PROCEED WITH CAUTION
THE FIRST TIME I saw him was last summer. It was very hot, and I had left the window open; a gentle breeze barely stirred the curtains. I had turned off the lights to keep out the mosquitos; the TV was on, filling the room with a flickering blue glow. Then I had the sensation that something had slipped from the window into my room. At first I imagined a cat, but the bulk I perceived was too big. For a while, I waited expectantly. Then I thought I had imagined it and continued to watch an old, black-and-white film they were showing on the government channel, and I ended up falling asleep. In the middle of the night, as often happens, I had to get up to go to the bathroom. The TV was still on. As I placed my feet on the floor in search of my slippers, I saw him: it was an enormous dog with a dark head and short, dense fur. I put on my glasses, which I kept on the nightstand, and leaned over a little to see him better. He was asleep, curled up in a ball. I kept still, waiting for him to wake up or move, but there was absolutely no reaction. I’ve always liked dogs, but I also know that when you aren’t familiar with an animal, it’s best to be cautious. So I dismissed the idea of putting on my slippers, stealthily got up from the other side of the bed, and walked barefoot to the bathroom. When I returned, the dog was sitting on his hind legs, looking at me. What’s this lovely boy doing here in my room? I said, as I turned off the TV set. He smiled at me the way dogs smile, not with his mouth, but with his eyes. I moved closer to him, briefly stroked his head, which came up to my waist, and went back to bed. I heard him lie down on the floor again, and I went back to sleep. In the morning he was no longer there. I had the impression I had dreamed it.
He has a dog’s face, but he looks nothing like Rocky. My daughter gave Rocky to me when Ernesto died. So many years married to Ernesto… and it’s not that I was still in love with him, but we were very good companions, and living with him was peaceful. When he passed away, I felt like an orphan, like an amputee, and then Graciela showed up with Rocky in a little basket. It’s a stuffed animal, I said. No, Mom, it’s a golden retriever, she replied. And yes, he was a golden retriever; that’s why he liked to chase things, so I would toss him a sock, a slipper, a ball, anything, and he would take off running and bring it back to me right away. What a fine dog; I had him with me for fourteen years.
Were you out partying last night? Amanda asked as soon as she saw me. Or have you started putting on lipstick before you go to bed? My lips were chapped, I replied, and I have no cocoa butter. But she knows I’m lying to her, and I, in turn, know what she’s thinking and doesn’t dare say: I’m such a flirt that if death comes for me at night, I’d want to be found the next day with my lipstick on. I laugh to myself. No, what she’s thinking doesn’t even come close to the truth, absolutely not. You did the right thing, she clarifies. Chapped lips are very annoying. You always understand me, Amanda, I respond.
Last night we ate the candies that I asked Amanda to buy for me. They came in an exquisite little box and contained an assortment of chocolates filled with different nuts and liqueurs. We also watched Tabú, a Portuguese film, in which, practically from the very first scene, an explorer on an expedition—depressed by the death of his young wife, whom he adored—disappears into a swamp and allows himself to be devoured by a crocodile. He was fascinated by this scene and didn’t take his eyes off the screen, except to gulp down another candy. I ate two or three, and he polished off the rest. No doubt about it: he’s ravenous.
One afternoon there was a meeting on the patio of the residence. It was a lovely day, and they had given permission to invite that girl who reads cards and entertains the women so much. I’m not a fan of that sort of thing: I don’t believe in anything, and in fact it bores me. But that day I was sad, because no one from my family had come to visit me during the week. I understand that there are so few of us: I’m a widow and I have no sisters; my cousin Agustina lives very far away and is worse off than me; my daughter and granddaughter work a lot and are always busy. But their visits, talking with them, does me good. And the truth is that they come very seldom and are always in a hurry. But I understand them anyway: when you’re young, there’s never enough time; when you’re old, time goes by slowly, it stretches out like an infinite jest. Well, the thing is, that day I went out to the garden and walked over to the table. The girl was reading Dora’s cards. I stood there watching, and then, suddenly, I discovered it—one of the cards had his picture on it. I adjusted my eyeglasses and moved my chair a little closer to the table. He wasn’t naked, of course; he was wearing something like a little skirt, and on top another garment that covered his chest, and a kind of necklace, but not with beads like the ones we women wear, but rather metal all over, with a design of kings or Egyptian gods or something, and some embossed bracelets. But what impressed me the most was that his body was just the same: skinny, kind of a broad back, but not too broad, and the head of a black dog. When the girl had finished, I asked her if I could take a closer look at the card. She explained what it meant and also what it was called: a name I forgot right away, and another one that’s like what I call him now, because—since he doesn’t talk—he never told me his name, and I’ve got to call him something.
I explain that he’s got to be careful with the security cameras at the residence. He just stares at me without even blinking. Then I go to the shelf and pick up the map I requested from the guard and left there, folded up. I told the guard that it made me feel safer to know where the cameras were located. I walk over to the table and pull out a chair. And I also told the guard that my daughter wanted to see a map or something with that information. The guard replied that he had to consult the administration, but early the next day, there he was, knocking on my door with a copy of the map in his hand. I sit down. My daughter’s the one who pays, so they couldn’t refuse her alleged request. I summon him over and he stops beside me, lays his dark snout on the table, observes the map attentively. Then, suddenly, he opens that big maw of his and, before I can react or stick out my hand to retrieve the piece of paper, he’s already grabbed it between his teeth, chewed it savagely, and swallowed it. I think I’m going to have to teach you good manners, I say. He lowers his ears and gazes at me with the most bewitching eyes in the world.
At this age, getting up and walking is no easy task. My body hurts. And it’s that pain, added to all the abilities that you start losing—becoming slower and clumsier—that gives the body an inescapable, sometimes unbearable, presence. When I was young, I used my body, though it was barely a body: I felt so healthy and light that I hardly ever thought about it. Now, on the other hand, in my old age, I am always a body, a body that hurts, a body that doesn’t respond, a body that my head always has to carry around on its back. A body that weighs tons, even though I’m as skinny as a wire.
One day—out of pure habit that remained from my time with Rocky—I had the idea to throw him a slipper, to see what he would do. First he followed its trajectory with his eyes without moving from his spot. But no sooner had the slipper hit the ground than he leaped toward it, picked it up between his teeth, shook it a couple of times, and suddenly gulped it down. I stood there, dumbstruck. I must confess I didn’t know whether to laugh or to start fearing him. It was then that I understood that he could eat anything. And that each time he came he was going to eat something, something that wasn’t dog food, but rather sustenance for a monster or a capricious god.