Gutter Dog

Part 6

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At first, Jefe had hope. Every day it alit anew, beautifully blinding hope. His woman would return. He knew it. Today would be the day. He’d wait beneath Hemingway’s silent stone head. He and Papa would wait. Jefe waited and waited … and then one day all that hope burst, leaving nothing but the burnt-out afterglow of acceptance and loss. She was gone. She wasn’t coming back. He was alone.

His physical metamorphosis was quicker than the mental. In only days, his coat lost its just-washed sheen and gained a road’s worth of dirt. Red-gold became dull rust. Frequent swims in the sea did little, adding salt to earth. One tourist exclaimed that if his coat were any dirtier, potatoes would grow. No human would want to brush her hand against him now. But it didn’t matter. The other dogs didn’t care. They looked no worse than he and other than the old man, they were his only real companions. The old man gave him fish and so with the additional food he scrounged, he never went hungry. But other than the innards, fins, and the odd discarded half-eaten ice cream, his life with humans was limited—a moment or two at the monument, a stolen picture, soft words in a language he didn’t understand.

His existence was rather different than the pets of the north, but then they are not libre and never feel the warmth of the near-equatorial breezes of La Mar on their fur.

Jefe would trot out what was left of his youth by idyll waters, settling into his death march at a slower and less hazardous pace than that in the city. His woman had done that. She’d delivered him from the city. She’d loved him some. He knew—but not enough to stay and not enough to take him with her. He knew that too.

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A broken heart is rarely fatal and Jefe lived to a ripe old age. He spent his dotage sleeping at the foot of Hemingway’s head, enjoying the seaside breezes and dreaming. He had only one standing appointment. The sun dipped to a certain place and it was time, time to find the old man. When he’d first come to the town, the trip had taken no more than ten minutes. Then he’d had the gait of cart horse, swift and smooth. Now it took tremendous effort to move at all. Each step brought up the sharp edge of a jutting hip that then dropped back down into the dusty earth with an almost shattering force. With age, his movement had taken on the grace of a square wheel.

Like el perro, el pollo is free too. Meandering chickens run for cover at the approach of any dog—a practice in habit only. The hens weren’t for him. Jefe knew. They belonged to the humans. Of course now he’d have struggled to give chase to a turtle, never mind the plucky fowl who rarely reached middle age before landing on a plate next to some beans and rice.

Jefe was slow. No problema. He could go as slow he liked. He’d dawdle through the small houses, past the odd inhabitant escaping the afternoon heat on a front veranda, clattering televisions within competing with the buzz of flies. He never worried. Always the old man made sure he got his share. They’d grown real affection for each other over the years. There was no physical contact. The old man rarely touched his own kind, never mind a scruffy gutter dog. He loved with words, glances, and the surety of meals, but when Jefe was with him, he felt less lonely. The last time he’d seen his woman it had been with the old man. Being with him was the closest thing to being with her.

Recently Jefe had failed to show up for an afternoon meal. Worry brought the old man to Hemingway’s head. He found Jefe sleeping. In his dreams Jefe had traveled to the boats and back again. Jefe woke. A second meal? My lucky day! And so when the boats came into view that last time, Jefe thought his eyes were playing tricks, that age had broken down the resistance of the mind, allowing him more and more to live in memories and dreams.

His heartbeat increased as he neared and the vision didn’t disappear. Was it her? Could it be? His woman turned her head in a cloud of blond and laid sky-filled eyes upon him. Like an angel, he thought, beckoning him to paradise.

Jefe began a frustrated run. Far too slow. He had to reach her before she left again. He couldn’t let her leave again. She met him half-way with far less effort. Without hesitation or fear of the community of parasites inhabiting what was left of his coat, she lifted him into her arms. She comforted him and spoke in soothing tones. Jefe was so tired. He laid his head against her shoulder.

Finally, he was home.

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