A Doggy Detour

Note: I’ve been taking some time for personal healing, physically and mentally, so here is a story I wrote while I was living in Salvador, Bahia. I hope you like 🐩 🐕 .

On the Largo of Dois de Julho live the scraggly dog gang consisting of João, a chubby red and brown dachshund; Rafaela, a sleepy, ash blonde dachshund-retriever mix; Bruna, a curly haired collie mutt; Regis, the war-weary loner schnauzer; Ana Paula, a smelly yet loveable pitbull; and Carlosinho, a heavy-set golden retriever.

The gang was the unofficial police of the Largo, barking and pushing unfriendly drunks and addicts out of the residential area, onto the mean streets of Carlos Gomez and Sete where they belonged. All they asked for in payment were the scraps from the butcher shops and eateries, and from time to time a nap under the shade of one of the many carreto vans parked along the municipal market.

João was the unofficial leader, deciding where they slept and when they woke up. He was partial to a shady spot in front of a garage where the local derelicts would sit and discuss how many kilos of coke and maconha they’d hustled the previous day. They were residents of the neighborhood and were thus exempted from the normal doggie patrols.

This particular day however, João was intrigued by a peculiar odor that seemed to be emanating from the father and son fish shop. The father and son “pescaria” fish shop sits on the edge of the line of underutilized stalls in the Mercado Municipal, right before the steps leading down to the garbage pile. The pile is a “prefeitura” city council approved pile in a region designated for daily lixo pickup by the City of Salvador. João, Rafaela, and Bruna trotted over to the lixo, burying their cool noses in the scraps of fish carcasses, sub par fruits, and rotten household furniture broken into parts for the sake of convenient transport. Alas, the strange odor was coming from neither the garbage pile, nor the pescaria. The dogs made a beeline for Rua da Cabeça, their elderly eyes squinting as their tongues lolled out with the effort of a daylight operation. On Ariel de Cima Avenue, they veered left and found a man standing lazily over a little hill of items he was burning. Raphaela the oldest, was de facto matriarch of the gang. She had long nipples and a saggy stomach, puckered from giving birth to a litter many moons ago. The smoke from the fire was irritating Raphaela’s asthma. She coughed an old doggy cough and João decided it was time to fall back. With a warning growl directed at the inconsiderate human man, he tossed his head back and led the pack back onto the Largo.

Regis was making his way up Ladeira de Gabriel after eating a hot dog graciously thrown to him by the madame of Hotel Chavier. He’d consumed it greedily, with a few bites like the clamp of a bear trap. Regis was a mystery. The newest addition to the pack, he was on neutral terms with the other dogs of the dog gang; however, he was no one's friend. As he trotted up the Ladeira, he made sure to bark with great ferocity at every passing human-- women and children included. He knew better than to trust them. For Regis, here was no good human, just ones with varying capacities for cruelty. He would bark and only pause to cement his territory lines with piss. It was of the utmost importance the other dogs understand he was not to be crossed.

Everyday Regis would listen to Roberta, the gray pitbull living in the third story apartment building across from Mundo Novo. Roberta would call out for hours, from sunup to sundown, locked in her tower of exile. He was grateful to not be owned, even if it meant meals weren't promised, even if it meant getting caught outside in a torrential downpour. At least he had his freedom, not the savagery of domestic companionship. He never barked back to Roberta. He could smell her and he was sure she could smell him, and that was sufficient.

Ana Paula and Carlosinho had been lovers once upon a time, but that was nearly a decade past and of no real importance at this point. Ana Paula had birthed him a litter, the majority of which had perished, but a few of whom had ended up pets for the gang of neighbor toddlers. Ana Paula had a dignified beauty, strong even with age. Carlosinho was scraggly but with a spry sassiness befitting his unwashed visage. They had become platonic companions, keeping watch over each other at night and taking turns foraging for food. That day they were sprawled in front of the small grocery where the Brasil Gas truck was parked and the Brasil Gas men were wheeling their “botijãos” gas tanks up and down the hills of Dois to the many residents caught mid meal preparation without enough gas to pressure-cook their beans. Ana Paula perked her head up to accept a smoked pork bone from the butcher shop. Carlosinho tried to steal a nibble, but Ana Paula was not one to share. Carlosinho, determined to bring home the bacon he believed he deserved, stood up and went to the entrance of the butcher shop and began barking, quick warning barks. He paced, stepping onto the cardboard marking the threshold between the shop and the uneven sidewalk in front.

“Vai! Cachorro vai embora!” Get away! Dog, go away! The store owners shouted at the hungry dog, waving newspapers around to shoo Carlosinho away.

After the courageous try, Carlosinho found himself a bit winded. He returned to Ana Paula to try again for just the tiniest bit of the bone. No luck. He hopped into the bed of the Brasil Gas truck, then onto the hood for a warm nap to soothe his empty belly.