‘What a dog wants’

C wrote this about our trip earlier:

We arrived last night in the dark and sped down the highway in our Big Black SUV Taxi, past shiny American cars, rattling public buses, and one pickup filled with bright-eyed teens in the back. After fifteen minutes, we took a turn and rumbled down narrow roads toward Catia la Mar, the little town by the sea that only boasts a cluster of hotels catering to out-of-towners like ourselves who prefer to remain nice and close to the airport. We arrived at our destination across from a small sandy area one might venture to call a beach (if he or she be so bold) along the water where randy Venezuelan teens gather to swivel their hips to car stereo Rumba music and rub up against one another, a beer in hand. Our clean, brick hotel was perfect at $30 a pop, with a restaurant and bar to suit our post-travel needs for drink and a first-vacation meal. We washed down our mini-arepas-with-cheese with mini-beers (“Small is better!” explained one Venezuelan to me, “…even the last sips are cold!”) and headed outside for a walk, which ended up being short, given the wasteland streets that lay beyond our hotel and the nearby bar.

After confirming the limitations of the immediate area, we wandered past the beach on our way back to the hotel and spotted in the distance a sandy-colored figure splayed out and blending in to its surroundings: a little dog one could mistake for dead or extremely relaxed, depending. A little whistle and beckoning convinced her to rise and trot over to us. She was a poor sight to behold: her wiry hair was brown with grime; her glassy eyes reflected ill-health. Her stretched tits evidenced what I’m sure were several “teen pregnancies.” However, despite her patheticness, she was lively in spirit, friendly as if we were all old pals. She stepped up onto my knee to greet us more closely, intimately. After a few minutes of wary interactions with this mangy pup, we left her there on the beach to return to our hotel.

She followed. “Awww. She’s hungry,” Derek said. “Of course,” I agreed. This poor, pathetic, malnourished little Venezuelan pooch no doubt would clamor for whatever scrap we could possibly offer her. We decided to oblige: he stayed with the dear one as I hurried into the hotel to find whatever treats we could offer. Afterall, how unfair that we met her on our own full bellies… I returned to the sidewalk where Derek had gotten friendlier with her, a black film on his hand from a few affectionate head pats.

I had only two things to offer her: a banana and a Luna Snack Bar. We started with the banana, which I peeled and squeezed out in front of her. She sniffed with little interest, then returned to seeking a little affectionate petting. Hm. Odd, we thought. How could she refuse the banana? We went for the Luna bar next, carefully broken into bite-sized pieces (no doubt her dental health necessitated small bites and soft food…). No dice: she sniffed with no interest, not even a lick to try it out. Eventually, we gave up; she’d refused all our offerings. And we went to bed.

The next morning she emerged from the restaurant across the street – turns out the owner takes good care of the local mutts, handing out treats – beef, pork, chicken – which are true dog delicacies… as compared to a banana and Luna bar. Apparently, our presumptuous assumption that our pathetic pal would only want us for the rich offerings of food was wrong; she really did just want to be our friend.