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Wendy, my good little dog

Wendy, the family dog, has always been pampered by my youngest son and me. My first born and husband haven’t been as engaged, but lately she’s been sick and since them everyone has equally lavished expressions of affection. Like any dog, she is greedy and comes up to beg when she sees “the human herd” eating something.

Recently, I had an idea that we found interesting, causing laughter and reaffirming that it’s not only us people who show a preference for the quality of food. Rafa, my husband, bought a packet of Brazilian hot dogs — I’m sure they make good ones, but those sold here are mediocre or bad — and given the olfactory insistence of the dog, I offered her one of those we had in the fridge (American), along with one of the recently arrived one.

The fuss of my surprised caught my children’s attention, they came to see what was going on and asked me to repeat the experiment I’d just told them about. Wendy, over and over again, first and eagerly ate the American hot dog, and then, with a certain disgust, the Brazilian one. It doesn’t matter if we’re rightists or leftists, it’s always “attack the Yankee” first and without mercy.

We laughed imagining the allegory that would surely be used by leftist extremists about the “Yankee-ness” of a dog with an “imperialist” name, and who knows what other nonsense. My husband offered the reminder that “dogs don’t give things away” and with fond mathematical thumps and financial pulling of ears put an end to the little joke.

9 July 2013


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