Questioned by the Hound

About a week and a half into our artists’ retreat in Costa Rica, Laura and I decided to leave our casita and head into the town of Ciudad Colon for a decadent lunch of roast chicken, tortillas and Diet Coke. We went to the roast-chicken shack that Laura remembered from two years before, bumblingly ordered our food (neither of us speak Spanish), and sat at a little metal outdoor table. The food came in plastic baskets, and we began eating it with our fingers. After a week and a half of healthy, home-cooked, largely vegetarian meals, the succulent chicken was a great pleasure.

As we ate, a dog trotted over and began watching us. He was a medium sized, short-haired, tan dog, possibly a stray, but clean and well behaved. He stared intently and expectantly as we ate. This didn’t, at first, bother me. The dog’s expectancy was not the least bit unreasonable, considering our shared history. And he said so. “Four thousands of years, you toss me bits and scraps. In return, I hang around your settlement, even in the dead of night, when I stand ready to bark and howl to ward off potential threats.” As he finished, he continued looking, as if this reminder were all I needed to get with the program and throw him a morsel.

Dumbly, I reached an empty hand over to pet him, but he backed away. “Not so fast, bub,” he said. “Where’s the grub? Food scraps for my services as a canine! For millenia, that’s been the deal. What’s the problem now?”

I didn’t have a credible answer ready. Many things have changed in those millenia. Not to mention that giving the dog food would be disrespectful to the establishment. But Laura and I were too focused on our chicken and soda to tackle expressing all this in words. So I copped out: I pretended not to hear him. Fortunately, just as the whole situation was starting to feel uncomfortable, the lady from the chicken stand stepped out, made a couple of sharp hand claps and whisked the dog away.