Foo-Foo Has Passed Away, RIP - Moran Yotvat
- nonaorbach
- Mar 3
- 4 min read
Unconditional love. I am eight and a half years old. I’m returning from school to the village using the shuttle like I used to every day. The sun shines above me as I walk down the winding path leading home. To my left, vibrant purple bougainvillea bush. I cut across a green lawn to the back of the house.
On the porch, Foo-Foo greets me with a wagging tail and hops as if we haven’t seen each other for years. Foo-Foo is a black mixed poodle and my best friend! I hug him; his fur is soft.
It’s us against the world. A green net framed by cracked white wood separates the porch from the living room. I remember the porch, the tiles, the silence in the air, the scent of blossoms, and Foo-Foo’s kind eyes looking at me. I understand that I'm home. Sometimes, he even licks my hand and nudges me for more pets.
Mom is late.
She said she’d be back by noon; it’s already afternoon.
Alone.
In the evening, right before I went to sleep, I went out to the porch to talk to Foo-Foo:
"I’m angry at Mom. Why won’t she let me bring you inside the house? After all, you’re the one I love the most. You’re the only one who truly understands me. Understands and knows how I feel."
Spring. I’m nine years old, and I’m in the new house we moved into just a week ago. I have a new bed and a new desk! I’m trying to adjust to the new school.
Winter. It’s Monday evening, and I’m returning from a trip. The bus drops me off near the dining hall. I walk along the path to my home. The house is dark.
I hear the porch door creak open, and my cousin rushes toward me, shouting, "Grandpa's dead! Grandpa's dead!"
My sister is making tri-color pasta with red sauce.
I stare at the pot.
Silence.
Foo-Foo always walks with me to the bus stop. When the bus arrives, he sits and waits on the sidewalk until I get on. As the bus pulls away, I see him through the back window walking back home.
It’s already December. Another year has passed. I’m almost ten and a half. Foo-Foo still walks me to the bus stop. This time, a brown gas mask box hangs from my right shoulder, adorned with a drawing I stuck on it of a missile, a house, and the words "Stupid Saddam."
The air carries the scent of rain.
I'm adjusting to the new school. That day, we had an educational general lesson. My class is divided into two camps, and I struggle to choose where to stand, ultimately declaring, "I’m from the UN."
I walk home from the bus stop, passing by a lemon tree. The scent of lemons hits me strongly.
I arrive home, and Foo-Foo is there, wagging his tail and jumping on me. "You know? I’m from the UN." He gazes at me with his green eyes and snuggles against me.
Morning in early winter.
I’m eleven and walking to the bus stop with Foo-Foo. The street is quiet, and the air smells of damp earth.
I’m cold.
It's strange; I’m never cold.
Tired.
I am twelve years old. It is the Saturday after Memorial Day for Israel's fallen soldiers. Foo-Foo and I are walking through the vineyards behind the house.
Suddenly, Foo-Foo emits a strange, mournful bark.
He runs away from me, and I chase him. "Foo-Foo, Foo-Foo! Where are you going?"
I arrive home, breathless. "Dad, something is wrong with Foo-Foo!"
A glance.
Foo-Foo returns home and stands at the entrance of the path leading to the house. He glances at me briefly before rushing off to the fields. I chase after him. He collapses onto the dry ground. I hold him, feeling his soft fur.
Everyone in the village knew Foo-Foo. He was a free spirit, a dog of the streets and the village.
I ran down the street toward home, breathless and distraught. "Foo-Foo is dead! Foo-Foo is dead!" I imagined how everyone would rush outside.
They did not.
In the days that followed, I could see it in their eyes—they realized that Foo-Foo was no longer there.
I got home and hugged Dad—he stifled a sob and held me tight. "It must have been a snake bite. Foo-Foo was a good dog."
It was the first time I saw my dad cry.
We buried Foo-Foo in the yard behind the shed. I made him a headstone from an old terrazzo tile we had in the shed. With a black marker, I wrote the words on it: "Foo-Foo has passed away, RIP."
Seasons change.
Passover. I am 13 years and one day old.
I walk along the road that passes through the village, heading to the bus stop for the ride to middle school. The stop is situated at the small shopping center, beyond the grocery store and close to the mailboxes.
Foo-Foo no longer walks beside me.
I find myself alone as spring has arrived.
All art works by the author.
Moran Yotvat Rudnik, Visual Art Therapist
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