow ball, Buddy, to his friends was a city dog. The first 120 moons of his life were spent in one suburban lot after another. He was hit by a car when little, but his companions had modern dog-healing powers, and he soon recovered with a little less intestine and a whale of a scar. He spent many days inside one kennel after another while his companions wage-slaved for the greed driven vet corporations. Every once in a while a trip to the park or the farm could relieve some of his wolf instincts, but years of urban life dulled those urges most old in the canine family. When buddy became a bison his spirit was freed. A seldom-heard voice, a deep penetrating grunt and howl, became a welcome assurance during the dark days of winter. He would howl at the wind, the rain, the jumping fish, and any medium or larger size member of the community of life that would approach the bison village. Miles of trails were his to explore and lead. Bison yellow ball and the rest of the band had an agreement. Bison yellow ball would lead in the wilderness, he hunted the water sources, the bones for tools or snacks, the fresh animal trails, and Gwagwagwe would lead in the city, where he hunted the dumpsters for food, the college campuses for books and camaraderie, the parking lots and strip malls that make up the average suburb. It was a fine agreement, and each respected the other's agility and competitive edge. Bison yellow ball treed two coons in the swamps, chased those poor armadillos, and swam for every jumping fish. The wolf in him flourished for eight moons, yet the fire that burns in all things was calling him back. We awoke one morning to find him sitting high on a ridge in the sunshine. His face solemn and reserved, his tail with a little less wag. The supper the night before was stake and potatoes so we were still all full of nourishment, we had all slept our usual 10 hours so we were all rested, so we just assume he wanted his privacy (Bison yellow ball always enjoyed his quiet time alone contemplating his place in the world). He was not hungry all day, and we respected his wishes, a second day went by without an solid meal, and we knew he had made a decision. Two or three time a day he would wander away from camp, only to be found by us, and we asked him to return. We knew he was going, he had decided not to share his packmate's/tribesman's food, he did not want to endanger the pack/tribe by smelling weak around the den/village. Yet we would not let him die alone, we sat with him, quietly singing or talking, no one wants pity at the end. On the fourth day of his fast it was over, those bright eyes were darkened and he began his next journey. We took his to a special place, a grassy field in which many a yellow ball was thrown and retrieved, many a back scratch and ear wiggle was observed by the oak trees. Here we placed his body awaiting for the rebirth of buddy. Soon the black scavengers were overhead, and after that we say buddy soar into the air as crow.
You will be missed, we loved you so much. Each crow will remind us, each swoop of wings will bring us joy. Goodbye, tribesman and friend.