The Mexican Dog

For my father, a dog in the south is a Mexican beggar. He’s fed and he’s buried, so he stays on the stoop. The picture is painted differently by people on the north side. Some dogs become so pampered they need the help of a Mexican to get them in line. And even then, Cesar changes the people. Not the dog.

I for one, would gladly let my dog inside the house. I wouldn’t, however, let her lick my face. My dogs are humble Mutts. I feed and wash them. I pet them and I love them. But they are dogs. They have no rights, because they can’t understand them.

To brush a dog’s teeth. To give it birthday presents. To have it seated at the dinner table. These actions strike me as strange. I suspect the dog just wants to be around you. These actions are fine, from that perspective. What is strange, for me at least, is when a man calls the police when a dog is run over. When a tourist gasps out at the sight of a mutt with mange.

Dogs benefit from humans, because the human rules the world. But the dog was once a wolf, and those creatures know no civilization, nor do they want it. I suppose the pity then belongs to the hound. A dog is a bastard breed between the dinner table and the dead sheep carcass. And only we are to blame.

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