A tale of the Valbasca Band
Skye didn't say good morning. As soon as she woke up, she would go straight to the terrace, lie down on her sofa and remain still like a sphinx. You could offer her cuddles, cookies or the Wi-Fi password. Nothing. Until she finished waking up, you didn't exist.
Aside from this Hollywood diva scene, Skye was a reasonable dog: kibble in the morning, wet food in the evening, a stick to gnaw on if she got pissed off. And above all: no fruit. Apples? No. Grapes? Never. Strawberries? Please. All it took was a slice to get close to her and she would turn her head in contempt.
Until the blackberries appeared.
A mulberry tree at the end of the walk began to drop small, black, sweet balls. Skye, who passed by every day without even looking at it, stopped one morning. She smelled one. She tasted one. She ate three. Then five. Then sixteen.
It began like this: as all stories begin that then get complicated.
She returned home satisfied, with breath like jam and the air of someone who had just made a deal.
But toward night, the little tummy began to reason on its own. It made bubbles, gurgles, little whispered speeches. Nothing tragic, mind you. But enough to make someone turn over in bed.
It happened the next day too. And the day after that.
Skye continued with her secret snacks, and her stomach with the evening reruns.
Organic, sure… but the kind of organic you would gladly do without.
Then, one morning, he came to the mulberry tree, looked at it… and moved on.
No explanation. No regrets. Just one more step and away.
In the evening, the tummy fell silent.
And since then, every time she sees a brunette on the ground, Skye stops, stares at her for a second, then walks on. As if to say, “Yes, I remember you. But don’t fall for it again.”
Moral:
He who knows when to stop, sleeps better. And he makes others sleep too.
