Gutter Dog

Part 1

The bitch crosses the square. She is still endowed with nature’s richness. Her teats hang low and prominent from the suckling of frequent broods. The supply of gutter dogs is always constant and plentiful. Those lost to disease or traffic are quickly replaced. Her musk is unmistakable and inviting. Jefe doesn’t lift his head. Far too many of his progeny already travels the cobbles of the old city and the town where he lives now, the town where he will die.

Jefe is too old for sex—he is almost too old for life.

The work of countless parasites and his incessant gnawing—the itch unbearable and eternal—has left him almost hairless. Emaciated and spent, it is all he can do to slide his brittle haunches into the light in the cold, the shade in the heat. His solace comes from the sun, his caresses from the tropical breeze. Still his eyes are keen for the passing tourist. Jefe looks at the blonde foreigner with expectation. She turns an unfamiliar face upon him and cringes. Not her. It’s never her. He lays his head back down and remembers a time past.

...

When he was a puppy Jefe was stroked, but as he got older the caresses came less often and his coat lost its youthful lustre. Eventually the scourges of lice, fleas, and their ilk came and then the gentle touching stopped altogether. He tried to get the boy to pet him. He sat close and nudged his head beneath his pudgy hand. But then plump fingers gathered into a fat, flat panel. The boy’s hand became a thing to fear—to avoid.

Words changed too. Jefe had learnt his name from playing with the boy. In the beginning it had announced good things.

“Jefe!” the boy sang; Jefe came running.
“Jefe!” the boy giggled when he licked his face; Jefe sat back and wagged his tail.
“Jefe is a good dog!”
“I love you, Jefe.”
“Jefe, get it boy. Get it.”
“Jefe, get away.”
“Jefe, no!”
“Jefe, you stupid dog!”
“I want a new dog, Jefe!”
“Shut up, Jefe!”
“I hate you, Jefe, you stupid dog!”
“Jefe, you stupid dog!”
“JEFE!”

Soon his name was only said when the boy was angry and often accompanied with a slap. Jefe grew to hate his name. It rang in his ears like a warning bell.

The little boy was meant to feed Jefe, but the boy began to forget. They were meant to grow up together, he and this boy. The boy was growing up; Jefe was only growing older. He’d plead. He’d beg. But then the boy would strike out—like Jefe had tried to attack when he’d only been howling in hunger for his daily bread. Jefe knew. Some dogs lived on the street. They had no one to take care of them, but if they were quick and kept out of trouble, no one beat them either. Escape was easy. No dog catcher is likely to bother with a stray unless the stray becomes a bother. In this country—el perro is libre—the dog is free.

And so Jefe became a gutter dog.

[continued]

...

Digital art rendered from photo courtesy of the Creative Commons.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/pedrosz/38510476580

Gutter Dog is copyright Pryde Foltz and was previously published in Strays. For further information click on the photo below.