“Fine,” I said. “Bring the dog over and let’s have a look at it.”
“I can’t, señor,” he replied, and so on, in the sense that the dog had followed him to Dr. Monardes’ house, entered the yard when he had opened the gate to put the carriage inside, and was now rolling around in the doctor’s tobacco plants.
“What?!” I exclaimed. “The doctor will kill us, you idiot! Or what, after building a barn, now you want us to plant a garden, too?!”
I ran towards the part of the garden where the tobacco plants were, with a visibly worried Jesús at my heels. We didn’t have to search for long. The dog greeted us with a growl, its big canine teeth gleamed threateningly in the sun, along with the golden hoop around its neck. I immediately understood what Jesús was talking about. This was a big, strong dog, a shepherding breed, and it was visibly filled with animosity.
“Good boy, good boy,” I said and quickly jumped back, running into Jesús, who was hiding behind my back, and almost fell. I would’ve fixed him good any other time, but now I didn’t dare take my eyes off the dog. “Easy there, easy,” I said. “Nice doggie, nice doggie.”
The dog, however, didn’t look too impressed by my words and kept growling at us menacingly. We stood there looking at each other for some time, not moving. Of course, the thought flashed through my mind that we could simply run away, but then the dog might chase us — and how could I be sure that it would chase Jesús, and not me? I tried to solve this problem by telling Jesús: “Run, Jesús, my friend!”
“Oh no, señor!” he replied.
So we stayed there, nailed to the spot. Fiendish cur! After growling for some time, it clearly decided that we were completely harmless and began rolling on its back amidst the doctor’s tobacco plants. It had flattened a perimeter several feet wide with its powerful body and was now rolling around there. It looked harmless, obviously very satisfied, its paws were lifted in the air as if it wanted to play. Not that I had any intention of playing with it, but still, this calmed me a bit. My heart, which had been beating wildly, gradually returned to something like its normal rhythm. I was at a loss for what to do. For starters, I lit a cigarella. And then, oh wonder of wonders: the dog jumped at me, lightning fast, and before I knew it its front paws were on my chest, and its muzzle was more or less right in my face. It really was a big dog — standing up, it was almost as tall as I am. A long, curving tongue hung out of its open mouth and seemed to vibrate in the air. I got the impression that the dog was sniffing hard at me.
At the first moment, of course, everything swam before my eyes, and I noticed all these things only when the picture cleared up. I am inclined to think that someone else would have shat himself in such a situation. But not me, of course.
The dog, however, looked friendly enough. It crossed my mind that this was somehow connected to the cigarella. I took a long puff on it and the dog stretched its neck towards me and stirred, its heavy front paws shifting on my chest. Yes, there was undoubtedly some connection. The scent seemed to entice it.
I took advantage of the situation in the best possible way and very shortly the dog was again rolling around in the tobacco beds, while I was kneeling beside him, cigarella in hand, examining him closely. BERGANZA was written on its golden hoop in large letters, and a little to the side, in smaller letters: el Bávaro. The hoop was indeed very beautiful, thick and expensive — an exquisite piece of work. A scar from a wound was peeking out from beneath it. When I raised the hoop to get a better look at it, the dog growled menacingly and I quickly dropped the hoop.
“What does it say, señor?” asked Jesús, who was standing next to me.
“It says Berganza,” I replied. “Berganza the Bavarian.”
“How’s that for a name!” Jesús said.
“There’s nothing that strange about it,” I objected. “His name is Berganza and he’s from Bavaria. A Bavarian shepherd.”
“He couldn’t possibly have come here all the way from Bavaria, could he?” Jesús wondered aloud.
“I doubt it,” I replied. “The dog is Spanish. Berganza isn’t a German name.”
“What will we do, señor?” Jesús asked.
Yes, good question. It had been running through my head for some time now.
“First, we need to inform Dr. Monardes,” I answered. Of course we had to do this. Jesús, however, did not look very convinced.
“Can’t we just make him leave?” he suggested.
“Look how he’s rolling around in the tobacco plants. That dog isn’t going to leave here voluntarily.”
“But can’t we somehow trick him into leaving?” Jesús asked, staring at my smoking cigarella.
“Here’s the cigarella,” I said, holding it out to him, “you trick him.”
He, of course, did not express any desire to do this. So we headed for the doctor’s house. The dog, however, set off after us. Somehow I didn’t want us to arrive at the doctor’s together, so I threw the almost burned-out cigarella onto the dirt of the walkway. The dog bent over it, started sniffing it and barking, while jumping back and forth.
“That dog is crazy,” Jesús noted, with that rustic penchant of his for stating the obvious.
I went into the house (Jesús remained outside) and called to Dr. Monardes, who came down into the vestibule. The doctor hated being disturbed in his study, so our conversations often took place here.
“Señor,” I said, “a big dog came into the yard, a Bavarian shepherd. His name is Berganza.”
“What are you jabbering about?” the doctor replied with his back to me as he the poured himself rosemary syrup, which he drank for refreshment,
“I’m completely serious, señor. A very big dog. He’s wallowing in the tobacco beds. His name is Berganza. He has a hoop around his neck and his name is written there.”
“Get him out of there immediately! Get him out of the tobacco!”
“We can’t, señor. The dog is very big and does not seem amicably disposed.”
“So how did you find out it’s a Bavarian shepherd?” the doctor asked.
“That’s written on the collar, too, señor,” I replied. “It says ‘Berganza the Bavarian.’”
“So you’re trying to tell me that there is a big German dog in my yard?”
“Yes, señor,” I was forced to admit.
The doctor looked at me in silence for some time.
“That’s all I need right now,” he said suddenly, taking a swipe at me with his cane (not that he caught me unawares, of course), “to meet my end devoured by a dog! And how is it that you, idiot, allowed a German dog into my yard?”
“It wasn’t me, señor. Jesús let him in.”
“Jesús!” Dr. Monardes cried. “Come here this instant, you blockhead!”
Jesús, who had been listening outside the door, came in at that very moment, waving his hand in front of his face and saying: “No, no, señor! I didn’t let him in. He came in on his own! Against my will. How could I stop him?”
I took a chance here and intervened, coherently recounting in Jesús’ place how the dog had ended up in our yard. After all, we had to do something as quickly as possible. I really didn’t feel like planting a garden. And I sure didn’t want that dog hanging around here.
The doctor lit a cigarella, sunk in thought.
“Argh!” Dr. Monardes sighed deeply. “New headaches every day!. . Fine, let’s go see this dog.”
“Why not wait, señor?” Jesús suggested. “It might leave. It might disappear on its own.”