The Magic Jacket
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                                                                                   An Unsolved Mystery


             

               There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

                                                                                                                                                        Hamlet

                                              


It's been a long Covid year.

A small green box sits on my desk. It contain all that remains of my little dog Finnegan, my friend and companion for over fifteen years.

A navy jacket hangs from the back of the kitchen door. It may look ordinary, but I know it has magic tucked into its small zipped pockets. This jacket saved Finne's life some years ago when a killer dog jumped into the car, sank sharp fangs into his front leg and dragged him into the street. 

I held Finnie's slight shivering body in my arms that day. His head twisted and turned under my chin, both of us the length of his llttle leg from mean eyes and clamped iron jaw.  I felt his heart thump madly as if it would burst through his chest. His shrieks of terror and pain brought people running from all directions. When the police arrived, four cars in all, they busied themselves holding back the ever increasing crowd of onlookers. No one approached to offer help apart from a woman who carried a bucket of water. The owner of the dog, her son I understand, glanced up from where he yanked at its lethal spiked collar 'Don't  wet my dog'. She backed away at his fierce command. 

Each violent tug of the killer dog's head tore flesh from bone until the pavement was red and sticky with blood. Had I lost concentration even for a moment during the forty-five minutes that followed, the ferocious killer would have done what he was trained to do. I would have a high price to pay months later when Finnie was out of danger and I discovered, too late, that I had forgotten to take care of myself. But that's another story. 

Silence fell as if all onlookers stoppped breathing at once. The crowd parted to allow a young, black man through. His feet made no sound as he walked towards us and knelt on one knee behind the ferocious dog. He placed his jacket gently over cold mean eyes causing it to lose bearings. The clamped jaw relaxed, fangs parted and I pulled what remained of Finnie's leg, now a stripped bundle of bones, free from its mouth. 

There was no sign of the young man when I managed to scramble to my feet. I made countless attempts to find him in the months and years that followed. I tried the internet, asked those who had been there, including the police, but no-one had seen him arrive, and no-one saw him leave. He stepped so silently, touched the ground so lightly and melted away so quickly, he might have come from another planet. And perhaps he did.
 
Time has passed. The green box sits on my desk. The navy jacket hangs from the back of the door.  I don't remember how I came to have it, only that it was stiff with dried blood when I arrived home from the Vet that evening carrying a traumatised, sedated and heaviy bandaged little dog.
 
I have given up hope of finding its owner with hIs calm presence, rare courage, sensitivity, ease, grace, stillness and generosity of spirit, qualities of an angel rather than a person, and perhaps it was an angel who happened to fly over Notting Hill that day.

It"s a mystery, and will probably remain so, but each time I catch sight of the little New Look jacket, I say a heartfelt Thank You to an ordinary Angel, or to a most extraordinary young man. Or both.

 
                                                   
                                             

                                                          

 

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