The Courage of a Dog (Bob)

To Ponky, wherever you are

He never knew it, but each day that passed after losing his job, he felt older and more tired. He had to fight so hard to survive in the last months of his life, constantly surrounded by danger—from the paranoid driver of a truck, the insane violence of a drunk, to the precise stone-throwing of a sadistic child who took pleasure in mistreating defenseless animals.

He spent a long time without wagging his tail; pain prevented him from doing so. He slept wherever he could find shelter from the rain, and that night he couldn’t fall asleep due to hunger. He tried to shake it off as he headed toward Momón’s fry shop, where he had once showcased his skills as a centerfill, collecting the scraps that the more sensitive diners tossed into the air.

Hunger became his compass, guiding him; but instead of treasure, most of the time he found nothing more than garbage—this time in the dumpster of a furniture store. After seeing the reality, he ended up rolling around in the sawdust, trying to rid himself of his inseparable travel companions: memory and a legion of fleas that were like musicians on a Titanic.

He was very hurt and tired, yet he never lost faith that he could find something for dinner, even though it was already 11:30 at night. He was startled by the noise of a motoconcho, in which a minor was traveling with a beer in hand, enjoying her disoriented youth on the way to a seedy cabin. Bob slipped away, limping on his left paw—the one where he had received a stone from that sinister little kid from the housing project. That wound never fully healed, and flies hovered around him like the uncertainty and pain that spread throughout his body.

Rain began to fall again, just as the Prolongación 27 de Febrero was deserted. Not a single vehicle crossed that road, where the rain fell unevenly, hitting with each drop. The sewers, coated in garbage, became numb, and Bob found nothing else to do but watch the rain fall. He scratched himself with anguished passion on that night filled with mosquitoes and darkness due to the lack of electricity.

He decided to take refuge at the nearest bus stop. Looking at his reflection in a glass, he saw the blurry image of what he once was. He was an old dog who should have taken better care of himself, but like others of his kind, he had to obey his instincts. He climbed onto the bench where passengers waited for the OMSA buses and guaguas to take them to their destinations.

Most of the little fleas invaded the seat, and by morning, the passengers had become their own buses, taking the fleas with them to places where the sun did not shine.

The rain stopped abruptly, and slowly the traffic began to flow. A strong steam rose from the street, making his agony even more difficult. Bob zigzagged along the sidewalk, trying to forget that past when he was useful in the arduous battle against drug trafficking on the island.

After so long searching for controlled substances, his sense of smell was never the same. The order given from above was to eliminate him; thus, like everything that represented uselessness, he was discarded.

Bob never understood why he was abandoned near the dump by an unknown man who, although he did not have a doctor’s title, showed great sensitivity. That night, he was taken out of the vehicle and left to flee, disobeying the order he had been given. Since then, his mood never returned to what it once was.

Life is much harder for those who have had everything and suddenly find themselves with nothing. For Bob, it was very difficult to adapt to wandering aimlessly. The heat invaded Santo Domingo all at once. Bob got up from the bench and walked until he stopped in front of a red traffic light. He felt confused, indecisive, not knowing whether to cross or wait for a moment when no vehicles would pass. At the same time, hunger and pain made him feel agonizingly close to despair.

His body was completely soaked by the drizzle. Blood from his left paw continued to fall, leaving an almost invisible trail on the gray pavement. Once again, he sat to lick his wound, looking to one side and then the other. He wished to walk, craved so many things that he ended up not knowing what he desired more: to satisfy his hunger or to find oblivion. At one moment, he forgot his destination and thought about crossing to the other side, heading towards Momón’s fry shop.

Traffic returned to normal, but Bob’s health would never be the same again, and he was never pleasing to the passersby. “What good is a sick, mangy, old dog?” a boy once asked, who used to throw stones at his teacher. “None,” she replied.

Bob was thirsty and drank water from the gutter where the rain flowed towards the sewer. He felt worse than ever in his life, floating like the steam rising from the street. He tried to get away from the garbage and cross to the other side, but realized that it was about to rain again. He had fought so hard to stay alive that he was already tired.

He attempted to cross again, but was startled by the horn of a garbage truck that nearly ran him over. He returned to his previous position, waiting for just one opportunity.

Despite everything, he was much happier in the few months he wandered freely through the world. Amidst the heat, pain, and hunger, his fascination with freedom grew. He would not dare trade a single second of that freedom for the comfort of those years when he was an employee of the anti-drug department at the Las Américas International Airport, living among air conditioning, good food, and surrounded by hurried people.

In the last months, Bob’s mange had worsened, taking over almost every part of his body. Although it hurt, he entertained himself by scratching with one of his hind legs. Sometimes life was extremely difficult, but at no point did it cease to be beautiful for him. He wanted to live it despite everything, though he had to fight to stay on his feet, battling against the current.

The rain fell again, and cars began to flow as smoothly as always, speeding by so fast that he could barely see them. He howled under the rain like a hungry wolf, and then he started to cross. But this time, he almost died because of an ambulance that turned the corner at high speed.

With his trembling body, he managed to sit down again and scratched his left paw wound once more. He watched the cars pass until he saw the drunk approaching, the one who had previously tried to attack him with stones. Without thinking twice, he wanted to cross to the other side, looking to evade the pain once and for all. He didn’t think about the traffic or the green light, and he never imagined that his blood could become a fleeting stain on the asphalt.

Slowly, traffic began to diminish. That night, not a single vehicle passed where Bob lay, who, unknowingly, found himself in a place where silence was more intense than the darkness that surrounded him.

Santo Domingo 2008