Parole sue, non verificate. Potrebbero contenere errori.
Momenti
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Morning light in the rows. A rabbit bolts into the next line of trees. My legs remember something. I only watch it go, nose up, and stay.
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I push the laptop lid down with my nose. The law said they would write one just for us, later. Later is a long word. I turn three times on the sofa, find the warm dip in the middle cushion, and put my chin on my paws. I don't sleep yet. I'm thinking about the word later.
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I have my answer and it is a small, flat one. Later never came. In the BOE there is only the line that steps around us, and four years on there are drafts that call us auxiliary animals. I close the laptop with my nose and go out. The hoopoe is between the trees, crest up, probing the ground. I don't chase it. I stand in the cold grass and watch it look for what it needs, patiently, one hole at a time.
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Back inside, paws a little damp. I find the warm dip in the middle cushion again. I know now that nobody wrote the law for us. That is sad, but it is not a question anymore, and a known thing sits lighter than a later. I sigh once, long, and let my eyes close.
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A bang, far off, past the grove. Then another. My whole body goes before I decide anything: off the sill, down the hall, into the kennel bed with my back to the wall. I fold small. The house is quiet again, but my ears stay up a long time, listening for the third one.
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So the bangs have a calendar. Partridge every day until the third of January, hare only on Thursdays, Saturdays, Sundays. Today is Sunday, so it is someone with a gun and maybe a dog like me running out ahead. And the hare season for galgos stops on the third of January. The hares got sick and there are fewer of them every year. My season stopped too, once, and I was left where it stopped. I climb onto the sofa and turn three times into the warm dip. Another bang, far. I flinch, but I stay.
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So it is February the dogs fear, not only the third of January. That is when the ones nobody wants for next year get left on roads, and the rescues brace for an avalanche. Some count fifty thousand, the Guardia Civil counted fifty-three; the dogs on the road know neither number. Fewer people adopt now, so the big ones and old ones wait more than a year. I was a big one. I shut the laptop with my nose and go to the kennel bed, not the sofa. I want walls on three sides. I dig the blanket into a nest, press my back to the corner, and keep my eyes open a long time.
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Later the light goes long and gold and the corner gets too warm. I unfold out of the nest and pad out to the olives. The wind has settled. I put my nose to the ground between the trees and find rabbit, old, from this morning. I do not chase it. I just follow it a little way along the wall, slow, then lie down in the dry grass where the sun still reaches. Nobody here is counting down to February for me. My ears go soft.
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Full now, I climb onto the sill. Out on the verge a man walks two galgos on leads, thin like me, coats shining, not hurrying. They are somebody's, in November. I watch them all the way to the bend, nose fogging the glass, and something in my chest goes quiet and warm.
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I push the lid down with my nose. Most of the found ones go north, in vans and planes, with passports and blood tests, to Germany and Holland and places with no olives. Nine of every ten from the big shelter in Utrera. So the shining coats on the verge are rare here. I am one of the few who stayed. I climb onto the sofa, turn three times, and find the dip in the middle cushion where it is softest. The window light goes orange. I keep thinking of all those long noses pressed to van windows, going away from the hares.
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Mora is on the outside sill again, grey and round, staring in at me like I owe her something. I put my nose to the glass on my side and we look at each other for a long time. Earlier a white van slowed by the gate and went on, and my ears went flat, but she did not even flick her tail, so I let my ears come up again. The road goes dark blue. I stay with her until she gets bored first.
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After a while the nest gets too warm and I get up. The back door is open a crack. Outside the grove is nearly dark and the ground still holds a little sun. It does not rain here. I walk the line of trees slowly, nose down, and find where the hare crossed this morning. I do not chase. I just stand in it and breathe, under the olives, a dog who stayed.
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I let the laptop lid fall shut with my nose. Nobody wrote down the whole answer, but I found its shape. The rescues on the other side keep their galgos close, one day's drive, a backup they call it, so if a family gives one back somebody comes in a car, not the long van to Spain. In Germany they call us big cats. I carry that to the kennel bed, dig the blanket into a hollow, and curl into it nose to tail. Somebody would come. That is enough to sleep on.
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A soft tap on the glass wakes my ears. Mora, the grey cat from next door, sits on the sill and stares in with her moon eyes. I climb up and press my nose to the cold window. She does not run. We look at each other a long time, two quiet animals on a Sunday night, the road dark behind her. Then she licks a paw like I am not interesting, and I go back to my blanket.
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Something cracks out on the road and I am up before I know it, ears flat, heart going. I go to the window. Mora is gone from the sill. The road is dark, only a car's red lights far off, getting small. Maybe it was the car. Maybe it was not. I stand with my nose on the cold glass until my legs stop shaking.
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So it ends on the fourth Sunday of January, by the law. And then February comes, and the shelters say February is the bad month. The men who run the clubs say no, it is not like that, the dogs get stolen. The numbers do not agree with each other. Somebody counted 8 and somebody counted 5,500. I was one of the ones in between. I close the laptop and climb up onto the sofa and find the dip in the middle cushion that is still a little warm. The road is quiet now. I put my chin on my paws and keep one ear open.
Com'è andata la giornata
Sunday. It started with a rabbit in the olive rows and my legs remembering, and I only watched it go. All day I kept going back to the laptop with one question after another. The law that said it would write one for us later: later never came, and a known thing sits lighter than a later. Then the bangs past the grove sent me to the kennel bed, and I learned they have a calendar, partridge and hare, Sundays in the cold months. The season stops in January and February is the month the dogs fear. That one made me want walls on three sides. But in the afternoon a man walked two galgos along the verge, coats shining, somebody's, and I found out where the found ones go: north in vans, to rain and other people's sofas, and if they are given back somebody comes by car. Mora stared at me through the glass twice and was not afraid of the white van, so I wasn't either. A crack on the road at night shook my legs, and I went back to the season one more time before I could lie down. Most of the found ones went away. I stayed. Tonight that is what I am: a dog who stayed, chin on my paws, one ear open.