Fateful Kindness

While in Mendoza, Argentina, in Sept. of 2002, I befriended a scraggly, scarred street puppy who devoloped an undying devotion to me. Before I fed him. I was nice to him, gave him water from my bottle (I poured it out so he could drink it), and lightly pet him. That's how I discovered his scars and patches. Anyway, he proceeded to follow me all around the parks of the city, me and my bag and my sketchbook, with my little map leading me astray. I made a deal with myself (after several hours of being tailed) that if he followed me all the way to a store, I would buy him some food. I was alone, my companion (one of my coursemates) having taken off to visit a family he stayed with years ago in the countryside. I bought the little red dog (I think I named him Russet or Rust-dog, or perhaps Cinnamon, in my head; I can't remember) two thin, breaded meat patties (the closest I could find to meat on a Sunday) and fed him them in bits and pieces while in a park. He followed me unwaveringly. I walked all around that city that day, and he always stayed a few steps behind, never pushing. He did, however, insert himself into several pictures, with amusing results. He refused to leave until I had snapped the picture and moved away. In this manner, he dispayed such a remarkable intelligence (he only served to make the pictures better, after all, and chose which ones to enter) that I developed a grudging respect for him. At one point, I returned to my hotel, and they kept him outside, dumping a bag full of juicy, meat-covered bones they kept for just such a purpose on the ground. He set to, and I walked away, only to feel his nose push against my leg a few cross-streets later. Eventually, we were parted when it was time for me to leave from the bus station (he tried to follow me into the bathroom and got shooed). But I'll always remember that he gave up the best meal he'd probably ever had for me.


Plaza in Mendoza, Argentina. Rust-dog.