Today was kinda rough

I´m fairing far better than I was after closing the door behing me. I´d love to cry. Love to break down and let go. I can´t and haven´t for too long. But if I could cry I would have bawled tonight.

It´s the third time this week that Pedro has knocked on my door- drunk- standing wet in the rain- asking to borrow money to buy beer. The first two times I gave in, but not tonight. I sat down on the steps to the school and explained:
"Pedro, you work so hard and then spend your money on beer. It´s sad and uncomfortable for me. I know it´s your life, but yesterday your uncle died from drinking. You´re my friend, so I won´t lend you money."

Yes, five hours ago I was drinking coffee and eating stale bread. In between sips I looked up at Ruben´s corpse. At that point, I didn´t even know his name. To me, he was just the drooling drunk dude who begged for money on the street to the side of the school. Turns out the drooling drunk dude was Ruben, and Ruben was the father of Polo- one of Hispanomaya´s teachers.

Some people were chatting causually and laughing occassionally. Others were crying quietly, apparently unaffected by the people sitting next to them. It was the weirdest wake I´ve ever been to. The only wake I´ve ever been to.

I kept trying to realize that the dude was actually dead- lying there in sheets of white- lit by candlelight. He looked like he looked as I´d seend him so many times passed out in the street: sleeping.

"Where is Ruben now?" I wondered. And in that moment, the idea of time seeping over everything, death erasing me, everyone I know, and all I do in life, seemed very nice. Relaxing and empowering at the same time. If there are no eternal rights or wrongs. No single path to follow. If my life means nothing in the grand scheme than life is mine to do with entirely as I please.

I left the wake and walked out to the street where Polo was sitting. I´ve written about Polo before. He was joking about death last month when Edgar killed himself. Now Polo´s father was dead.
I put my hand on Polo´s shoulder:
"I´m sorry." I said, and Polo looked up.
"Asi es." he said: Thats how it goes.

The dog that lives outside my favorite restaurant is dying: sleeping unnaturally on the side of its face,bleeding from its mouth.

I pay a woman named Juana to do my laundry and went to pick it up today. I got into a conversation with Rosa, Juana´s daughter, and Rosa asked me for advice:
"My dog has four puppies. Three girls and one boy. They are sweet dogs. They want to live. But no one wants girl dogs and I can´t keep them: I already have five dogs. What should I do- poison them or leave them in the town trash dump?"

Now listen to me: Rosa is not a bad person. She is sweet and warm and kind and helpful. Like most families here, hers is poor. Another dog means another mouth to feed. This is just what people here do with female puppies and you would too.

Todos Santos is overrun by dogs: scrawny from starvation, each individual rib protruding. Many walk the streets, constantly searching for scraps of food. Some are aggressive, attacking both dog and human alike. Others have pathetically, depressingly managed to maintain a shred of canine kindness, but have been beaten by so many human hands, bitten by some many fellow dogs, they are afraid to approach- they literally crawl towards humans- wimpering nervously- hoping to be pet- fearing to be kicked.

"What should I do Juan? No one wants them." She repeats, and I had the feeling she was taking this entirely seriously, as if she might actually take my advice. The power of my decision was something I didn´t want, but it was mine anyway.

A dog left in the trash dump with either die the slow death of starvation- or will be resourceful enough to survive- only to grow up and have more puppies who will face the same sad reality thier mothers did. And so I decided:
"If you use poison, use a lot of it," I told Rosa. "Or, use that." I said and pointed to their heavy wood-chopping axe resting against the door.

Rosa seemed to think it was a good idea.