Daniel Galera - Blood-drenched Beard

I’m telling you, your dog’s over at Greice’s! Get down there before she dies! Do you want me to take you there? If not, I’m going home.

Who’s Greice?

The vet over in Palhocinha. The guy said he was going to leave her there.

They pass through the front gate of the gym. Celma climbs onto her bicycle and turns to fiddle with something in the wicker basket lashed to the bike rack with bungee cords.

How is she?

Celma presses her lips together and sighs.

He ran right over her. He got her good.

But is she alive?

I don’t know. She was in a bad way. But he stopped the car and asked where there was a vet. Lúcia from the coffee shop told him to take her to Greice and explained where it is. He went to pick her up, and she tried to bite him. Someone gave him a hand, and they managed to get her in the car, and the guy sped off.

It’s the clinic over by the highway, isn’t it? The one with the greenish sign.

That’s the one. Near the fire station. Want to take my bike?

But before she can finish, he thanks her and sprints away. He runs three blocks to the main avenue, where he turns left and almost collides with a cyclist riding down the bike lane with a surfboard under his arm. He runs in his T-shirt, Speedos, and flip-flops. When the strap of one of the flip-flops breaks, he slows down, kicks them off his feet in a kind of clumsy dance step, and keeps running. The soles of his feet pound the cracked tarmac and hard sand at the shoulder of the road. He passes a shop selling Indian decorations and one of the many pizza parlors that closed right after Carnival. In the swamp on the right side of the road, which extends for several miles to the hills, a column of gray smoke is rising from a fire. He hears the crackling of burning bamboo and sees pink tongues of fire in his peripheral vision. There is no time to look now. His breathing is becoming more labored. The vegetation along the side of the road stinks of carrion. He stares straight ahead as he runs with long strides, his feet stinging from the friction, and wonders why he is running to the vet’s, why he didn’t take Celma’s bike, why he didn’t ask for a lift, or better, why he didn’t take his own bicycle, which was where he always left it back at the gym. Idiot. He approaches the turnoff to Ferrugem Beach. At the back of his throat, he detects the zincky taste of being out of breath. He runs until he sees the green sign saying PETVIDA.

The young man in reception is startled when he bursts in, or was already startled.

Did someone bring in a dog that’s been run over?

The man doesn’t say anything and just looks at him. It is a common reaction in these parts. People sometimes look surprised that they have been spoken to, as if addressing someone in words were the most peculiar thing.

My dog was run over, and someone told me she was here.

The man jolts out of his stupor and says yes, the dog is here. He says he’s going to talk to the vet and tells him to wait there. He returns and says that she’s in the consulting room and will be out to see him in a minute.

Can I go in to talk to her?

No. She’ll be right out.

The man still looks nervous, as if he were being tested.

Is the man who brought her in still here?

He’s gone. He waited awhile, then left.

Was it someone from here? Was he a local?

The man shrugs. His ears have no outside folds, as if someone had cut off their edges when he was a child in an act of insane cruelty. The veterinary clinic’s reception area is actually a fully stocked pet shop. Tall piles of bags of dry dog and cat food take up most of the small space, and the strong smell unearths childhood memories, visits to stables and agricultural fairs with his father. Once when he was barely a teenager and the whole family still lived in the house in Ipanema, he ate dog food just to see what it was like. The floury taste and gritty texture come back to him. He used to feel sorry for the dogs that had to eat it. He sees a poster on the wall with illustrations of every dog breed in the world and fading photos of what appear to be members of several generations of beagles from the same family. A poster about vaccination. On the glass door is a large sticker with a drawing of a cow munching on grass that says ANIMALS ARE FRIENDS, NOT FOOD. Plastic doghouses, padded pet beds, collars, and multicolored shampoos. He hears a small animal yelping at the back of the clinic.

A blond woman in a white coat appears in reception.

Are you the owner of the dog?

There is a smear of blood near the waist of the coat.

Yes.

You know she was hit by a car, don’t you?

Yes. Where is she?

In the consulting room. I’ve just stabilized her. Please, let’s go into my office because I need to explain a few things to you.

They sit facing each other at her desk. On top of it is a portrait of her next to her husband, a stout, bald man. He reminds him of his student Jander, who owns a pet shop.

Are you Jander’s wife, by any chance?

Yes. Do you know him?

He’s my student at the swimming pool.

Oh, so you’re his instructor?

He says yes with a little smile and takes a deep breath. He rests his forehead in his hand with his elbow propped on the edge of the desk.

The vet explains that Beta has a fractured humerus and a lumbar spine injury, probably with a complete fracture of vertebra L6 or L7, which means that she will probably be paralyzed. The vet’s tone of voice is funereal. She may also have a fractured pelvis. In addition to her abrasions, which are ugly. In a case like this, she says, we need to offer the owner the option of euthanasia.

I don’t want to put her down. Try to save her.

Of course you don’t. But think about it a little.

Can’t you operate?

I can. But even if she survives, it is almost certain that she’ll never walk again. And no matter how much you love your pet, you should give some thought to what things will be like afterward. She may suffer a lot, she won’t be easy to care for, she’ll need a trolley in order to walk.

So there’s a chance she might walk again?

It’s almost impossible. I’m sorry.

Can I see her?

It’s better if you don’t. In general we don’t allow it. You think you want to see her, but you don’t. Believe me.

I don’t have a problem with these things.

Even if you’re a doctor or a vet, it doesn’t matter. It’s not a question of being used to seeing blood. You don’t want to. It’s better if you talk to me. Trust me, I’ve seen this before.

Sweat drips from his chin. He is still breathing heavily. He remembers that he is in a T-shirt and Speedos, barefoot.

Excuse the state I’m in. I ran here from the gym.

Don’t worry. Look, forgive me for insisting. I’m really sorry, and I know that you love your dog a lot, but I need to emphasize that it would be best—

Your name’s Greice, isn’t it?

Yes.

Greice, I understand. But I need to see her before I decide. I won’t leave without seeing her.

She stares at him for a moment.

Come with me, then.

There isn’t much in the operating room: a wall cabinet, a support trolley, plastic tubes, cotton wool, not a surgical instrument in sight. In the center, on an aluminum table under an operating light with four bulbs, is his father’s dog.

I’ve cleaned and sedated her. But like I told you, she’s badly hurt. You’ll get a shock.

He walks over and looks at the dog.

Then he approaches the vet, who stayed in the doorway, and talks to her in a low voice close to her face.

Do everything you can, Greice. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I don’t care how much it costs. I’ll pay more than normal if necessary. I’ll pay whatever you think is fair. If you need to take her somewhere else, let’s do it. Do whatever you can for her to survive and to get as well as possible.