In Kite Nation
Caroline Fynn
©
Copyright 2022 by Caroline Fynn
|
Photo of Yogi. |
I
watched part of a documentary on reincarnation while sitting in a
waiting room in Colombo, Sri Lanka. I followed the English subtitles
and noticed how the subject was not presented as a possibility, but
as a given, portrayed as fact. Until the year 2016, I had lived for
three years in the south of the teardrop island. In this magical
land, devotees to Buddhism hold an unshakeable faith in
reincarnation. I loved these people and respected their beliefs and
culture. Nevertheless, I thought the notion of rebirth to be
unrealistic. I paid no attention. Much the same as I would ignore
moon worship or an argument in favor of
a flat Earth.
Fast
forward to the present day and I think about reincarnation. A little
more than three months ago, my dog died. I rescued him from a
concentration camp for dogs when he was eleven years old. For five
years he had occupied little space among two thousand other dogs in a
Polish ‘shelter.’ He had endured starvation, and physical
abuse, and had no protection from the harsh and bitter winters, or
from the relentless heat of summer. How he survived for so long I
will never know. He was in appalling physical and emotional condition
when he arrived in England to live his twilight years with me in the
Oxfordshire countryside.
This
little dog, with his wild and woolly coat,
resembled a teddy bear, so I named him Yogi. With patience and
understanding, good food, regular exercise, and love from me and his
newfound doggy friends, he recovered sooner than expected. Yogi
became a healthy and happy old
boy.
Grief
has now risen its inevitable head and consumed me. I wonder how the
world continues without Yogi. It’s inconceivable that he no
longer exists. Spring has arrived. Cherry blossoms are in bloom, rape
fields have come to life, daffodils lift their trumpets towards the
sun, and Yogi isn’t
here.
For
all my life, as far back as I can remember, it has been important to
me to face the truth, no matter how dark, or how twisted it may be.
Yes, I know he is never coming back. He has gone forever, and this is
something we all face when we lose a loved one. But energy doesn’t
die, it transforms. Scientists have proved that energy of any kind
doesn’t simply disappear. I guess the energy within a living
being is what we have come to know as the life force. It could merge
with the wind or the rain. Perhaps the life force turns into
bacteria. But when I recall our encounter with a Red Kite, I wonder
if the people of Sri Lanka might be correct in their loyalty to
reincarnation.
A
couple of years back, during late spring, or maybe early summer, Yogi
and I were out walking along what is known locally as ‘concrete
track.’ A pathway leading through fields and woodland. It
enables us to walk from our village to the next. Apart from a few
horses, and sometimes a flock of sheep, 'concrete track' is usually
isolated. Rarely did we encounter people. We would mooch around and
silently share our
solitude.
Yogi
trotted along and did his important doggy things, like sniffing. At
peace, I mused about how lucky we were to live in such a calm and
beautiful part of the world. I relished the sun on my face, coupled
with a cool breeze. Absorbed in the present and in a meditative state
of mind I turned to check on Yogi.
He happily bobbed along and seemed
to be oblivious to the Red Kite hovering at about a meter directly
above him. I had never seen a Red Kite so close to a dog. I knew she
wouldn’t be able to take him. At fourteen kilos Yogi was way
too hefty for her. I thought of the Kite in the feminine because she
was big. The larger of the species are usually
female.
A
Kite so close to a dog is remarkable but I didn’t like it. I
imagined horrendous injuries should she dig her talons into Yogi’s
back. I looked at her hooked beak, sharp enough to tear boot leather,
and anxiety settled like a stone in my belly. I felt she could at any
second impale her beak into Yogi’s
head. |
Photo by Andreas Weilguny on Unsplash.
|
In
no way could I stand by and risk an attack on Yogi, yet I had no idea
of how to manage a bird of prey. I needed to intervene but didn’t
have time to stop and figure it out. So as not to startle the bird I
moved forward at a steady pace. The Kite flew away from Yogi. I
expected her to take off and disappear towards the horizon. She
didn’t. Instead, she moved beside me. My anxiety disappeared
and a sensation of tranquility took
over. Gut instinct told me she meant no harm. She swung along, her
silver head leading the way. She occasionally soared up and swooped
down but mostly glided back and forth alongside me. It seemed she
just wanted to be with us for a
while.
After
a few minutes, she flew away, out of sight to distant skies, on to
her next adventure. I blew her a kiss and whispered goodbye.
The
proximity and presence of this wild animal was a breath-taking
experience, pure bliss, an honor.
Especially because it was her
choice.
As
the seasons have passed, I have not often thought about the Kite.
Only since Yogi’s death I have reminisced on our encounter and
pondered the reason for it. Kites do sometimes
follow
humans. Usually trailing food scraps, but I had none. I contemplated
her intention when she lingered over Yogi. Kites will dive into a
farmer’s harvest looking for prey, and yes, Yogi’s coat
was dense but surely, she could not have thought rodents would hide
in there. She might have expected to at least pick up a few worms.
But it doesn’t explain why she stayed with us for so
long.
The
Kite could have been curious, and maybe she fancied some company for
a while. Perhaps she fell in love with Yogi, and it’s this
concept that has led me to ask if it could have been something
profound. Maybe she was once, in another lifetime, a person or an
animal, who had known Yogi. Could she feasibly have been a poor
wretched soul who didn’t make it out of the Polish shelter? Was
she someone either of us might have met in a previous existence? I
will never know. But these days, unlike my black and white mentality
during those Sri Lankan years, I consider reincarnation to be a
possibility.
Caroline
Fynn has worked in animal rescue in Sri Lanka, Thailand, and Vietnam.
She is an ardent supporter of animal welfare and rights. Writing as a
hobby for many years, Caroline took a course in creative writing with
the Open University. She is the author of one novel which she hopes
to soon publish. Caroline lives in the UK.
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