Chikaima Maitea teaches Roby Burns to the world - our best friend -

My dearest wren,


Schopenhauer quotes: "anyone who has never owned a dog can not know what loving and being loved man. I am starting to speak to you about Roby Burns with the love between a human being and a dog. At the end of the high school, your mother chose to speak about that kind of relationship at the exam, because I missed my "little sister" Litzy, who was living with your grandmother Cinthia, whilst I moved with your grandfather Paolo. Yes, it should be weird that I called my dog a sister, but you must to know that sometimes during my childhood I felt deeply lonely and when she came in our lives, she changed all of us. More than me, she was the reason why we spend lots of Sunday at the mountain, not just to carry fresh - and free - water, but also to give her the opportunity to run as a thunderbolt. It should be perfect have siblings and a pet to care with, because there are differences between a brother or a sister and a dog. First, the dog will die soon. Of course, it should happen that also your brother can die before of you, but do not believe that the death of a dog is less suffering than with the loss of a brother: I slept with my daddy for one week after Litzy’s death. I still have memories of that day: After my job at the library, the meeting with the dentist I was waiting a friend in a park to discuss about the activities with children we had responsible for. I noticed a big dog and I walked towards him, asking the owner the name and the age. He gave me a kiss on my cheek. Unforgettable. At the same time, I felt a shiver, but only a few hours left I understood the reason: my mother called me saying that Litzy was gone. I cried many tears because the last time I saw her was the day before my birthday and she gave me the last glance, as she knows that she will never see me again. But she sends me the last lick, her last kiss, on the wind, through an unknown dog, as to remind me to continue to love as dogs used to love: unconditionally. The love will overcome all kind of walls, neither the death can win against the Love. This is the reason of your European name Maitea.


Robbie Burns, the Scottish poet who will celebrate every year on January 25, has written a poem to celebrate his pain for the death of his beloved dog Luath. He had built a conversation between two dogs as they represented different working classes.I want that you know the land in which your parents met each other and in which you were born, because you’re a citizen of the world and, as citizen, you must to know the place in which you live. To take care of it, starting from the past. Poems are the best way to drive on emotions that rationally it is hard to explain. Writing and reading poems is the way human beings belong to bark. You know God, God is Love. To spread this truth, poetry is often the only way to communicate with others.

So, let’s barking to the world the power of the love, my honey.


The Twa Dogs A Tale 'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, That bears the name o' auld King Coil, King's Kyle, a district Upon a bonie day in June, in Ayrshire When wearin' thro' the afternoon, Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, weren't busy around the house Forgather'd ance upon a time. met together The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, Was keepit for His Honor's pleasure: His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; But whalpit some place far abroad, born Whare sailors gang to fish for cod. I think Caesar must be a Newfoundland His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar Shew'd him the gentleman an' scholar; But though he was o' high degree, The fient a pride, nae pride had he; Caesar wasn't a snob But wad hae spent an hour caressin, Ev'n wi' al tinkler-gipsy's messin: Happy to speak with At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, ordinary dogs Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie, His coat wasn't matted, but But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, he looked rough An' stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. He would pee on the stones with his mates The tither was a ploughman's collie- other A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, A poet, and a bit of a lad Wha for his friend an' comrade had him (Burns himself) And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, Named him Luath when he was After some dog in Highland Sang, drunk Was made lang syne,-Lord knows how lang. a long time ago He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke, a wise and faithful dog As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. jumped a ditch or a wall His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face good-natured, white- Aye gat him friends in ilka place; streaked face always made His breast was white, his touzie back him popular, everywhere Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gawsie tail, wi' upward curl, happy Hung owre his hurdie's wi' a swirl. buttocks Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, good buddies And unco pack an' thick thegither; best of pals Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd an' snowkit; they snuffled about, digging Whiles mice an' moudieworts they howkit; up mice and moles Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, An' worry'd ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin' weary grown mucking about Upon a knowe they set them down. hill An' there began a lang digression. About the "lords o' the creation." they started a long talk about mankind Caesar I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, often What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; An' when the gentry's life I saw, upper classes What way poor bodies liv'd ava. at all Our laird gets in his racked rents, His coals, his kane, an' a' his stents: the laird He rises when he likes himsel'; takes in his rents His flunkies answer at the bell; servants He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; he drives a coach and He draws a bonie silken purse, horses. His purse As lang's my tail, where, thro' the steeks, is full of gold, you can The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. see the gold glinting through the loose stitches Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling The servants sweat At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; for the laird from An' tho' the gentry first are stechin, morn till night. Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan Even the top Wi' sauce, ragouts, an' sic like trashtrie, servants have That's little short o' downright wastrie. fancy meals Our whipper-in, wee, blasted wonner, The wastage is Poor, worthless elf, it eats a dinner, shocking Better than ony tenant-man His Honour has in a' the lan': An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, I own it's past my comprehension. Luath Trowth, Caesar, whiles they're fash't eneugh: The labourer A cottar howkin in a sheugh, digs ditches Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, and builds walls Baring a quarry, an' sic like; to keep his family Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, together A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, An' nought but his han'-daurk, to keep Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, When disasters happen, Like loss o' health or want o' masters, you'd expect them to Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, give up, but they keep An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hunger: going and raise But how it comes, I never kent yet, strong sons They're maistly wonderfu' contented; and clever daughters An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies, Are bred in sic a way as this is. Caesar But then to see how ye're negleckit, How huff'd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit! Lord man, our gentry care as little For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; They gang as saucy by poor folk, go past nose in the air As I wad by a stinkin' brock dead badger I've notic'd, on our laird's court-day, - An' mony a time my heart's been wae, - Poor tenant bodies, scant o'cash, How they maun thole a factor's snash; put up with having their He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear possessions taken, He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble, grin and bear it An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble! I see how folk live that hae riches; But surely poor-folk maun be wretches! Luath They're no sae wretched's ane wad think. Tho' constantly on poortith's brink, poverty They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, The view o't gives them little fright. Then chance and fortune are sae guided, They're aye in less or mair provided: An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. The dearest comfort o' their lives, Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives; healthy children The prattling things are just their pride, That sweetens a' their fire-side. An' whiles twalpennie worth o' nappy beer Can mak the bodies unco happy: They lay aside their private cares, To mind the Kirk and State affairs; they talk politics They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts, Or tell what new taxation's comin, An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. they're amazed As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns, 1st November, All Saints Day They get the jovial, rantin kirns, They have a big party When rural life, of ev'ry station, Unite in common recreation; Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. That merry day the year begins, They bar the door on frosty win's; The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, The beer steams and foams. An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill, The pipe and the snuff-box Are handed round wi' right guid will; The cantie auld folks crackin crouse, The young anes rantin thro' the house- My heart has been sae fain to see them, That I for joy hae barkit wi' them. Still it's owre true that ye hae said, Sic game is now owre aften play'd; There's mony a creditable stock O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, handsome Are riven out baith root an' branch, the laird evicts them Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster In favour wi' some gentle master, Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin, perhaps For Britain's guid his saul indentin- Caesar Haith, lad, ye little ken about it: A description of the For Britain's guid! guid faith! I doubt it. Grand Tours Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him: of Europe An' saying ay or no's they bid him: At operas an' plays parading, Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading: Or maybe, in a frolic daft, To Hague or Calais takes a waft, To mak a tour an' tak a whirl, To learn bon ton, an' see the worl'. There, at Vienna, or Versailles, He rives his father's auld entails; Or by Madrid he takes the rout, To thrum guitars an' fecht wi' nowt; Or down Italian vista startles, Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: Then bowses drumlie German-water, To mak himsel look fair an' fatter, An' clear the consequential sorrows, Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. For Britain's guid! for her destruction! Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. Luath Hech, man! dear sirs! is that the gate They waste sae mony a braw estate! Are we sae foughten an' harass'd For gear to gang that gate at last? For so much to be wasted O would they stay aback frae courts, An' please themsels wi' country sports, It wad for ev'ry ane be better, The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter! For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, Feint haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; Except for breakin o' their timmer, Or speakin lightly o' their limmer, Or shootin of a hare or moor-cock, The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk, But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? Still, at least Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them, cold or hunger to worry The very thought o't need na fear them. Caesar Lord, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, The gentles, ye wad ne'er envy them! It's true, they need na starve or sweat, Even though they've Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat: no work to occupy They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, them An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes: they worry But human bodies are sic fools, about nothing For a' their colleges an' schools, That when nae real ills perplex them, They mak enow themsel's to vex them; An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, In like proportion, less will hurt them. A country fellow at the pleugh, Country folk ocupy their His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; time well, but A country girl at her wheel, the gentry Her dizzen's dune, she's unco weel; get bored But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, and restless Wi' ev'n-down want o' wark are curst. They loiter, lounging, lank an' lazy; Tho' deil-haet ails them, yet uneasy; Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless. An'ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, Their galloping through public places, They're not truly happy There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart. The men cast out in party-matches, The men spend time Then sowther a' in deep debauches. living it up Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, they suffer for it Niest day their life is past enduring. The ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, The ladies hve As great an' gracious a' as sisters; tea parties, But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, gossip They're a' run-deils an' jads thegither. and cheat at Whiles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie, cards They sip the scandal-potion pretty; Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks; Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, An' cheat like ony unhanged blackguard. There's some exceptions, man an' woman; But this is gentry's life in common. By this, the sun was out of sight, An' darker gloamin brought the night; evening The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone; beetle The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; cattle stood bellowing When up they gat an' shook their lugs, ears Rejoic'd they werena men but dogs; An' each took aff his several way, Resolv'd to meet some ither day

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