Moosetopia, Part II
When I got back from the Yukon, I felt such anger towards Marvin. He had duped me into assisting him steal native moose, or inventory as he liked to call it. I received several calls and messages from Marvin on a daily basis. Each time he would call I would stare at my phone and wait for the ringing to stop. I ignored all the messages. Gradually, the calls and messages became less frequent and then one day, they stopped. I didn’t notice it right away. A week went by before I realised that I hadn’t received a call from Marvin. So this is it, I thought to myself. He’s gone. It was a strange feeling. For as long as I could remember Marvin and I had been intertwined in each other’s lives. And now I had cut him off.
I didn’t feel relief. I didn’t feel as though a weight had been lifted from me. I didn’t even feel anger anymore. I felt nothing. I should be happy, I thought. So why wasn’t I? I looked for ways to fill the void that was now present in my life. I called up friends, I took up tennis, I tried my hand at landscape painting. It was no use. I needed Marvin. Or at the very least I needed to rectify the manner in which we parted ways. And I was fully aware of the fact that Marvin needed me.
So I sat at home, day after day, staring blankly out of my window. The seasons changed, the weather grew cold, and the skies turned a constant grey. I often found myself wondering about Marvin and if he was happy living in Moosetopia? I thought that maybe I should have joined him there. But then I remembered that look on his face when he was trapping the poor moose, the look of wicked desire. “Snap out of it, boy!” I said to myself. “What he was doing was wrong.” But I never told Marvin it was wrong. Come to think of it, I don’t think anyone told Marvin when he was wrong. He could be infuriating, stubborn, overbearing, foolish and crass, but he was loyal and had a good heart. Often, what he needed, was saving from himself. And I had left him there, in the Yukon, to self-destruct.
As I was lost in these thoughts, my phone vibrated. I quickly pulled it from my pocket, hoping to see Marvin’s name. It was just my aunt. I didn’t want to talk to her. I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. Except Marvin.
One afternoon I was sitting in my kitchen, thinking about what to cook for dinner, I heard the postman arrive.
“I hope it’s my new cookbook,” I said, as I strolled outside to my letter box. I was disappointed to find that the cookbook had not arrived. There was no mail to speak of except a single postcard. On the postcard was a photograph of some mountain ranges with the words ‘Ivvavik National Park’. Turning it over, the words ‘help me’ had hastily been scribbled, along with what appeared to be a hoof print.
“Marvin!” I cried out. He needed me and I was going to answer the call.
