To the Editor:
I am speaking here to an anonymous intruder.
Sometime in the wee hours of Oct. 6, you climbed over my 6-foot wooden fence into my back yard, undoubtedly hoping to find easy targets to steal, where you shot my beautiful, harmless, loyal, loving dog.
Whoever you are, you are not worthy to be called a son of a bitch.
The officer who investigated says that you probably scaled my fence, where my darling Pinot, a white half-Labrador, probably barked at you, and you shot him in the leg and back.
My best human friend, my restaurant partner and Pinot's caregiver while I go on musical tours, found him lying on the floor in our home.
A bottle of bleach sits on the dining room table. Art said he did the best to clean up the blood, but under a carpet that was not there when I left to go on tour, a rough silhouette remains on the floor where Pinot lay down and died.
You shot my best friend. He was my companion for seven years, since the first dog I had in Clarksdale disappeared after the first time I was burglarized in this city, in 2011.
This makes three burglaries or attempted burglaries including that time, though after the second, I have installed a security system.
I was on a musical tour across five European countries. Riding across Spain one day, I was in tears one day, overwhelmed by my love for this darling dog. As we headed from Cerdanyola to Zaragoza, I told my tour driver that I hoped that I would die before Pinot, that he would survive me (I am almost 70 years old) so that I would never have to bury him.
Now, in the mother of all cruel ironies, I have not had to bury him, because Art and other friends have lovingly done so, in my back yard, and yet I have survived him.
I have lost dogs and cats over the decades of my life, and have even had to put down other friends' animals when they could not bear to do it. But all of those animals had died of disease, or at worst by accident. One or two have just wandered away.
One beautiful purebred Burmese cat I had for five years was undoubtedly stolen, a few days before the U.S. invasion of Iraq in 2003.
However, I have never yet, till now, lost a pet to violence suffered in the defense of his home with his master unable even to bury him.
Unknown intruder, after killing my dog, you didn't even rob me! You didn't even have the sick guts to try to enter my home after Pinot, mortally wounded, had retreated through his doggy door.
What a dangerous scum of the gutter you are, living here in Clarksdale, Mississippi, my adopted home. Pinot's lifelong home.
I am Watermelon Slim, a bluesman, and your neighbor.
I know I will one day have another doggy buddy, though I have no idea what length of time constitutes an appropriate mourning period for a dog who did not just die, but was murdered.
You could, if you chose, help your own soul, and your community, by turning yourself in and begging forgiveness of me and your fellow citizens of Clarksdale.
I just heard two small-caliber gunshots in the still, dark, late night in which I am writing this. Gunshots in the night, in this city, are not uncommon, and I years ago stopped thinking about calling 911 when I hear them.
But now I will always have to wonder if you, the anonymous murderer of my pet, are somewhere in the night, robbing the houses of my fellow citizens, and killing their pets who rise to their homes' defense.
BLUES FOR MY PET
Pinot, my darling Pinot, You're the best doggone dog in the whole wide world.
Pinot, my darling, harmless Pinot, You were the very best dog I shall ever have.
Pinot, my darling rascal Pinot, you will always, always be a part of me.
Pinot, my loving, loyal Pinot, you taught me how to love unconditionally.
Pinot, I will always remember, as long as I breathe, I will sing this song.
Oh, Pinot, if there's anything like heaven, we'll meet again before too long.
William P. Homans
Clarksdale
