here are two beings in this world who saved my life when I fell into depression after my wife’s death: my dog, Hercules, a 60-kilo Great Dane rescued from pure love, and my job. My family, on the other hand, was only there to borrow.
I’m Roberto. Three years ago, I bought a big house with a garden. Since my sister Laura and her husband, Esteban, were going through a rough patch (which had already lasted five years), I let them live with me. I didn’t charge them rent. I only asked one thing:
“Respect Hercules. He’s my son. He’s all I have left of Claudia.”
Laura always complained.
“He’s a horse, Roberto. He sheds a lot. He smells like a dog. You should put him down or give him away. You’re too old to have pets; you need a real woman.”
I ignored her comments. Until two months ago, I had the accident.
A drunk driver hit me on the highway. I spent three weeks in an induced coma and another month in hospital rehabilitation. During that time, my only concern was Hercules.
“Don’t worry, little brother,” Laura would tell me when she came to visit (which was rare). “The dog is fine. He’s in the garden. Esteban feeds him. You just focus on walking.”
