1. The Dog Shelter

It’s not all that terrible to be eaten by dogs.  

I mean, I don’t want to trivialize it—it really is a horrific experience. Truly! But for me, it wasn’t that awful. Yes, I was eaten alive by the dogs I cared for. But at the same time, here I am writing these lines. Or rather… it’s not really me. These lines are written by Silvester.

I am Silvester. Hello. This seems complicated, but you, my readers, are smart and will understand.

And I am Andrew. The one who got devoured. But look at me here. I’m at Silvester’s left side, while he’s doing the writing. And he looks at me, and writes, and then looks at me again, and writes some more, occasionally placing his hand on the top of my head, petting me, and writing again. And I wag my tail. Though, it’s not really me, Andrew, doing that. It’s Nina, the little dog whose eyes I now see through, after she, along with the others, ate me alive and was later adopted by Silvester.

She’s not a bad dog, don’t judge her. There were circumstances that led to this situation. I repeat. It wasn’t the dogs’ fault. But here we are, and somehow, Silvester manages to listen to my story through Nina and put it down on paper. And as I said before, it’s not all that terrible, and maybe you’ll see my side of it once you finish reading.

How is this possible? I don’t exactly know, and I know it all sounds crazy. So we’ll try to explain...

---

I, Andrew, was in charge of the shelter on the edge of town. I was a volunteer; I had another job, but the people there were nice and let me go check on the dogs and come back. And so, I’d go feed and water them, scoop their stinking crap, and clean. Then I’d go back to work, earn some money… then nighttime would come, and I’d return to the dogs. Most of the time, I’d find them barking wildly. Always hungry. No, I didn’t starve them. It was just harder than it sounds, and the shelter relied on donations and volunteers. I even had days off, spare time to work on my paintings; I’d scribble on a canvas whenever I had the energy and wasn’t dead tired. It helped relieve the stress of it all.

The dogs weren’t bad, and they weren’t lacking in anything—well, except for human interaction, a family, a proper yard. They were out in a field with limited shelter, and the grass had long since gone, trampled under paws.

Adopters would occasionally come by, but ended up returning the dogs or abandoning them elsewhere, or the dogs escaping only to get hit by cars.

And these stories piled up, becoming a nightmare for anyone.

Volunteers, the same thing. They came and went. You could rely on them, or you couldn’t. Maybe you’d go on a vacation, but instead of enjoying yourself, you’d find out from abroad that one volunteer or another didn’t show up. Or the dogs didn’t have water. Or that Alfonso escaped again and was nowhere to be found. Or that ten families came to adopt, a record!, but nobody was there to hand over the dogs. And by the time someone finally arrived, the people either got a cat, or another dog from some place else, or simply left the country because… Because… Poverty and mockery.

The donations? Don’t get me started. Food stocks fluctuated so much we had to come up with real logistical and inventory plans to make ends meet. If we got a certain amount by the end of the month, we’d have just that, or we’d need to ration something else.

If fewer donations came, who could put in their own money? Well, me, me, and me. I, for one, can’t. Yeah, I’m leaving. Enough is enough.

I began to wonder how much longer I could keep going. Time and time again I felt powerless in the face of this unceasing wave of desperation.

I even reached out to the authorities; they’d come help every now and then, once a year, take photos, the dogs would smile, everything would look fine. The dogs on this side of the fence, at least. One time, they even asked if we could put pretzels on the dogs’ tails, as a joke. What do you say to a mayor when they say something like that? And all the guys in suits laughing around him. You take the photos, put on a fake smile, take the check, then go vomit behind the fence. The dogs look at you with compassion, and you look back at them. And you wish there wasn’t a thick metal fence separating you.

Sometimes, I thought we understood each other better than people did. 

But then, up she showed…

One day, a volunteer I liked came by. She’s part of those good memories, I think. She called it therapy, she confessed. And the dogs liked her too. Maybe because, like them, she was looking for something she lacked, a place to belong.

I taught her what to do and how to manage, and she picked it up quickly. She was genuinely good at it; you could depend on her.

I even showed her my paintings—I had to do something extra, to impress her. Because these days, a job, volunteering… everyone has those, right?

Then I invited her for coffee or something. Her smile disappeared. She came by one more day, and that was it. I haven’t seen her since. And that made me feel particularly wrong about myself. I didn’t smile again after she left. Maybe smiles weren’t meant for us, those on the other side of the fence.

---

Then came the war.

The initial shock stopped us all in our tracks. It was as if a millstone was placed on our minds, and no one wanted to lift a finger. Everything we did, everything that mattered, seemed to crumble under the weight of that sentence. I don’t know where we found the strength to carry on. Facing a humanitarian disaster… In peacetime, you help the dogs, because people help each other. But when there’s war and people need help, how do you justify still helping the dogs? The cynicism of this question would gnaw at us for a long time.

Then, day after day, we watched the number of refugees rising. And the shameful number of those just passing through the country, because, you see, people were fleeing the invaders, but that didn’t mean they had to stay here, that they’d find our country any more suitable, even though we were at peace.

And it wasn’t just them who left. Our own people left too, scared, ostracized, having reached the end of their strength, looking for one last excuse to go.

I was hurt on a personal level. Which seems ridiculous, but I was ashamed of my country being disconsidered so. It was no safe heaven. For people or dogs alike. The country was for people, what the shelter was for the dogs. A place where one could survive, but not a place where you’d want to live.

Soon after, the shortages began.

Not just of food, but of money. Donations dwindled significantly. And it was understandable. Out of the little they had, people donated to help the afflicted. And the volunteers, they too, turned their efforts toward helping refugees. Often, I found myself alone with my dogs, while people suffered around me. And that chipped away at my motivation and tore me. People? Dogs? In these situations, you end up not doing well for either.

Inevitably, with the arrival of people, more dogs came too. And if the people left, the dogs couldn’t join them. They didn’t have the right vaccinations, their papers weren’t translated, and who the hell cares about bureaucracy at a time like this?

What good are papers in these situations? It’s war… you’re fleeing from destruction. Oh, but wait… do you have the right approvals to bring your dog with you to the country you’re going to? No, you don’t. It’s illegal. The vet, who’d only visit when absolutely necessary, was already overworked, and on edge with the thought of the fighting spreading to our part of the world, so he was on the verge of leaving, always anxious. Even routine checks and administering periodic treatments stretched him to his limit.

So more and more dogs streaming from across the border end up at our shelter. Even though I could hardly manage them… What else could I have done? If I didn’t take them in, their owners would abandon them at customs. Just imagine that drama—the classic scene of abandonment at the side of the road. A dog barking after the car that’s taking its beloved humans far, far away. How many such scenes must have been there?

Seriously… If the travel rules aren’t applied to a refugee because of war, then why should they apply to their pets? Someone somewhere forgot to temporarily suspend some rules. Or just didn’t care.

---

In the midst of these shortages and uncertainties, Nina appeared. She was brought in by a lady who was taking care of a family that fled the conflict. With nothing left, they were in transit and about to leave the country. They couldn’t take Nina anymore, but hoped to recover her either from the shelter or from whoever might adopt her, once there was peace. Eh… when’ll it be peace, then?

“What’s up? Are you managing?”

“I’m managing.”

What else could I say? You could hardly have a conversation over the dogs’ barking. The food situation was critical. We’d long since switched to the cheap stuff—ashes and flour.

“We’re all doing our best. Please, don’t lose hope. Try to make things work somehow. Just like I’m helping the people, what you’re doing is really important too.”

Sweet. Heartwarming. But it was an unbearable weight, an agonizing pressure.

I nodded. Without any hope in my mind, words were useless.

Nina was in the back of the car, scared by the barking. A little boy with a golden head and a coat one size too big was trying to console her. He cried into her black fur. And Nina cried on his shoulder. His older sister tried to console him in turn. I approached.

“Where are they from?”

“From right in the middle of it… And that’s why they want to go as far away as possible. They hope to return, but they don’t know… You get it… everyone thinks that way. To have to leave your home… their thoughts are still there. At their house. Bed, table, refrigerator… the street and the playgrounds. Neighbors.”

I get it. When you’re at peace and without worries, you throw around the expression “afraid of bombs.” But these people… And their pet really heard them. Maybe somewhere in the distance, in the city. In the neighborhood where their friends lived. Or in their own neighborhood. On their street, and they woke up to shattered windows, plaster falling on their heads, invaded by the cold and some barbaric force.

They brought Nina reluctantly. She was pulling back on her lead. I pat her reassuringly and gave her some kibble, to make her feel welcome. Bread and salt, we’re good hosts. Yeah, what can I say?

I took her by the leash and signaled for them to come along.

“Come. Come, Nina.”

The boy walked beside her, holding her collar. Head stooped, his eyes and cheeks running with tears. He sobbed uncontrollably, hiccupping with every step. I was on one side, he on the other, the girls in the back, crying at the situation, a graceful, black Nina, obliged, the other dogs howling like wolves—we were a real funeral procession, a sight that would repeat itself. And here I am, complaining about that. Imagine the ones who actually lived through it in the warzone.

Nina entered the sanctuary rather unwilling. The sound of the door slamming made her jump. The others gathered to sniff her, rubbing against her, bidding their canine welcome. Tails wagged and hit her in the head, and I smiled at the scene, though it was all bitter. It always was.

The boy clung to the fence’s links for several minutes. He pressed his cheek against the metal mesh. And Nina came and collapsed next to him. The curious dogs joined to sniff, to see, to make friends, but they quickly understood that it wasn’t a departure. Those people hadn’t come to adopt.

And the two of them stayed like that for a long time. His cheek rested against the dog’s head. And his golden hair mixed with her black fur, separated by that cold barrier, perhaps for the last time.

Around that time I decided that alcohol wasn’t enough. And I started looking for something else...

---

And the war continued. And didn’t seem like it would ever end. The shelter was overcrowded, and the supplies… God save us. The officials stopped coming too. Politicians and celebrities were posing with the refugees. I already felt irresponsible. Others were taking care of people in need. Meanwhile… I was watching over starving dogs.

It was hard.

Working, keeping yourself emotionally afloat in the midst of daily atrocities happening so close by, and taking care of the animals—shoveling crap, buying, carrying sacks of food, feeding them, scraping for money, paying your outrageous rent. And then paint a picture to sell to scrape up a bit more because you’re barely getting by, try to go out with a friend, and by the way, you ruin the relationship if you mention donations, well, screw all of you! Can’t you contribute anything? And then I’d weigh it out… was I doing enough?

And try going out with a girl, because hey, you’re single and it’s awful. And maybe you smell like dog, or like crap, you’re sweaty, or exhausted, or you wrinkle your nose when you realize you have to pay—when did burgers double in price?—or you have to cancel because you have an emergency at the shelter, or the movie you went to see is unbearably boring, or bonus: you go to a movie, it’s actually interesting, but because of that, you didn’t talk at all, and there you are, sitting next to her for two hours, and you know nothing about each other. And screw those at work too, because they don’t give a thought to what others are going through.

---

“When you came, Silvester, you were a huge help. A blessing. But you already know that. Ha! Watching how you tried to avoid the dogs’ mess, I thought you weren’t the right guy for this.”

“Yeah… I prefer to keep it brief, otherwise it’ll sound like I’m bragging, but the readers need to know how I ended up here too.”

“Yeah, you take over, let me catch my breath. I get worked up just thinking about it.”

“When I first came to the shelter, I felt… I felt Andrew seemed a bit down, so I thought, okay, I have to help him somehow. For me, the circumstances were pretty favorable, I have to admit, despite the disasters happening everywhere in my country. While our city didn’t see any fighting, it did get bombed and… Damn those bastards! I lost people in those initial bombardments. But our company thought ahead and helped us relocate here safely. I’m happy, but still concerned. So many were left behind and others like me even have to fight. But here I am safe and sound… I’m not proud of it, and I feel bad, but somehow… I don’t even know what to say. If I say ‘all for the best’… No, that’s not right. I mean, I sometimes think of another person who could be me—is that person alright? And his family? Where are they now? I ended up in a peaceful place, but there’s a bitter aftertaste, and so I thought I had to help somehow, to contribute somewhere. And seeing first-hand the destruction, the cruelty that man wrought over man, I donated to the shelter. It wasn’t much but… I don’t know, Andrew. Maybe it mattered, or? What do you think?” 

“It mattered… well, anything’s better than nothing. Every little bit helps.”

“But first I had to move… Looking back now, that was probably my mistake. But I really couldn’t handle the rent there, the distance—I still had to be a bit selfish and think about myself first… What the hell else was I supposed to do? I could’ve handled things better then. I really feel bad…”

“Silvester, I truly believe your intentions were good. There just wasn’t enough time… If others had done as much as you did… There were already plenty of dogs, and not only did your donations help, but the fact that you came to volunteer, lend a hand, spread the word about adoption cases. You came up with the idea and energy to take the dogs out and present them to potential families. And indeed, a good couple of them were adopted during that time. Your arrival made a huge difference. I remember that’s when you started to like Nina. Look at her wagging her tail. She hears her name in her head, poor thing.”

---

I also remember when the dogs started digging…

And I couldn’t have known why. They didn’t dig under the fence to escape. I broke them of that habit quickly. But they started digging all over the shelter, randomly—or so I thought at first. And I didn’t have time to cover the potholes. No matter how much we filled them in, by the next day, whether in the morning or evening after work, they’d dug them even deeper than we’d managed to fix.

Then I understood why they were doing it…

One day, I arrived to an uproar of barking and saw them all running in circles, snapping, yelping. At first, I thought they were fighting, but no. They were chasing one of them, trying to take something out of its mouth. They had found a bone. And I let them be, thinking someone must have tossed it in, or maybe some dog a hundred years ago buried its bone right under the shelter, and they’d dug it up now.

The truth would turn out to be far more dreadful.

Day by day, more and more bones emerged from the freshly dug earth. Shivers ran down my spine, my hand trembling on the phone… At first, I thought someone had tossed them a ball, and they were happy to roll it around the pen… but as I got closer, I realized it was a skull, and those black, would-be eyes seemed to plead with me, “Save me.”

The dogs had unearthed a veritable graveyard. And I couldn’t sleep for nights after that horror.

I needed a lot of courage. I was paralyzed. To call some archaeologists and officials and priests, so we wouldn’t end up with accusations of grave desecration or something, because here, no matter how much good you do, one single mistake can bury you… that’s irony for you. I really can’t convey how terrified I was. I was useless for days.

And until they got here, the dogs kept digging and gnawing on the bones out of hunger. They pulled them from the ground, ate, then dug deeper. They chewed on skulls, and I saw their tongues flicking through the empty eye sockets, wagging their tails, happy with this activity.

The police came first, took a look, got a statement, something-something, made their report. They’d wait for the archaeologists’ findings, because forensics couldn’t be considered yet, and there was no documentation that this was ever a cemetery. But cool dogs, they said. Yet none of the bob-heads adopted.

Then the archaeologists came. They stood there, hands on their hips, watching the pack of dogs digging and chewing on bones scattered all over the place.

“What should we do?”

“I can’t take them out of here,” I said. “I have nowhere to put them. If I open the gate, they’ll scatter. The only solution is for you to work with them here, and I’ll come in too and make sure they don’t bite you or take off with the bones you dig up.”

“Yes. They seem friendly, don’t they?”

“Well, they are. But… I’ve had too little food for them for months now. And they’ve taken to doing this.”

“They’ve become archaeologists.”

“Yeah, give them diplomas. Honoris Causa. Honoris Canisa! True apprentice archaeologists.”

And so they got to work, and I kept the dogs at a distance as best I could. They weren’t aggressive—quite the opposite; they were happy to have people to interact with and receive extra treats. Some played, while others occasionally took bones right out of the archaeologists’ hands. I even saw them carrying brushes or tools in their mouths. It wasn’t easy, and it took some time, but it was done without incident. 

The verdict: a very old burial site, dating back to the first migrating Slavs.

From what I understood, the bones’ age, the burial style, and especially the found jewelry were all clear evidence of this. At least it wasn’t the work of a criminal, nor could it be desecration by the church’s standards. So we were out of the waters.

And they took everything away. They even recovered what they found going through the dogs’ waste. Since it wasn’t always bones that went through, but beads and metal crafts as well. And all the findings warranted an exhibition. A big fanfare, cultured folks, historians, politicians—a grand discovery at the edge of town. And the press wrote about it, that bones were found right under a dog shelter. I thought it might help bring people in to donate, adopt. Something…

I was left with huge pits and many hungry dogs.

Rainy days became a real nightmare. Beyond the hunger and crowding, the rain forced them to fight over the last few inches of cover.

The whole shelter had turned into a clichéd South American prison. The privileged ones sat inside and didn’t leave the premises. What for? The food was so scarce. I would sometimes come across dogs in various stages of putrefaction or devoured by the others. And no. I couldn’t do a damn thing! And no, I never would have wanted to reach the conclusion that it was better this way. That there were fewer dogs, so the others had more to eat…

Ha. Nina just sighed heavily. Like a dog.

Then there were those who clung to the ground under the asbestos awnings, enduring the toxic drips leaking through the cracks. And, of course, the lower class, humiliated to withstand the hellish deluges and the thick mud that formed especially after digging.

And I can say with some confidence that among those left outside, there was a group that had simply lost their minds and decided to roll around in the mud and in the cold, brown pools, former burial sites. And maybe I’m not exaggerating when I say that those crazy dogs were the happiest. Psychosis liberates.

And they stank to high heaven. The ones inside, of rotting flesh. The ones outside but sheltered, of stale crap. The oppressed with nothing above their heads, of wet dog, mud. And crap. And they hated each other. They hated each other because they stank differently and had the spots they did.

And maybe things could have continued like that, but of course something had to give. The most oppressed group revolted. And started fighting for spots under covers. And I’m aware that this sounds like a parallel with human society, but that’s not the intent. How could it be when I’m recounting things I’ve lived firsthand? And died as well… Here’s a bit of poetic license, Silvester.

There was no way you couldn’t feel your heart break watching them. And as the rains kept drenching, I went in among them. Not just to separate them but to set an example. I sat down in the mud, in the downpour. Like a true Alexander refusing water, I took it instead. Overflowing.

And they calmed down. And they came and surrounded me with their wet, stinking bodies. With their drooping ears, tails wagging. With those tongues slapping around in a friendly way. And I sat there, I don’t know how many days, how many nights, who knows how many times. I ended up getting thrown off the bus by people.

HaHaHaHaHa!

Of course, it was horrible.

Then they started fighting again.

The only solution was to tear down the sheltering. That’s how I brought equality between the two classes.

“Let’s not forget you were drunk, so maybe it wasn’t the most thought-out decision.”

“I was cold. I needed something to endure…”

“But that ultimately led to the hatred of both groups.”

“Yes. Now all of it directed at me…”

I sat in their midst that day, not noticing anything unusual.

“Except…”

“Oh come on…”

“Except… It’s important.”

“I was on pot. And some acid.”

“And drunk, Andrew, out of your mind.”

Anyway, it was a mix that numbed the pain. I mean, not that there wasn’t pain, but it was something entirely different.

The sky changed colors from bright red to purple, dense forest green. The clouds contrasted too, from white to black, dark blue, phosphorescent green. And from them fell torrents of blood, or drops of green acid that cooled the burning in my eyes. And they rumbled and trumpeted. I heard them rustling, rubbing against each other. Faces appeared there, scolding me from the heavens. As if those around me weren’t enough.

Then I saw the people buried there rise and ride on the dogs. The distance between me and this cadaveric canine cavalry closed in.

When the first bite clenched, I shuddered. We had fully broken the caretaker-and-animal bond. I felt a big bang and a crunch. An entire universe was born and died in a matter of seconds. But at the same time, it felt like I had lived billions upon billions of cosmic years with it.

“Is that really how you felt or… I’m the writer here…”

“That’s how I felt… That’s the only way I can describe it. I’m not trying to embellish…”

“Fine. I’ll see about it in editing.”

I was knocked-down by cascades and tossed around in the torrent. Slammed against rocks. Hungry jaws crushed my fingers until I couldn’t feel them anymore. A creaking rainbow burst out of me, then a mass like a spill of tar descended upon me. I felt those ancient migrators’ feet, unrelenting, marching over me.

“The clothes. They tore off your clothes and threw themselves all over you.”

“Now I think that’s what happened. And the hair. Did they pull out my hair?”

“Yes.”

“Something hurt incredibly, and I think that was it. At one point, it felt as if they took my heart out of my chest without severing the veins. And it struggled to keep beating, still connected to me, while something tried to tear it in two. And I felt hot and cold, and I wanted it to stop and to go on, to die and to live at the same time.”

“When I found you the next day, you were just a pile of bones still being gnawed on. Barely any skin or flesh left, just bits here and there. On the face, around the joints, wherever they could get a good grip. And you were scattered everywhere.”

“Once they dehumanized me. Or did I do it to myself, just by sitting there? To them, I was nothing more than a sack of meat. A source of food.”

“Mhm…”

“All for the best, right?”

“I guess so…”

“Maybe that was the justice I deserved. If I couldn’t feed them while I was alive, I’d at least offer them one final comfort. A taste? In death.”

“That was not justice. It was an unfair sentence, brought upon you by the negligence of others. Other people, ignorant to the suffering of their peers. A preventable pain, extending to those who can’t help themselves. No, Andrew. Justice is what we are going to do from now on.”

*** 

“This sunny spring morning feels like the cliché of a fresh start.”

“I really think it is. Nina, finally in a new home.”

“She’s happy, I can tell you. We both are.”

“It shows on her face. Here it is.”

...

“Oh, what a beauty, welcome!”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ieiesque. This is Nina; I’m Silvester, and we’re so glad you’ve decided to take her in. As you can see. Isn’t that right, Nina, my girl?”

“What a sweetheart. Come in, have something to eat, both of you.”

“I can’t stay. I still have other dogs to drive about. Take care. Like we agreed, I’ll call, I’ll check in, see how she’s doing. And do call me if there are any problems, though I know she’s a little sweetheart and pose you any!”

“She’s a darling, the poor thing, indeed. Well then, goodbye.”

“Goodbye, ma’am! Bye, Nina, we’ll see each other again sometime…”

“Bye, Silvester. We’ll see each other again. Oh, we’re so hungry! And what a big backside you have, my dear lady. Big. Juicy. Meaty backside…”

Arf-arf-arf

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