You Never Brought the Dogs to the Circus? (Part 1/3)
Sometimes, all a man wants is a good sandwich. In San Rafael, I had perfected the art. Every Saturday, I'd drop by “pan-casero-lady.” She kept a tent next to the market. She and her husband—who moonlighted as a race car driver—sold the finest pan casero in town. The bread was crusty and fresh, perfect for the finer arts of sandwich making.
They also fried up torta frita, a dough ball plunged into dark, boiling oil of questionable origin, which the race car driver kept simmering over a wood fire fueled by pallet scraps.
My sandwich ritual was simple. Slice the bread, toast it, then layer on the good stuff: fresh white cheese, a drizzle of olive oil, a few leaves of basil, and tomatoes, sun-warmed and plucked straight from the garden a few steps away. A couple of slices of ham to finish it off.
I’d wrap one half for later, and grab the other, to accompany me on a walk through the grapes.
This morning, though, as I stepped outside, I heard it—a low, menacing snarl. Before I could even flinch, one of those scrappy finca dogs lunged from the shadows, eyes fixed on my sandwich, targeted-in like a mangy missile.
In an instant, it was gone, ripped from my hand. Yow! The dog vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving nothing behind but a scatter of torn bread and arugula.
San Rafael had a dog problem. They were everywhere—loitering on sidewalks, prowling along the irrigation canals. Our farm had become a dumping ground for the unwanted pups. The government's neutering program must've been running on pocket change because these dogs were enjoying quite the baby boom.
I caught Mario while he was chipping away at stones for the fireplace and asked him what was being done about the dogs in this city. He relished the break, as Mario does, and turned with a story.
I’ll warn you -- the next part of the story gets a little grisly, so you may want to skip ahead..
