Dog

Our old bitch is slowly dying. It was her hearing that went first, as I recall, then her sight, then finally her sense of smell. But she still gets around a bit, and she has a huge appetite. Every now and then she’ll try to bark at something. She can barely keep on her feet, she stares with unseeing eyes and barks at her doggy thoughts, imaginings, maybe she’s barking at her doggy memory. She’s been with us for sixteen years. We’ve had her since she was a puppy. One summer a woman friend of ours brought her and left her here with us in the country. At the time we neglected the routine shots you’re supposed to give puppies, and she got canine parvovirus. But we somehow managed to save her, driving her to the vet every day for an intravenous drip without which she would have died of dehydration. She was left with a slight loss of control over her hind legs. But for fifteen years she ran around and kept up with the other dogs. Once in a while, in the winter they’d disappear for two or three days at a stretch. I’d be furious, but in the end I’d climb in the four-wheel drive and comb the empty valleys, forcing my way through mounds of snow. They’d be found eventually, exhausted, skinny, half-dead, and, it seemed, utterly clueless about what to do with their doggy freedom or how to find their way back home. They would meekly let themselves be loaded into the car and for the next week they wouldn’t budge an inch except to go to their feeding bowl.

But the bitch was the oldest of them. All our other dogs were descendants of hers. Children, grandchildren, great grandchildren. In the country, in conditions of almost total liberty, it’s hard to keep tabs on them. Dogs are smart, and when it comes to preserving the species they’re three times smarter still. We had her spayed only after her third litter. Her procreational activities had become a burden, because at the time we moved a lot and we were living in rented accommodation, sometimes in villages where people would get spooked at the sight of a dog bigger than a cat, a dog running free. (It’s true, country people are afraid of strange dogs, because strange dogs bite; nothing can shake this ancient belief. A belief, by the way, that is quite justified in the villages …)

But our bitch was gentle. Her grandchildren and great grandchildren will sometimes kill one of the neighbor’s sheep. When that happens I curse under my breath, but humbly take my money and pay for the dogs’ entertainment. But her, she never hurt a soul. One time, driven by some distant echo of an instinct, she brought her puppies a full-grown chicken. But she didn’t do the bird the slightest harm. She held it in her mouth as carefully as if she’d been carrying one of her own young. She even seemed embarrassed by her extravagance. Once released, the chicken immediately stood on its feet and went back to its own kind.

I can see her right now, lying on the veranda in a patch of winter sunlight. Her coat is yellowish, the muzzle slightly darker, and she has floppy ears. She’s a full-blooded mongrel. There’s no way of telling what breeds had to have met and mingled in the past in order for her somewhat misshapen, somewhat comical, kindly figure to have made its appearance in our home sixteen years ago. But her mongrel genes must have been strong ones, because her grandchildren and great grandchildren entered the world almost exclusively with the same sandy yellow coat and the same droopy ears. Now she’s lying in a pool of winter sun, sleeping almost all the time. When one of us goes up close, she raises her head. It’s hard to know if she recognizes us. But she still likes to be...