Robyn Hogan

My mother always told me to stay in the yard and be quiet. Not my birth mother; she told me to howl at the moon, be a free agent, do something constructive with my life, but I am no longer with her.

Friday was hot, I was bored and the meter reader left the gate ajar. Just a quick fling, I promised myself, as I romped across the cul-de-sac and into the open field for some hunting. It smelt so good. I chased up a couple of bunnies and scared some silly, squawking seagulls before my nose led me to the Temple and its cool, calm pool. I sploshed in. It was wonderful. I cavorted, water streaming across my lapping tongue, lily leaves hanging off my ears, until most of the water had disappeared, drying on the surrounding stones.

‘You dreadful, dreadful dog, Barker,’ my mother yelled when she got me home, ‘it was bad enough swimming in their pool but did you have to kill the fish?’

I crouched, tail between my legs. So that’s what those fat, red and white spotted things were. Creatures of the water. No wonder they looked so odd, gasping in the garden.

‘Sacred carp. In the holy pond.’ She was still ranting. ‘And those carp cost two hundred dollars each.’

Oh dear. I would have to make amends. I dreamed of atonement all weekend.

When the Jehovah’s Witnesses called on their Monday rounds, I slipped out the gate before they could stop me. The grass in the field was heavy after the rain and catching the rabbit a bit tricky but I managed. Carrying it, I strode to the Temple. Monks, in fluttering orange gowns, strolled about, chanting, or sat quietly in the sunshine, meditating. Wagging my tail with pleasure, drawing their attention to my offering, I laid the rabbit on the doorstep. What a fuss!

‘Barker, how could you?’ my mother scolded when she got me home again, ‘Buddhists are vegetarian. They don’t eat meat.’

Maybe I should just stay in the yard and be quiet.

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