by Dr. David Fialkoff, Editor / Publisher

I'm dog sitting again here in Colonia Allende. Canela, and I have two outings a day: a morning walk and an afternoon bicycle ride. Both of which take us down Calle Manantial, down Cinco de mayo and along Calle Las Moras.

I think we're going for a walk, but Canela thinks it's a culinary tour. Coming down the hill of Cinco de mayo, often she can stick her head through the bars of the gate of the school and get some of the kibble that people leave for the schoolyard cats there, the chubby, well-fed schoolyard cats.

Canela is very well-fed herself. At home she won't eat dry kibble. At home she is fed twice a day, her dry food generously topped with a gelatinous broth made from slow cooking bones and other scraps from the butcher. But on the streets, she eats dry food with relish, every last bit of it.

"Mora" is commonly translated as "blackberry." However, blackberries grow on bushes, have a different form and also, unlike the fruit that gives the street its name, are black, not purple, "morado" in Spanish. There, right now, aside the woman selling chicken wings, grows a mulberry tree laden with mulberries, ripe and falling to the ground. Not so sweet, but good to eat.

There on the long terrace alongside the tall school wall, people regularly toss the bones of the chicken wings they've just finished. Now you've all been told that chicken bones can get caught in a dog's throat. But when I observed Ed Verge, an Abanake Indian up in Vermont, tossing his dog the bones of the chicken that had just been roasted over our campfire, and asked him about that, he assured me that it was only the thin, spiney bone that was dangerous. (Too many chicken bones, however, will upset a dog's digestion.)

We like to think of ourselves as civilized, but powerful ancient reflexes are never very far from the surface. Canela, despite the plentiful and better food that waits for her at home, is scavenging, the same way her ancestors scavenged for 10s and 100s of thousands of years.

Just so, our primitive human or pre human ancestors were rewarded with feel-good brain chemicals when they returned to the cave with something in hand, because with that something in hand they were more likely to survive. This ancient reflex no doubt accounts for women who shop as a sport, not because they need what they bought, or because they have room for it in their closet, but because it feels better than coming home empty-handed.

Since my last dog sitting experience here on Calle Manantial, not yet a month ago, three dogs have taken up residence on the sidewalk just down the block. There are two smaller dogs and an older, large pit bull. A motley crew, the pit bull, at least, looks like he hasn't missed many meals.

Lying there on their patch of sidewalk, they are not aggressive, but Canela gives them a wide berth when we pass. At last Saturday Market, listening to Carmi and Lencho's Americana I heard: "I found a place for these bones 'til I'm dead." Live and let live is my motto.

The front "wall"
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I'm cat sitting as well. Huichol is an old tabby. Also well-fed, he's a real armful, especially compared to Fellini, the scrawny, but also well-fed, tabby I have back home, or, much more accurately, who has me. Huichol, not quite blind, certainly doesn't see well anymore. Still, he gets around, coming and going through an opening in the screen of the front bedroom window. From there it's onto the front patio. Then, through or under the gates of the front "wall," he lounges about: sometimes on the sidewalk, or in the empty lot next door, or in the yards of the two houses across the street that he visits through their also porous gates. The cats and dogs of the neighborhood leave him alone. Or such was the case.

The neighbors across the street
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Last night around 9:00 I was working here in the front room. The windows were still open despite the coolness of the evening. Suddenly, a dog fight erupted right in front of the house. I knew right away that the three street dogs were involved. I figured that they and some local dogs were disputing territory. Canela was immediately on her feet and by the front door. Seconds later I opened the door and followed her out. The fighting continued. This was no momentary assertion of dominance.

In a moment I visualized the scene of the three street dogs growling, barking and violently attacking, just what, I wasn't sure. Then, at that instant, from between them, poor Huichol leapt up into the air, pathetically falling again. But before he could fall, while yet he hung terrified just inches above the three sets of jaws, my first yell was out. I think that held the attacker at bay. My second shout, immediately following, sent them packing.

It was horrible, traumatizing for me, let alone poor Huichol. I went inside to get the key and grabbed an old wooden cane. I didn't see where Huichol went, but letting myself out, I paused at the empty lot next door to collect some rocks in a pail and went down the street.

When I got there, the dogs were lying on their sidewalk as usual. From not very far away I started throwing rocks in their direction. The two smaller ones left quickly, without being hit. The big pit bull, back on his feet, didn't leave until a rather large stone ricocheted off the sidewalk and hit him squarely in the chest.

Returning, I looked for Huichol under various cars and in the empty lot, imagining him bleeding out among the refuse. I called, but got no reply. I went in, got my cellphone, and tried again; this time assisted by its feeble light. Then, returning, I went up the outside stairs and found Huichol poised at their top, on the third floor. His fur was wet into strange patterns by dog saliva, but in the dim light, at least, he wasn't obviously bleeding, and he made no complaints when I gently probed for major wounds, nor when I carried him downstairs.

Inside, next to me on the couch, I could find nothing wrong. But when he hesitated to jump down on the floor, and, when I placed him there, he limped favoring his front left leg. On examination the leg looked whole and he made no complaint when I palpated it.

Canela and Huichol after the the attack
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Some short while later, very uncharacteristically, he pooped on the floor. After limping over to check his food, he got back up on the couch, where he stayed for the rest of the evening. There I found him this morning. There, as I write this, he still is now, sound asleep.

At the moment, when I saw those murderous canine interlopers on the verge of tearing Huichol apart, my blood was up. Yours might be, too. I take this pet sitting thing very seriously. You can move into the neighborhood, but you can't attack my cat. Instead of throwing stones I might have evicted the dogs by calling Ecología, the municipal office that "takes care of" stray dogs. But Ecología would kill them, and I didn't want them dead, only gone.

I'd like to say that now, in the light of day, with the cat largely unscathed and comfortably ensconced, I am surprised by the violence of my throwing stones at the dogs. But I'm not surprised, nor repentant. I'm not sure what the neighbors (there was a group of young men who witnessed both the dogs' attack and mine) thought when they saw me pelting the dogs. I'm not sure that they thought anything at all.

Civilization is a thin veneer. The main virtue of the state is its monopoly on violence. In many countries, including this one, that monopoly is far from absolute. Without law, violence would be the default. We'd all (at least all we males) would be throwing stones at each other all the time.

Huichol after the attack
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When I went out front this morning to take some photos to illustrate this article, I glanced down the block and saw that the dogs are gone. When I take Canela on her morning walk, in just a few minutes, I will take the cane and put some rocks in my pocket, because I don't know how far they've gone or if they're holding a grudge.

Huichol just turned around on the couch, still favoring that front leg when he did. I gave him some Arnica last night, dropping a few tiny pellets into his mouth. I'll give him another dose when I return. I take this pet sitting thing very seriously.

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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, our local social network, the community online and off, Atención robustly reborn for the digital age. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.

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