Gutter Dog

Part 5

They traveled from north to south and back again. His woman chauffeured in a red vintage convertible, past picturesque towns and stunning countryside. Jefe sat in the passenger’s seat, lapping up the breeze. When he’d had his full, he’d give her a worshipping glance, settle down, and snooze until their next destination.

The past was a dark dream now. Had it all really happened? The beatings. The deprivation. The neglect. Maybe he only remembered his shadowy past so that he could truly appreciate the sunlit grace of his present. Even when it had been good with the boy, it had never been this good. His woman didn’t hit. He was never hungry and she gave him plenty of affection. Her hands were firm but gentle, much like the rushing air over the fins of their racing Bel Air.

And her hands … they could scratch a dog in all the right spots. Jefe didn’t even mind the frequent baths. He was never clean enough, it seemed. She scrubbed long and vigorously. The cool water drew out the heat and dust of the day and left behind a coat pristine and gleaming. Proudly now he could trot behind her through some plaza, so sure of his physical beauty, a gutter dog no more.

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They returned to the old city. His woman was even more attentive. She was always stroking his coat and scratching behind his ears. She fed him lobster. Yes, lobster! Music played. It was a perfect night. The food was delicious and the air warm. Jefe had never been so happy. He saw the dogs he’d known before. They watched with envious eyes. Jefe pretended not to see. He didn’t want to remember what he’d once been—a rough, dirty coat, an empty stomach … and oh-so-lonely. His ex-comrades seemed so decrepit and forlorn. He couldn’t even look at the youngest without seeing sneaking decay. No pretty foreigner would rescue them and from their looks of hopelessness, they knew it too.

Jefe slept well after the big feed. He curled up with his woman to rest and dream, safe, comfortable, and content with the warmth of her body to reassure him.

The next day they took a taxi ride to a small seaside town. They shared a meal and walked along a crumbling sea wall to a strange monument—a circle of columns surrounding a sculpture of a man’s head. He was bald with a beard. Kitsch meant to honour, the bust enshrined in a classically-inspired gazebo didn’t belong. It stood in the shadow of a truly old stone fort. The fort’s authenticity pointed to the fabricated nature of the Hemingway homage—Vegas’ Caesar’s Palace in the Roman forum. But then decay and time, just as it had with the fort and the forum, would no doubt give the bust credibility.

They walked back through the town, past the restaurant where they’d eaten, and along the beach until they reached a small moorage—a thriving fishing community. Fisherman hollered back and forth to each other from dinghies, holding up prized catches. On the dock, an old man cleaned his prey. Some local dogs waited patiently. When he was finished, he threw them the innards. They were gobbled up without complaint. Jefe noticed these dogs looked healthier than those found elsewhere. It must be all the seafood.

His woman spoke to the old man. They talked for a long time and then she gave him money. After she and Jefe lingered and watched the comings and goings of the boats. She seemed reluctant to leave. Jefe noticed she was crying. Strange had she hurt herself? He rubbed up against her leg. She picked him up and held him close. A taxi arrived and so did the old man. After kissing Jefe and whispering something in her foreign tongue, his woman handed him over. She got into the taxi and it drove away. The old man patted his head and placed him back down on the ground.

And just like that Jefe was once again a gutter dog.

continued

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Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

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Gutter Dog is copyright Pryde Foltz and was previously published in Strays. For further information click on the photo below.

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Digital art was rendered from an image found in the public domain.

Photo credit