Blood-drenched Beard

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?