Small Narratives. Anna Ferrari

him vigorously with the pesticide for hours, as instructed by the veterinarian. The owner also returned, to take him away, he looked like the evil ogre, but the young White always smiled, confident in humans, even the worst, like all dogs, unaware that the 'good ones' could disappear from his life. He already loved, as he had shown by the vet: the prophylaxis and vaccination operations were numerous, but at a certain point he no longer rebelled, giving up: "Ok, I understood: you can do what you want to me!".

      About the extraordinary nature of certain episodes, when we walk together in the park or in the woods, my mind also wanders, writes, prepares lessons, plans the week, or simply gets lost behind the thought. Suddenly White enters my field of vision: he is different, he is an infinite love, and trying to live that feeling without time and space, to push myself as deep as possible, to see only with the eyes of the interior, I perceive the distinct sensation of seeing and touching his soul; I am convinced that he too heard mine, he understood. The crying thunders uncontrollably, mixed with sobs, an outpouring of deep, almost supernatural emotions.

      I am lucky enough to be with them often, it is a panacea: their smells, their movements, the approaches in search of pampering have become essential elements of my life, so much so that their lack becomes an inner emptiness.

      White's behavior teaches that a smile, a greeting can turn the world upside down. As Saint Mother Teresa of Calcutta says: Peace begins with a smile.

      He has no sense of the passing of time and his manifestations of pure joy when we (his parents?) return home flood our hearts, cancel the discontent, the disagreements of the day. And let it not be said that he will spare himself: you could go out and come back ten times in a day and he would run to meet us as many times, jump on us, give us his famous “flying tongue” basins.

      He is never angry, in no case does he pout, sometimes he allows himself to be a little offended or sad, after a scolding. But it is so unnatural for him not to receive smiles and caresses that it is enough for me to look at him, as soon as the (false) anger is gone that he humbly comes to have his head caressed, to be readmitted into the magic circle of our love.

      Looking at Black you notice all the things she can say: for example, even if we are independent and autonomous, we can give a lot of love, we can allow ourselves some pranks, which knowingly obeying is not humiliating. And then the best activity we can engage in is taking care of ourselves, licking our wounds, smoothing our fur.

      Black and White. They entered my existence without asking for permission, they found the door already open, and now it would be unimaginable to conceive life without them. The days are modulated by moments of play, pampering, food shared with them. Black and White never back down, as if they knew, from ancestral traditions, that humans are a little exaggerated in the manifestations of affection, sometimes more exaggerated than White himself.

      By taking care of them, you feel Life, the strength of Life, you learn even more to respect the diversity of others, but also not to give discounts to those who behave badly, use violence, verbal or physical, to those who do not care account of the needs of others. They do not even know what disrespect for Life is, they are Life. They may in some cases be or become aggressive, in defense, because they are forced or trained (which is the same thing), but they never use gratuitous violence; they do not know how to keep a face, they do not know rancor, they do not know what envy is, and not even slander. They are pure, intact, instinctual beings, it is true, but also endowed with a particular type of intelligence, which can be highly developed. And then they remember, they learn, they imitate. Coincidence would have it that they were of two opposite colors, but compatible, they look good together and love each other, they miss each other.

      I do not know anything about the relationship, if any, between Black and White and the famous whiskey.

      Black and White are unique, the only and best examples of Black and White. As in a premonitory dream, I see them always being together, and keeping me with them; in that way, even then, with the two of them next to each other who spite each other, I will not be afraid, on the contrary I will be happy.

      The little girl on the bus

      A sunny and lazy spring Sunday. We sit at the breakfast table trying to slow down any activity that takes us out of this stupor: washing, dressing, looking good, going out. If we could, we would slow down time, but that flows, inexorably, independently of us.

      I surf the Internet with my tablet, Elias is dedicated to general cleaning in the shower. I like looking for new books, finding interesting articles. I have developed a list of volumes, as usual the expense is considerable, at least for my possibilities, but I can never reduce the sorting. With great effort I remove two, of low cost, just to feel less guilty, but the situation does not change much.

      EBooks would be cheaper, but I need paper, and I want to see the bookcase shelves, already full, become overcrowded, with the aim of making piles on the floor as well. It is an accumulation drive, and I understand that I like to see its fruit. The amount of digital books is not calculable, and I do not like that. If you love, you want to be able to touch.

      Of course they criticize me, about the accumulation, let's take some away, they whisper as if to themselves (they no longer dare to pronounce the word "let's throw"), but I do not listen to them, at most I try not to enter the bookstores, or not to attend the Internet. But then it always happens that, almost by chance, I come across an intriguing title, a compelling plot, a familiar character and so my list is still extended by several units, which will soon pass from the state of desire to that of possession.

      I just closed the Safari window, which gives me another appetite: sweets. Sweets to create. I take my cell phone and ask my cooking app, many tempting proposals, but with ingredients that are too sophisticated. In the end I opt for the classic tart. I do not do anything with my hands, and if I really have to, I wear latex gloves, I can not bear to feel them smeared. With the mixer I prepare the dough, then I spread it in the terracotta pan and cover it abundantly with voluptuous strawberry jam homemade by my mother, finally I make the toppings with the shapes of the biscuits, the moon, the heart, the star, the bell. The appearance is really nice. I bake, the recipe says 40 minutes at 180 °, in static mode. I sit and wait. Meanwhile, it occurs to me that I could also make a blancmange: the tart for breakfast, the blancmange as dessert. Why not? I check and I realize that I am missing the main ingredient: almond milk. Patience, for this I am willing to make a derogation from Sunday laziness and I will go to the supermarket nearby to buy it. The exception to myself is not so difficult, what weighs me the most is to fail to speak. My husband and I have promised ourselves not to go to the large distribution on Sunday, because working conditions seem unacceptable. While I am here I doze, waste time, spend money, linger, there are people who work, people who still have their own home, some loved ones, but have to sell their time to their employer.

      It seems that centuries have passed since the trade union conquests. There are few holidays in which large-scale distribution remains closed (perhaps for a minimum of moral decency), and so these people, many women, little by little lose the sense of the regular passage of time, with its rituals, which give meaning to the actions of life. Perhaps they feel like their real home the workplace, the desk, the cash desk, there they have photographs, plans, puppets, a blanket for when it's cold, a sweater for air conditioning, a fan for how hot it gets. Their house is less rich in objects, rather spartan, on the other hand where is the time? Either you are not there, or you are too tired.

      “I can't stand them for more than two days at home, I don't change, I don't go out, I don't wear makeup, can you think about it? A few months like this and you let yourself go completely. What do I do all day at home? At work it's sometimes hard, but at least I do something, I'm bored here. "

      When I hear these speeches I think that today we are as alienated as our early twentieth century ancestors, or even more. We are alienated from our affections, from our free time, from contact with ourselves, from the ability to be alone, from the void created by the absence of occupations, which frightens us.

      Our little protest will not even be noticed, the supermarkets on Sunday are always full of people .

      Anyway, I brought the milk home and started the second dessert.

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