Augusto Monterroso - Complete Works and Other Stories

In fact, day by day my soul was overwhelmed by a deep contempt for those animals. I came to despise them more than anything else in the world.

All the passions I might have nourished otherwise settled into a kind of thick, heavy sediment inside me, leaving behind on the surface, on the first layer of daily living, the disgust, the repulsion I felt toward those servile, humble animals with their teary, gentle eyes, their dripping tongues always ready to lick with pleasure the foot that does them harm.

My first victim (how many others have not yet fallen) was our own dog whose name — too degrading, too doglike1—I do not wish to state here. Come to think of it, I believe his name played a major role in the outcome. Perhaps if he had been called something else, I wouldn’t have noticed him. A dog’s name is as important as the dog himself. A man or woman can, if they choose, and for whatever strange, eccentric reasons, find another name for themselves. It’s a question of taste, and with three announcements by the Bureau of Public Records in the newspapers with the smallest circulation, the matter is taken care of. But a dog has to endure his name for his whole life unless he decides to take to the streets and become a bony, nameless stray, but that is a hard, sad life, and few are willing to settle for being thrown out of restaurants and the urinals of bars with a generic “Beat it, mutt!” much less an evil kick to the stomach. I remembered that the ancient philosopher had chosen can as the lowest, most despicable thing one could find. And I was happy to admire him for imitating dogs so that men would despise him as much as he despised men. I happened to read in a book: “Once, at a dinner, there were some who threw him bones as if he were a dog and he, approaching them, pissed on them as if he were a dog.” I also hated the old cynic — so forthright!

Sometimes one has to say monstrous things. What I’m going to say is a little monstrous: I think my father was jealous of the animal. I’ve reached this conclusion through the association of certain ideas; I can’t explain the death of Diogenes in any other way.

In any case, the dog was to blame for much of what happened. Who tells dogs to have that look that’s so teary, so tender, so loving? And who told ours to hide under the bed whenever my father appeared? Wouldn’t it have been better to go out and greet him (even at the risk of a kick) instead of provoking him with flight that was hopeless? No. He always did the least sensible, the most stupid thing. Sometimes he would start to howl even before my father hit him. It never lasted long. My father couldn’t stand it.

It was a hot afternoon. I was diligently reviewing some multiplication tables. My mother was doing her endless crocheting. I can’t call her to mind without the silver needle and the little ball of white thread on a newspaper on the floor. I don’t know how she took care of her other domestic chores; I can only remember her crocheting or ironing what she had crocheted. The apartment was filled with little doilies that did not beautify the rooms (which was undoubtedly her intention) but gave them a look of vulgar bad taste instead.

Her black metal irons stood in the most surprising, the most absurd places. Her work was also an obsession, I suppose. When she wasn’t working she moved her fingers feverishly as if she were actually crocheting without realizing it, as if on no account did she want to lose the rhythm begun who knows how many years ago. If I hadn’t grown accustomed to seeing the ball of thread on the floor, I could easily have believed that she produced it herself, like a spider.

The dog had sprawled in a corner, sweating profusely through his tongue and nose.

The brick where he rested his head was covered with vapor at each movement of his lungs. I liked to write my initials with my finger on this vapor, but my mother did not always allow it: “You’re a very dirty child.”

As I said, he took the three of us by surprise. What we least expected was his arrival or the manner in which he arrived. He came home early, in a very good mood. Sober. Clean. Smiling. Happiness is easy to communicate. He communicated his happiness to all of us. It was a pleasure to have father like him, and for the moment I forgot about his beatings.

He took off his hat and tossed it very gracefully (it seemed to me) onto the hook on the other side of the room.

Then he went over to my mother and caressed her, passing his hand, slowly and gently, over her hair. As he bent down to kiss her he said a few words I couldn’t hear or don’t remember. But I’m sorry I don’t remember because I’m sure they were sweet and kind.

When my turn came he walked toward me, patted me twice on the shoulder, and said with a smile:

“How are you?”

I lowered my eyes, feeling a blush on my cheeks:

“Okay, Papa.”

Then he sat down. He seemed a little embarrassed. We hadn’t seen him for several months (or years). He obviously wanted to talk, to keep saying pleasant things, but he remained quiet, his eyes half-closed or looking at the beams (a little dirty with smoke, it occurred to me) that supported the ceiling.

My mother offered him something, or simply said something. She stood up to close the window only when it began to grow dark and a cold breeze blew into the room. Then she returned to her work in silence.

We could all hear it clearly when the dog began to growl the way they do when they feel a heavy stillness. He lay in the corner like a lizard, his four paws stretched out and his belly flat on the floor, as if the heat were still excessive.

When I heard him I moved my eyes slowly in my father’s direction. He was smiling. My mother was looking at him too. When she saw him smile she smiled. When I saw her smile I smiled. Then we all looked at the animal again at the same time, and he smiled too in his way. What relief I felt when I heard my father break the silence again by drumming his fingers, clearly intending to call Diogenes over to him.

When he called, the dog began to move slowly, dragging himself, pushing himself with his hind legs. He never expected to be treated with so much affection. I imagine even the dog realized that my father was not drunk as usual, that this day was different.

To make him lose his fear completely, my father continued to call him with whistles and affectionate diminutives: “Here, doggy doggy.”

That day I had a vague idea of what happiness was like. I saw my mother happy, my father clean and happy, the happiness in the dog’s eyes. When he had traveled the entire distance separating him from my father, he was glad. He wagged his tail with extraordinary vigor and let out an occasional growl. For a moment — perhaps he was overdoing it — he rolled over, lay with his paws in the air as if he wanted to show all his pleasure, but he quickly returned to his usual posture; perhaps he was a little embarrassed. My father caressed him with his foot.

Wasn’t he partly to blame, not meaning this, God knows, as any criticism? He’s dead now, and I should respect his memory, but, knowing my father, how could he have done what he did? I won’t swear to it, but it’s possible that his only desire was to share his joy. In fact, at a certain moment he turned his head toward me. When he grew tired of looking at me, or when I stopped paying attention to him, he turned his stupid eyes toward my mother and stayed that way for a while, his tongue hanging out, waiting for some word.

That’s when my father’s expression changed. Very calmly he stretched out his right hand to the table beside him, took one of my mother’s irons, and let it fall like lightning on the animal’s head. He didn’t have a chance to defend himself. He didn’t even move. Neither did my mother. Neither did I. There was no need.