I am sitting in my room. Smoke from the fried fish for dinner is filling in from the kitchen below. For the first time this trip, I am hungry, but food is on the way.
I am hiding from Bruno the Puppy. His condition is worsening, slowly. He is literally like a disabled child, stricken with polio or cerebral palsy or some other crippling disease, but he is only a dog and what do you do with a disabled dog? Mario found a medic on our evening stroll, who declared that he's not a veterinarian, but would look at him nonetheless. I understand less and less of this conversation and would rather not think about it. Bruno is a sweet puppy otherwise, and still when the cats past outside, he howls and scrambles his feet unsuccessfully, able to lift himself but more unable to resist the cats. As a result, mixed with his howl at the cats are yelps of pain. The cats stare at him, reveling in positions as torturers. I wonder how much it'll disturb me and I only pray that whatever happens, happens peacefully and after Sunday.
It reminds me of a much more absurd situation several years ago when I visited a friend's uncle in Santa Clara where behind the kitchen they kept a pig -a huge Chinese pig being fattened for a slaughter- and doberman pincher in some stage of a complicated pregnancy that may or may have not included a miscarriage, but did include an awful amount of blood. I'm not sure, we left as soon as we could, effectively ditching our hosts at the next town over, their insistence that we stay more and more overbearing. But that's another story for another time.