Perhaps it’s the end of the workday, and you’ve just gotten off the bus. You’re making your way along the sidewalk, minding your own business.
You’re thinking, with great satisfaction, about your evening at home: first a cold beer, then some time with your family, and later a stroll in the park.
Suddenly you’re startled out of your reverie—and your wits. Your meditations vanish like smoke before a hurricane.
A dog on a nearby rooftop is barking furiously, warning you not to come any closer to his turf.
There’s hardly a street in Guadalajara that doesn’t have a rooftop dog. Many have more than one.
These creatures, great and small, are dedicated to the proposition that nothing about silence is golden. As soon as they hear or see or smell someone, they start barking, and do not stop until long after that person is out of sight.
Then they lie in wait for the next unsuspecting passerby, quivering with excitement at the prospect of scaring yet another hapless human out of his or her wits.
first walk of summer—
seven miles to the oak tree
but only three back
Text and photo © 2016 by Mark M. Redfearn, all rights reserved