And Grin

First published in Gulp!, Issue Three, 2019

I am surprised by how much the locals love their dogs. Every breed dots the walkway high above the coastline. Local couples splay out on the grass and play fetch with their goldies. Dalmatians tug at their leads, lick the fingertips of passing tourists. A German shepherd barks at a couple of chihuahuas crossing the street.

All dogs don’t go to heaven, I think. They come to Miraflores.

Just as the canine culture shock settles, something else grabs my attention. I look down at a couple of electric scooters parked on the sidewalk. I notice they’re called Grin scooters here, not like Lime in Brisbane.

I pull out my phone, download the app, plug in my details and hover my camera over the code. It dings to life. There’s no helmet attached. I have only seen one policia car here and the officer standing over it was eating fried chicken.

I accept the risk.

Hopping on my scooter and pushing off, I cut through the park filled with dogs of every kind. The coastal breeze gushes over me. It laps against my sunburnt face like a warm, panting breath. The black waves far below roll like thirsty tongues. Even at this distance, I can see there is no sand on the shores of Miraflores. Only smooth, wet pebbles.

Stopping by the shore, I kick the stand out, pause the ride on my screen and look out over the water. I think of all the miles there are between here and home, how long it took to fly here, how far I could swim before I’d drown. I bend down and pick up two stones. I lob one into the teeth of the ocean and pocket the other as a souvenir.

I hop back on the scooter, tap the button and push off again. The scooter makes a funny noise. But I can hear something else. It’s far-off, high among the cliffside behind me. I turn the scooter and head back that way.

As I get closer, the squeal rings out higher, piercing the air above the tumbling waves and an odd gull. Doesn’t sound like a bird but I’m sure it’s an animal.

I press my thumb down harder on the throttle and peer up at the cliff face. I make out the shape of a man in a ragged blue t-shirt and stained grey sweatpants. He is holding something in two hands by the throat. It squeals again.

Getting closer, I see it’s a puppy. He squeezes it. Then drops it. Kicks it. Picks it up again. He is grinning, somehow enjoying it. I throw my scooter down.

I do not speak any Spanish, so I yell in English, swearing at him to put the dog down. He either can’t hear or understand me.

I ball my hands into fists and remember what’s in my pocket.

I clasp the pebble, arch my arm and hurtle it as hard as I can. It hits him square in the shoulder and he drops the dog. It curls up at his feet. I bend down, pick up another handful of stones and throw them again and again.

He yells back at me, but the dog has scurried away up the cliffs. I hit him in the arm, the leg, the chest, the face. He ducks his head, runs and hides.

The last stone drops from my red hands; I do not pick up another. I would have thrown the whole shore at him. I can do without the souvenirs.