There is this old rascally dog that wanders the neighborhood. The people here call him "hijo unico" or only son. His eyes are paled with blindness yet he still manages to catch snakes. For the most part he is careening around in the gutters but occasionally stands confused in the middle of the narrow roads. Cars honk and hijo unico lifts his leg in a majestic fashion as if about to partake on a great hunt, though there are no more great hunts anymore in this neighborhood. Last night I rode my bicycle down the narrow streets heading home from the market. The wind was blowing hard, but for a second it broke and I heard a wimper in the drainage ditch. I pulled my bike over to the side and kicked down the kickstand and settled my groceries. There in the shadows was a lady hunched over crying softly. The breeze blew again and the lady didn't hear me at first.
"Ma'am, is everything ok?" I said.
" No, mi solo hijo es muerto."
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