You Never Brought the Dogs to the Circus? (Part 2/3)
Mario absolutely loved to weave these morbid stories, accompanied by a cheerful grin, an often unsettling juxtaposition.
The story: back in the day, whenever the circus came to town, anonymous vans would scour the city and round up the stray dogs, and according to Mario, feed them to certain, large predatorial cats. It was a terrible mental picture, but such a cheap source of protein.
Now that this somewhat questionable practice had been outlawed, the dogs’ population was unchecked, and many of them had found their way to our farm. They were clever, too—smart enough to steal a sandwich right out of your hand, as the saying goes.
This wasn’t the first time these dogs had ruined a meal. A few months ago, at a pool party, I hadn’t had a chance to eat until late. When I finally sat down to the pollo disco, I found bristly gray hairs in the pot, picking a couple out of my mouth—one of my fellow farm residents had gotten to the meal first.
Something had to be done. I called a meeting with Mario and Richard, the encargado of the farm. Richard arrived to the meeting a little nervous, because he was guilty of harboring a few of these dogs himself, I heard them growling and yapping whenever I passed his house.
Funny thing about Richard—his name wasn’t actually Richard. Somewhere along the way, there’d been a mix-up, and he’d ended up with a new name. He didn’t seem to mind, though; just went along with it. His legal name was Facundo, it never took.
Mario had a plan. We’d lure the dogs into the back of the van with a piece of ham, drive them across town, over the river, and drop them near the zoo. I never asked what he thought the zoo would do with a bunch of feral dogs. Maybe, under a false impression of how zoos worked, he figured they’d make a new exhibit -- “Worldly-Wise-Canis-Finca.”
The story: back in the day, whenever the circus came to town, anonymous vans would scour the city and round up the stray dogs, and according to Mario, feed them to certain, large predatorial cats. It was a terrible mental picture, but such a cheap source of protein.
Now that this somewhat questionable practice had been outlawed, the dogs’ population was unchecked, and many of them had found their way to our farm. They were clever, too—smart enough to steal a sandwich right out of your hand, as the saying goes.
This wasn’t the first time these dogs had ruined a meal. A few months ago, at a pool party, I hadn’t had a chance to eat until late. When I finally sat down to the pollo disco, I found bristly gray hairs in the pot, picking a couple out of my mouth—one of my fellow farm residents had gotten to the meal first.
Something had to be done. I called a meeting with Mario and Richard, the encargado of the farm. Richard arrived to the meeting a little nervous, because he was guilty of harboring a few of these dogs himself, I heard them growling and yapping whenever I passed his house.
Funny thing about Richard—his name wasn’t actually Richard. Somewhere along the way, there’d been a mix-up, and he’d ended up with a new name. He didn’t seem to mind, though; just went along with it. His legal name was Facundo, it never took.
Mario had a plan. We’d lure the dogs into the back of the van with a piece of ham, drive them across town, over the river, and drop them near the zoo. I never asked what he thought the zoo would do with a bunch of feral dogs. Maybe, under a false impression of how zoos worked, he figured they’d make a new exhibit -- “Worldly-Wise-Canis-Finca.”
