Mamula

It will disappear on Wednesday at noon.
But this isn’t any magic.

She’s about to give birth. This is a living wound.
The trader laughs stupidly.
It makes me want to slam him.
But I read too much about unnecessary aggression and what the consequences are.

He bought it like this a while ago.
She says that the dogs probably bit her because she tried to escape from the farmer’s field.
He called the vet. Apparently. That’s a lot of “supposedly” stuff, isn’t it?

He dressed the wounds, considered them superficial, sprayed them with something and advised them to take them to slaughter.

I look at the small snores of the old squat, who is breathing heavily. That life has taken a toll on her, I have no doubt. These wounds look more like a skin disease, fungus or scabies, but someone would have to try very hard to cause them.

I rub my hands together.
The January wind blows through the empty branches. It doesn’t look like the promised land around, although it’s almost all forests…

I take two breaths.
I’ll take the third one.
I’m almost a Buddha.
After the third one, I approach Mamula.

Oh, if you were here, we would make some quick action! I know it. Because you wouldn’t be able to bear the knowledge that the mother, still in this condition and with the child under her heart, is about to go under the knife. Well, what right?!

Yes, modern, practical and rural law – that’s what you could call it.

Apparently you can’t.
The law boasts that it protects people like her. Expecting.

The same law killed hundreds of them – and they didn’t even look back.
It’s a business worth billions.

So the realities, solidly supported by business, take their course – and no one stands at the entrance to the slaughterhouse with an ultrasound and checks.

And that old Mamula will pass, hoof by hoof, the threshold of the slaughterhouse, according to the law that will pretend it didn’t see it.

Then the law will narrow his eyes as he approaches the executioner. And he will strike a blow.

And the law won’t look when it suddenly turns out that Mamula was not alone. He will turn and go.

With him, your and our dreams of a dignified death for animals will go beyond the threshold of the slaughterhouse. About some (any) respect for their lives.

And when dawn comes and Mamula’s eyes are already closed, only the gloomy sky seems to draw attention with its gloominess that she is no longer there.

And we are drinking tea all over the world this morning under the same sky.

We are getting ready for school, for work, for our activities.

Mamula is also getting ready today.
To death.