The grandkids still adore Oslo...

Argentina is a peaceful country, with very little violent crime to speak of, and murders are rare. At least where I am in San Rafael.

Things are relatively inexpensive, especially meat and wine, but wages for the average citizen are pitifully low. Earning just a few dollars an hour makes it tough to afford even the basics. While violent crime is exceptionally low, petty theft is rampant.

We took the usual precautions: alarms, cameras, even night patrols with flashlights. But nothing beats a vicious dog. The best ones have a single master, and they’re put up during the day because they’ll attack anyone. Everyone.

One of our farm workers, Ricardo, took pleasure in raising these beasts.

Imagine the dog in Sand Lot. Always growling in the shadows. I'd look nervously at the frayed rope they were tied with, knowing they wouldn't hesitate to pounce on me if they could.

We have plenty of stories about those dogs defending our property. Someone would try sneaking in at night, breaking into one of the houses or barns, only to get an unwelcome greeting. Sometimes the only trace left behind was a torn piece of clothing or a bloodstain—but they were long gone by morning.

So, what did we do? We bought a golden retriever. He’s never met a stranger and would probably open the doors for intruders if he could.

Now, nobody is nervous to stroll around our farm. We named him Oslo.

Oslo’s getting older now, but the grandkids all still adore him...