Going To The Dogs

SANTIAGO, Chile – “Waiting at bus stops alone at night on the street may be seen as inviting problems.”

As I squinted to get a glimpse of my watch in the dim streetlight, these cautionary words from a Harvard-produced guide to Chile briefly crossed my mind.

Indeed, I was companionless at one such deserted bus stop. And finally the watch’s slender hands came in to focus. 4:39 AM. That would probably qualify as night. Textbook case of time-to-hop-in-a-cab-itis.

Yet I had just sunk over $20 on a (lame) club’s cover and a single drink (and God knows what in future dry-cleaning/medical expenses from the ubiquitous cigarette smoke/deafening reggaetón beats). Public transportation suddenly sounded delightful.

The hasty driver bumpily steered me to my silent neighborhood, an eclectic collection of gated stucco and wood-clad residences separated by impressive, seemingly impenetrable walls. Passing these fortresses, some crowned with electric fences or barbed wire, noobs would probably fear being mugged by knife brandishers or kidnapped by a roving band of gypsies.

A three-week veteran of Santiago living, I did not share that fear.

I intrepidly moseyed down my street, eager to greet my lonely bed. In the distance, I spotted a pack of wild dogs across the road. Yet again, this would petrify a rookie of Chile. But I’ve witnessed neighborhood strays togged up in tartan vests (though these nude mutts obviously were not aware that plaid is back). Homeless dogs here don’t badger you. They don’t really move, even. Excessive motion does pill cashmere, after all.

Then they started barking.

I walked faster. The barks got louder. I walked faster. The barks got closer. I turned around.

Shit.

Three canines launched themselves towards me at full speed, jaws unlocked (ready to sink into some gringo flesh, I surmised). Instantly, I morphed into a sprinter, shredding layers of leather off of my driving mocs as I drowned my lungs in icy air.

“Help me!” I shrieked incessantly between breaths. Realizing I was in Chile, not Chicago, I quickly translated those screams to the Spanish “¡Ayúdame!”

The dogs counteracted with more barks.

Still hightailing it, waiting for a sharp bite into my thigh, I heard the growls gradually grow more distant. The dogs had stopped. I had left their territory (in addition to waking up the entire neighborhood, including my host parents, who offered to scatter poisoned bananas around to protect me).

Yesterday, I saw a dead puppy laying on the side of the road, its mother standing over it, crying to the passing cars. I recognized her. She had chased me that night.

My fingers toyed with the three rocks in my pocket I now carry, ready, if need be.


D. Patrick Knoth ’11, a Crimson associate magazine editor, is a History and Literature concentrator In Pforzheimer House.