THIS IS A RECENT PHOTOGRAPH
OF MY DOG...SAMMY
I was returning
to my house in Cherry Garden (a suburb on the outskirts of Kingston)
when I struck him head-on, killing him instantly. Yes, I killed
my own dog.
Needless to say
I was VERY UPSET when I got out and discovered it was my Sammy.
Initially, I thought it was someone else's dog or perhaps a
goat but upon closer inspection I became convinced.
Same breed, same ears and I
would have recognized those eyes anywhere. Even if they were
hanging out of his head. I felt terrible. I loved that damn
dog and after four years of loyal service I had paid him back
by killing him. I felt that he deserved better. Subsequently,
I've decided to show my respect for Sammy by taking him on a
sightseeing tour across the country-his country, the country
he never knew:
I scooped up
Sammy and threw him into the trunk. Then I called the office
and told them I wasn't coming in for a couple weeks. When I
got home I fired the maid for letting him get out.
Unimpressed,
I threw her things onto the front lawn and screamed:
I grabbed up
my camera and went to say goodbye to my whoring wife Opal who
was out on the veranda being idle. She said:
In Jamaica, some
people from the lower classes (like Opal) often refer to a penis
as a "'hood"- which is short for MANHOOD. But I had
no time for that--Sammy was rapidly decomposing. So, I kissed
her tenderly between her large breasts and left the house. I
propped up Sammy in the front seat of the jeep and we started
to drive across thee country.
As we drove I
gave him little history lessons about Jamaica and he seemed
to like it even though he didn't stick his head out the window
the way he usually does when I take him out in the car.
Eventually, we
arrived at beautiful YS Falls. I lifted Sammy out of the car
and carried him down the slippery steps. Then I threw him into
the cool fresh water for a nice swim. And, as I watched him
there, kept nicely afloat by his swelled belly, I knew he was
happy.
Swim dear Sammy,
swim.
PART II
I
had to admit. As much as I was enjoying my quality time with
Sammy, I couldn't help but feel a little depressed that he might
not be having as much fun as he might be having if he were still
alive.
But
then I remembered the words my wise great-grandfather used to
say to my great grandmother when cousin Hortense died while
waiting for an appointment at the American Visa office :
"...there's
good and bad in everything that happens Kitty-Belle. Although
Hortense is gone, at least we don't have to put up with any
more of his farting. All he ever did was come over here and
fart."
Grandfather
was right. There was good and bad in everything. I would be
GOD-DAMNED if I was going to allow my stupid little insecurities
to prevent me from being a good tour guide for Sammy.
SO...after
Sammy was done swimming, I scooped him up and strapped him to
the top of the car.
Wet
dogs smell bad enough , but a wet dead dog is simply intolerable.
I patted him on his head and we were off to the airport. After
a very reasonable 8 hour drive back to Kingston, we arrived
at the airport and soon we were flying high on an Air Jamaica
jet and drinking champagne.
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"...care
for some peanuts Sammy? They're honey roasted! " |
I
simply love flying to the north coast or Negril on Air Jamaica.
I've really got to hand it to that Butch Stewart. He may be
a little overweight and greedy, but he sure knows how to keep
the white people happy.
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'Ha!
Ha! Wasn't that hilarious when Billy asked that beggar
if HE could spare any change?! And then the SANDALS
security shot him? Ha! Ha! Ha! I love this place.'' |
Hell,
if it weren't for good ol' Butch, a lot of people might not
be able to go back to Miami and share memories with each other
on www.jamaicans.com!
Now
that would be a real loss.
Anyway,
Sammy was really loving the flight. The champange was superb
and we didn't see one dark-skinned pilot so we felt really safe
and secure...
The
Stewardesses were great too.
Then
we got a real treat. When I told the stewardess that this was
Sammy's first flight across the island, she offered to let him
see the cockpit and meet the pilots. Sammy didn't react much
but I knew he was really excited, especially when they let him
sit in the Captain's chair!
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WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
LOOK
SAMMY! YOU'RE DRIVING THE FRIGGIN' PLANE!!!!
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Everything
was going perfectly. Captain Wixman liked Sammy so much that
he took off the automatic pilot and placed the controls in Sammy
stiff little paw. He did great for a while, but then, we ran
into some unexpected turbulence and I think Sammy panicked.
OH
NO SAMMY!! We're going to crash into Negril and kill everyone
of those nice, economy-sustaining tourists on the beach down
there!!!
MAYDAY!
MAYDAY! Pull up Sammy! Pull up!
PART III
Things were not
looking good in the least
Sammy was all
frozen up and we were going down faster than the Jamaican Dollar.
"CRIMES
ABOVE!!!, I cried as my lunch came rushing out of my mouth and
nose and arse.
Meanwhile, four
thousand feet below at Margueritaville, all the spring break
geeks were too drunk to notice an aircraft plummenting directly
towards them:
" Hick.
Belch. Yo, Tammy I ain't coming here tommorow. I just saw some
niggers who weren't workin' behind the bar."
As the cabin
began to fill with smoke, I pleaded with Sammy to do something;
anything to avert a disaster.
"Please
Sammy", I screamed hoarsely, "go with throttle up!
Go with throttle up!"
But it was no
use. The G-forces were too much now and all Sammy was able to
do was to sit there shake violently in his seat as the plane
dove faster and faster towards the earth...
"Such a
cruel lesson", I thought grimly to myself as I watched
the last last moments of my life tick down to nothing. If only
Air Jamaica had had the vision to train and hire more dead dogs
instead of these spineless foreigners, then perhaps we would
not be in this terrible predicament.
"Let this
be a lesson to you too Butch Stewart! You racist against Jamaican
dead dogs!"
The fumes in
the cabin started to fill my lungs so I buried my head between
my hands and waited for the inevitable. And then...the unbelievable
happened:
"What the
bumbarasscloth is going on in here!!!??"
I couldn't believe
it! It was the fabulously wealthy BUTCH STEWART , CEO of Air
Jamaica and part owner of the Jamaican economy (Chris Blackwell
owns the Cultural sector).
At first, he
seemed really frightened, but when he turned around and saw
Sammy sitting in the pilot's chair...
...any trace
of fear was instantly replaced by a profane rage.
I looked over
at Sammy. I knew he was hurt, but before I could explain to
Butch that this was Sammy's first trip across the island, he
grabbed Sammy around the neck, tore him from the pilots chair...
...and hurled
his carcass across the cabin.
Well, I didn't
appreciate that one bit.
I don't care
if Sammy wasn't flying the plane good. That still didn't give
Butch any right to throw him across the room like that.
Damn Jamaicans!
Always throwing people's shit around!
For the first
in a long time I wished Sammy was alive so he could bite him
in the nuts. As for me, I was helpless since the G-forces had
pinned me to the wall and was making me shit my pants uncontrollably.
Meanwhile, Mr.
'Bully' Stewart had seized control of the plane and was barking
orders and pushing buttons frantically.
Suddenly, I felt
a violent jolt beneath my feet and was thrown to the floor as
the plane rose sharply and then dove again.
"Sweet Mother
of Christ!" ,
screamed Butch
as he pulled on a lever and dumped all the fuel from the faulty
engine into the sea where it was instantly swallowed up by a
massive surface slick of Cocoa butter with SF30 sunscreen protection.
Unfortunately,
some of the fuel landed on top of Margueritaville and ignited
on the cigarette of a white girl who was smoking in the sea.
"...Aaaaaa....Aaaaa...Plane
fuel! Plane fuel!"
It was horrible.
Everywhere you looked there was nothing but American and Canadian
teenagers running around on fire. There was no escape. Not even
for those who tried to drive away in the Margueritaville shuttle
bus.
"Omigod...
I am like... so not having fun anymore!"
But then...just
like that. The plane evened out in the air and and the horrible
shaking stopped.
Everyone in the
cabin breathed a sigh of relief as Butch Stewart handed the
controls back over to the pilots once they stopped vommiting
on each other.
I ran over to
Sammy and picked him up from the floor. Thankfully, he was no
worse than he had been before, except for his left front paw
which had been broken off (partly due to some rotting before).
I turned to walk
out of the cabin and go back to our seats, but much to my surprise,
my exit was blocked by Mister Hero.
he said as he
spat out some loose teeth , "I'm sorry I had to throw your
dog like that, but its against regulations and we have a tourist
product to maintain here."
Although I felt
like punching him in his big fat face, I had to admit that he
seemed sincere. He continued:
"Listen,
why don't you allow me to make it up to you and your dog. How
about a complimentary bottle of our finest Champange and a week
at Sandals Negril, inclusive of meals, drinks and water-sports?"
"Fair enough",
I replied after looking at the floor for about a minute and
shuffling my feet, "but only if you make an announcement
that clapping when the plane lands is a butu thing to do."
He agreed.
I buckled Sammy
into his chair and after brushing a few maggots from the bloodstained
fur on his neck, we were soon sipping champange and popping
valiums.
Ahhh dear Sammy,
don't you see? Wherever there is life, there is always hope.
THE END
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