The Labyrinths We Make

They had tried to do this four or five times in the last six years. It never went beyond the night discussion after some tense and desperate argument about the precariousness that was drowning them. The next morning they’d forget about it and commit to figure out what to do in due time. Despite the fact that noone wanted to accept another mouth into their houses (caretaking or medical expenses had become prohibitive) and that there were not official institutions asuming the responsibility, they wanted to believe that their crisis could not last forever; even if it did, their bad luck could change; they would surely find ways to make more money amid the chaotic economy and stay afloat, all of them. But the reality imposed by circumstances charged at them with more force than they sheer optimism could stand.

This time, he made sure to wake up before dawn. Desolate streets, no traffic, no people, not even dogs or cats to fight with. He did not even give his wife time to say good bye. In five minutes he was letting him out and locking the door behind them.

As he expected, Brandy started to run from one sidewalk to the other, excited at being out. Only 5 or 6 times had they been able to take him for a walk. Parks in this town had assumed a ridiculous regulation that forbade pets. They must be the only parks in the whole world to do that. But that was his world; absurd and disconcerting.

He planned a route in his mind that would make it difficult for Brandy to find his way back.

They went straight for 3 blocks without any issues. He was being his usual self; jumping from one side of the street to the other. They got to the square. He sat on a cold concrete bench, called him, caressed his head and ears, and talked to him, as you talked to a child on his first day of school.

“Be good, stay safe. Don’t bite anyone, ok?”

Brandy looked at him confused, with his big expressing almost-human eyes.
With a heavy heart, he got up, turned left one block and headed for the public market.

There were some people on that street, coming and going. Brandy became more restless and even slipped and got his paws wet in the sewage water.

He tried to remain calmed but could not help scolding him; then found himself lowering his voice as if he did not want to wake anyone up. Brandy lowered his head as he usually did when he got reprimanded, but kept trotting. He had been trotting all this time, actually.

As they approached the market’s entrance, traffic started to bring some unwanted noise, buses, trucks, motorcycles, and bikes; people yelling their selling chants and the usual pandemonium. There were only a few sellers but he got nervous thinking that Brandy would start going crazy.
He had done great thus far, all things considered. As they got closer to the crowd, Brandy started to trot closer, in circles, jumping once in a while to lick his hand, looking for approval, for an explanation, maybe.

Some people made noises with their mouth calling him, maybe thinking he was a stranded dog they could take home. For a moment he doubted whether to react to the intrusion or ignore it and thus facilitate the detachment. He found it hard to pretend he had never seen this dog before, that it was just following him because it smelled some food in the human’s backpack.

The man and the annoying dog entered the main nave; more people, more noises, even though most businesses were still closed. They went through the nave all the way to the breakfast section. The man wanted the dog to smell the food, maybe settle there. Unfortunately, no kiosk was opened yet. No smells. They went around that area into the fish area. This would surely call its attention. There were a few fish sellers, but the dog did not bother. It kept trotting close around the man’s legs.

The man went down the plantain area, an open space that used to be full of trucks loaded to max capacity with ripe plantains. Now it was rare to see more than one truck at the time. There was one this morning and some sellers around. A few chicken sellers, the usual casaba sellers (they sold one of the cheapest items, about the only thing some people actually ate, so they thrived in the market), and some kids driving wheelbarrows loaded with plantains. The man turned back and, for the first time in almost an hour, he did not see the dog. It must have gotten distracted with something. The man walked faster, turn left, then right, then left again; he turned around, nothing. He kept walking; entered the nave again, turned back, nothing. The man took another left inside the nave towards the east entrance and knew that he was losing the dog for good. For a moment, the man wanted to stop, go back, apologize. But he kept his purpose. As he left the nave, he entered an increasingly noisy crowd in the former main parking lot that that looked now like a maze of vendors. There were only a few cars now in the whole town. The parking lot became too big and since the expansion of the market had been delayed for more than 20 years, the authorities found in the immensity of that parking lot the perfect solution for the space problem.

The man wondered whether this anguished that threatened to choke him, turned his legs into jelly, and started to blur his vision was what someone felt when losing a loved one in an accident, killing someone with their bare hands, or dumping a just-born child.

The man knew he would never forgive himself for this. He left the market and walked with heavy steps all the way back home, taking different streets, hoping to leave his own trace of scent crumbs that would allow Brandy to find his way back home from any angle. But the dog did not that day, or the day after that, or the days that followed.

The man understood, then, the psychological implications of that old saying about the criminal always coming back to the crime scene. He used to think only stupid criminals would do that. And yet, for the rest of his life he went back to that market, retracing his steps, hoping to find his dear dog, seeing him in every white fur that moved or lay on some dirty corner, dreading to find him dead, hit by a car, or mauled by other dogs. He would always lament that that day they left so early, they did not even have the chance to share one last meal.

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All images from personal files, edited at fotoram.io

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