Casanova is the name of the dog who sits outside our front door during dinner. He is the dog who lives in our little compound of 8 homes. I assume he was a mutt pulled from the streets but he has the gentle eyes of a pooch looking for love.
He forages for food and scrounges for love. His ticks and fleas force him to scratch frantically day and night. He sleeps curled in a tidy ball behind one of the houses, waiting for day light and sniffing for crumbs trailed by the split rubbish bags.
One sunny day, when the sun beat fiercely upon the hot red dirt, we delivered some bones purchased from the “God Loves You Butcher” up the road. They came in a black bag, heavy, with a warmth and moistness I could sense. Trooper and Princess were thrilled to tip the messy coil of innards and bones onto the ground and Casanova, eyes bulging and face spread into a surprised grin, couldn’t believe his luck. Due to the intense sun I was happy not to carry these left over bits of carcass around in the tank of steel, known as Beast all day,
Casanova howls when we come home. He runs beside the car and looks hopefully at us. He gently approaches us when we sit outside. He is not our dog but slowly he is slipping under our skin. His eyes speak of a love scared to speak and rarely delivered,