Last week I was discharged.
I arrived home on crutches, sore but eager to see my noble giant. I expected him to run to greet me, lick my face, nudge me with his snout.
I opened the door. Silence.
The garden was strangely clean. There were no chewed toys. His wooden doghouse wasn’t there.
Laura and Esteban were in the living room, watching TV on my new sofa.
“Where’s Hercules?” I asked, feeling a pit in my stomach.
Laura didn’t even turn off the TV.
“Oh, Roberto… we need to talk. Look, when you were in the hospital, the dog got very aggressive. He missed us a lot and… well, he ran away. He left the gate open and took off. We looked for him, I swear, but he didn’t turn up.
Someone must have taken him or… you know.
” “He ran away?” I limped toward the garden. The gate had a double lock. Hercules didn’t know how to open locks.
“Yes, little brother.” It was for the best. That house was full of fur. Now that you’re going to be in recovery, you need hygiene. Esteban and I think it’s a sign for you to start fresh. In fact, we painted your room and got rid of that old dog bed that stank.
