Sarath Fonseka’s dog is a big dalmation. He’s caged now, in the front garden of the family’s rented house on Queen’s Road. Anoma Fonseka is holding a press con, saying there’s no men in the house. Her daughters are abroad. She’s concerned for her husband’s health as he languishes in jail. I try to get close to the dog but he barks at me. From a distance watch. He naps. He plays with a rock. It’s a large, heavy rock, but he plays with it anyways. I wonder if he misses his obdurate master.
This is not a political post, despite being election day. I was just thinking about the dog. At Mrs. Fonseka’s press con she didn’t talk about politics much, just work she had been trying to do with Army families and her husband’s conditions. People make fun of Fonseka for requesting A/C in custody, but it’s hot out. He lost half his guts to the war and his freedom to politics. His wife is just asking for better conditions. Not even a vote. That’s where we’re at, in a ways. It’s hot out there, I understand. That’s just the weather. All one can ask for is a little A/C.