23-F: Me 23-F

I have a special relation with this date: 23-F.
That of 1981 was for me specially for two reasons:
One of all known, the master of the mustache and three-cornered it entered in the Congress of the Deputies to remind to us that although Franco had died, they had died not even the Franco period, which is still ideologically alive, and if not neither that should wonder it the judge Baltasar Garzón, nor the Franco supporters, who if they have disappeared for mor of the natural movement of the population, have left a few epígonos to us with big capacity of maneuver and camouflage. Many analyses have been done from that day, and I have mine. From my view point those it was a maneuver that served, volunteer or involuntarily, with his assent or without him, to reinforce the figure of the head of the state king Borbón imposed by the dictator against any logic: the dynastic restorer who was indicating his father, that of the Borbón understands himself, that of the dictator, don Nicolás, never enjoyed the sympathies of this one, and the democratic one who was claiming loudly the Republic. On the other hand, it was a touch of attention of the military Big brother that came to us to be said: Bullshit the jousts and to remind to us that it is not necessary to confuse freedom with dissoluteness, being they, the botazas, the only ones with real aptitude to decide that it is a thing and that it is other one.
Another reason for which 23-F of 1981 he keeps importance for me is because the same day, already it is a coincidence or irony, I had delivered my military belongings in III group of nº72 of Ack-ack, Garrapinillos, Saragossa, where I had formed to defend Spain of any attack that was coming for the skies. In fact, when I came to my house, visibly affectedly, excessively satisfied, for the successive stops that we were doing in the gambling dens that were bordering the National on II, which then was not a divided highway up to coming to Alcala de Henares, I recovered, sudden, the abstinence when my father, more serious of habitual in him, indicated the TV set newly acquired in color, in which one was emphasizing the green color of the uniforms of the delicuentes, all of them delinquents however much someone should drain the bundle arguing a fallacious due obedience.
Only for these two reasons the date would be already excellent for me of 23-F. Nevertheless something happened, for me, much more important, emotionally speaking. Many years later, in 2005, today five years ago, my darling Ossaposa and I had to take our most dear Serko to the veterinarian so that he was sleeping finally. A cancer was devouring it. He was nine years old. It was a white bóxer, with a species of striped patch in an eye that was awarding him a pirate's certain character. In the last days scarcely it could move, and it was I who him was extracting in arms to the street so that it could do his physiological needs, but nevertheless it was capable of moving the muñoncillo of his tail, amputated when it was gross as it must be done by all those of his race, if there was speaking to him some word of fondness or game. Escrbiendo these lines is costing me an enormous effort to contain the tears and, in any case the eyes cloud over me with his memory.
Frequently, when I go with Lenin, a beautiful farmer more ready that color the mice to you, for the field, I see Serko trotting perfectly next to you, and in the most special days they come to accompany to us Mini, an impressive crossing of mastiff and San Bernardo, who also was a victim of a cancer, and Thor an average anarchist golden gathered from the abandonment, and to that his indomitable character led him to dying in the highway. It is not that he had loved the above mentioned less, his disappearance also tore my soul, but I met them adults, Mini appeared in my life as matrimonial contribution, and although we were good partners, very good, I always appeared in the background in his affections, and with Thor it was brief, and turbulent, the coexistence. I had Serko, Serkito, Serkolino, we had him, in arms since it was a pup, and being gross an intestinal illness was on the point of finishing with him, Ossaposa, and I us turnabamos to support the drip with the whey in vein. Three hours of whey, one of rest, using the hanger of hanging toys of the cradle of Álvaro, our son of months. In abundance it compensated us with his disinterested love, my son grew with him, and the animal supported thousand and dirty tricks, never better used the expression. The most spectacular when it threw him of the language, sensu strictu and it was extracted of the mouth, a good piece. It released a shriek, bent at the edge of the garage and remained there terrified by the human pup.
He was a faithful partner, a friend who listened with attention to my secrets, in difficult moments for me when it was fighting against my interior demons, my addictions. If the transcendency, for that we do not believe in the eternal life, is in the memory, without trying to improve I Jorge Manrique I dare to write:
... that although the life lost
dejónos full consolation
his memory.
I will never forget him, his memory will always be in my heart along with that of my most dear beings, because it was that: a very dear being.