Saviour Balzan | Sunday, 24 January 2010

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A friend called Oskar

All things come to an end. Somehow life and priorities are all about shifting sands.
Until yesterday morning my thoughts were focused on Dr Austin Gatt’s impetuous decision to apply a boycott on MediaToday. In my mind I could not come to terms with the fact that Dr Gatt had allowed himself to stoop so low.
He did this by blocking the allocation of publicly funded advertising campaigns to MaltaToday and Illum, simply because he was not happy with what was written in one of those newspapers. If anyone for a moment wishes to excuse Austin Gatt for his Mintoffian tactics, please let me know.
When we talk of freedom of the press, please ask this government to explain what they understand by ‘freedom’.
Yesterday, my mind was floating away on a hundred and one things: domestic violence, police inaction, electricity and water bills and unemployment figures. Yet one thing that continuously returned to my mind was the puerile excuse by political appointee Doctor Clare Vassallo Thake, who did a Pontius Pilate and stated, in a letter to this newspaper, that as Chairman of PBS she was not responsible for editorial.
What a lame, irresponsible and stupid excuse. If this is the case, why does she attend seminars abroad on broadcasting content? And why does she intervene on other editorial issues? And why does she not stand down from her so-called symbolic role?
Well, at the end of the day, all these exasperating thoughts were superseded by Oskar’s demise.
When I woke up yesterday morning, in a country renowned for its tall buildings and its recognised love for venture and capital, I read the ugly message from my patient parents on my mobile phone.
The message talked of Oskar. A quick phone call confirmed that he had died.
Oskar was a very normal living thing with a loyal, handsome, loving and energetic attachment to his fellow human beings.
For 12 solid years he shared the thrills and the sadness of life. He chased helicopters in the sky, thinking they were birds flying over the garigue, and he was the most faithful companion of my late wife.
He would race across the rocky slopes at Ta’ Mrejnu, angering trappers and hunters because of his erratic appearances and he delighted us as he discovered rabbits under the walls and hunted them (thankfully, rather unsuccessfully).
When he succeeded in capturing one he would leave us with a mix of repugnance and delight. Yes, disgust for his killing habits but amusement for his unjustified hunting skills.
Oskar was perhaps the perfect Maltese surrogate. He represented the Maltese for his spectacular senses, his impulsiveness, his anarchy, his vulgar humour, his randy habits and his exceptional drive. Even his loyalty was characteristically Maltese. If the Maltese have one virtue that should be ignored, it is their loyalty.
He sadly witnessed the transformation of many of his favourite haunts as they suddenly fell to the pursuits of speculators and greedy landowners.
He was witness to countless personal moments, some too private to disclose. And yet, he remained loyal and a joy to be with.
I recall that each time before I travelled, he would sense that we’re parting from the packed clothes in their suitcases. From his expressive eyes and sullen look, you could see that he was sad.
Three years ago, he was planning to go abroad overland. Unfortunately it could not happen because of unforeseen circumstances.
From his mad jumping and incessant barking on my return from overseas, you could feel the happiness.
Oskar was a true friend. When I was down and alone, he would snuggle up under the quilt until he faced me in bed and we would look at each other and sort of laugh. Those who have Oskars as friends will know what I mean.
When I was alone and had no one to talk to, I would talk to him and he would snigger in the way his tribe sniggers. They do, you know.
The long walks off Dwejra heights will remain forever in my memories. They bring back the long moments of silence of both my late partner and I on our daily walks. I, as I pondered the next edition of MaltaToday; and she, one of her art projects.
Oskar would suddenly wake us from our day-dreaming with his unexpected prancing and barks over a cobbled wall. It was either an Algerian whip snake or a hedgehog hiding from his bullying investigations.
Oskar’s memories remain imprinted in the book ‘The Life and Time of Oskar’.
Yesterday as I looked out of the hotel room over blocks of concrete and soulless architecture, I could picture Oskar flying over the thyme bushes over the orchids into the carob trees. I cried. As he disappeared forever I know that he will not return... but his memories... yes, his memories will!

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