The moon is all bluish tonight

It is a fierce, hard blow. I close my eyes in fear, my hands hold the steering wheel as if it were a lifebuoy. My breathing is heavy and difficult. For a moment I toy with the idea of just drive on. As if nothing has happened. As if life is exactly the same as it was before the blow. Carefree, beautiful, friendly, superficial.

I brake, turn off the engine and get out. A thin drizzle falls on my dry straight hair. It is dusk. Cars shoot past me. I walk back a few steps to find out what it is that could have hit the car. I hope for something inanimate, something spiritless. A branch? A rock?

"This is not possible! It's not true! Please do not let it be true!”

The screams come from a man standing on the roadside. There is an elongated object, a black thing lying against his big boots. He bends down, he caresses the dead body. Softly, attentively. I remain standing. And I realize what happened. I hit a pet. A dog.

“It will be okay, it will all be okay,” the man sobs and continues to caress the dog. The head, the back, the stomach. I slowly come closer. I dare not say anything. Now that I have come within a few feet, I see that there is a sheepdog lying in the tall, wet grass. Blood flows from the mouth. The man is crying, sniffling.

“I'm so sorry,” I mumble in a daze. The owner does not look up. He continues to shake his head. The man is at least two heads taller than I am. And at least twice as heavy. Raindrops are glistering on the heavy leather jacket, the steel skinhead boots. I see colorful tattoos on his neck. He wears his gray-white hair in a ponytail.

In addition to my hands, my legs are now also starting to shake. All of a sudden, it seems to become night very quickly. And it is getting much colder. I stand along the highway like a worn-out terra cotta soldier. What should I say to the dog lover? But even more, what will he say to me? How angry will he get? How fierce will he be to avenge his pet? He will charge me with reckless driving. He will use his height and weight to intimidate me, to beat me, curse me.

The man takes the animal in his long, powerful arms. Without apparent effort, he picks up the sheepdog, strokes the animal's head and begins to walk slowly. What am I supposed to do? Should I go back to my car? Did he even notice me? Still at a safe distance, I decide to trudge after him. Afraid, insecure, docile.

After walking for about fifteen minutes along weeping willows, a meadow, hedgerows, a small forest, he stops in front of a modest house. A quick look shows that it is not a real house. It is more of a converted mobile home. Balancing with the dog in his arms, the violent man manages to grab the key and open the door.

“Are you closing the door behind you?” he shouts at me. So at least, he has become aware of me. The small room smells of candle wax and incense. There are four chairs, a low table, and an electric heater. There are books on the floor. But all in neat straight stacks.

"Would you like a cup of tea? I only have chamomile.” I don't dare say no. Can I sit down? The dog has been laid on a rug in front of the heater. I'm still shaking. Deep down I still expect the rage attack. The ultimate revenge of a true animal lover.

“What if I can help you? Can you do something for you?” I shuffle into the kitchen. The colossus dips a bag of tea in a cup of hot water. Everything in the tiny kitchen also looks in apple-pie order.

“Can you do anything for me?” We are sitting across from each other. He just found that the dog is dead. Dead to death.

“That's how modern people react. We always want to do something, would love to be meaningful. Even though we are in misery, in dire straits. I do not blame you. We are all people of our time.”

He wipes stray tears from his mighty face. He sighs deeply.

“Let the suffering be the suffering. That is life. That is our life. Sometimes we have to accept it. The punch of life, the caressing hand of death. There is no explanation at all. No meaning."

He kneels before the dead sheepdog. He places his heavy hands affectionately on the shiny fur. He closes his eyes. A frail sadness wraps gently an arm around his massive, powerful shoulders.