from Cocaine to Kiwi or run-over-puppies against cocaine abuse
according to the National Geographic (1985) the cocaine demand goes up towards Christmas/New Years- if that’s not something to look forward to . . .
I like cocaine. I actually like it so much, I’d do it every day if I was either rich and bored, or broke and desperate. I’ve given myself that dreamy boost of illusions so many times, I’m surprised I remember the very first time I tried it. which was downtown Berlin on a playground near the “farbfernseher” then a very popular, yet not too too well known electronic music club…
but this story is not about Berlin, even though Berlin was maybe made of cocaine. the story here is about a trip to Palomino, Colombia and how I killed my dog:
it all started perfectly fine with my 26th birthday and a hot day on a hot beach with my friend and the puppy we had saved from the streets over a month before. we brought the little girl to a vet, did everything we could, smuggled her across two borders (in a cardboard-box), she survived. a trooper, we guessed. rum and sun did their share and when the temperature decreased to a tolerable level, we started walking towards the road, that marked the main artery of Palomino. Colombian village bars are not much more, than a patio with a bunch of chairs in front of a corner store, that sells liquor – pretty much like in Berlin. we sat down, drank, celebrated my 26 years, still alive, and so on. eventually the idea arose, that a couple grams of cocaine would enhance the night even more, so I go. I check underneath the table and Tova (the dogs name) is laying soundlessly on the concrete floor of the patio. I walk into the night and into a bar not far away. it took about five minutes to find a dealer, pay and leave. coming back, my friends (more people had joined) were talking jovially. sitting down I realize something missing. Tova is gone. my friends say, they didn’t notice her leaving. we spread out, asking everyone around, nothing. a young boy shows up and tells me he’s seen a small dog. my heart beats. it’s over there by the road. my heart beats faster. it got hit. I run over to find her next to her intestines, empty eyes, dead. my heart breaks and cocaine does the rest. the tears wouldn’t stop for a week and the guilt of neglect has never completely left. we had everything figured out to bring her to Germany, but a (too) fast paced night changes everything.
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