Itchy adventures
I don't know if I love her. Probably not. Not yet. But I like her. I appreciate her enthusiasm for life, her passion for plants, and the little sounds she makes when she's confused or thinks something is unfair. Like when we pass by a house and she hears a dog barking, and she looks at me with her searching brown eyes, asking, "Wtf? What did I do wrong?" I advise her to avoid internalizing someone else's insecurities. But she might still be too young for this lesson.
Sarnita is about 6 months old. Her name can be translated as “little scabies”. Everything in Spanish sounds cuter when you add “ito/ita” at the end of the word. Although some dog owners find it offensive and cruel that this is what I named my crippled mangy puppy, I’m not being ironic. Sarnita’s dermatological problems created our bond. When I saw her for the first time, the black crust covering her face made her look ageless. She had the naked neck of a vulture. Her skin was so dry it cracked between her ribs, leaving open sores. She lay on the sand illuminated by the first rays of sunrise: a baby soul in a tortured body, a living monument to her bad luck. She might have been hit by a car, because both the foreleg and hind leg on her left side were broken. Had anyone ever petted her? It’s exasperating how a single misfortune, when compounded with homelessness and vulnerability, has the potential to ensnare you in an unending whirlpool of calamities. During her first six months of existence, Sarnita likely endured more physical pain and trauma than I have in my entire life. On my final day in Acapulco, she limped toward me and settled nearby, making a stark contrast with the paradisiacal ambiance of the morning beach. I guess now I have a dog.
Sarnita dragged me into the realm of dog owners, an intimidatingly extroverted place devoid of any notion of personal space. Everyone feels entitled to know what happened to Sarnita’s limbs, why she is so skinny, how long I’ve had her —a man even rolled down his car window to shout these questions at us as we were walking by. Everyone has advice to share. Everyone wants to have a 15-minute panel discussion about animal suffering. Bruno was left homeless because his owner was deported back to Venezuela. Samatha has burnt ears because a cook threw hot oil at her when she tried to steal tortillas from a taco place. Zeus was almost put to sleep by his previous owner because he chewed the leather car seat of a recently purchased Mercedes Benz. Over the last two weeks, I have talked with more than 50 neighbors. We don’t know each other’s names, because a human and a dog represent a unit. "Hi Sarnita!" says a girl who has a dog called Tuna, looking directly at me. “What a beauty!” says the guy who lives next door while I’m cleaning the shit Sanita stepped on with her two functional legs off her paws. Who is he addressing: to Sarnita or to me? My mangy crippled dog and me, when did we become one?
This week, I witnessed a scene where a blonde, overweight woman was crawling on the grass, cursing her labrador for knocking her off her feet. Her hysterical cries echoed loudly, with a discernible Argentine accent. As soon as she reached the dog, she began hitting it with the leash in frustration. In striking juxtaposition to the woman's agitated state, the labrador remained unfazed, emanating a sense of serenity and peace with its actions. Somebody once told me that how we treat our pets mirrors how we treat ourselves, projecting our inner voice onto our interactions with animals. The despair expressed by this woman in the bond with her dog unveiled a terrifying glimpse into her internal reality.
The creature that has been quarantining in my kitchen for the last couple of weeks forces me to confront my deepest germophobic paranoias. While I’m bathing Sarnita with her anti-scabies shampoo, which smells like my Soviet kindergarten teacher, I visualize the systems of tunnels created by mites under her skin. Sarnita detests bathing. She whines loudly, licking the glass door in a desperate attempt to open it with her crooked paw, while I rub the unpleasant foam onto her bald spots. Sarnita is attracted to filth. If I divert my attention from her even for a moment during our walks, she will immediately find a revolting pool of yellow vomit and indulge in it with the discerning expression of a connoisseur. Like John Waters, Sarnita fearlessly embraces her nauseating authenticity, which I deeply respect. I wish I could join her in this unbridled journey instead of embodying the boring role of an authority figure. But enlightenment is yet to be found.