helenargentina (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} helenargentina) wrote,@ 2006-06-08 09:23:00 |
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LOST and FOUND
The day arrives that Bianca, the eldest dog turns up missing. She is eight months old and increasingly independent, taking off for whatever catches her fancy. When one morning Arn and I leave for town, the dogs remain unleashed since dark clouds threaten and they will not be able to find shelter if tied up. It is not the first time we let them roam free. In a few short hours, workers will be in the fields and at the house; we will return soon thereafter.
When we come home by mid-afternoon, Juanita, the younger dog, comes bounding down the driveway, ears flapping, feet pounding. One huge leap across the irrigation ditch and over the entrance bridge; then follows the usual greeting ritual for dogs the world over. We notice the absence of the older one, but do not pay much attention. I later ask the cleaning lady where Bianca might be: running in the fields with the contratista is her response. We get back to the chores of the day.
When the sun sets the contratista returns from the vineyard alone. He has been pruning the grape vines. Bianca is not with him, moreover, she was not at the finca when he first arrived. A first inkling something might be wrong. When she does not appear at the kitchen door when I start rattling pots and pans in preparation for our evening meal I know something is amiss. The first clatter of kitchenware in the late afternoon brings our dogs and cats out of hiding, wherever they are. Not this time.
Tonight is our last irrigation turn of the season; four hours of flooding the fields, two hours more than the customary allotment since the neighbor has decided to forego his turn. We are happy with the extra water; it means we can irrigate all three vineyards as well as the two orchards before winter’s rest. Usually we have only two hours irrigation time, sufficient only to flood half the property; tonight we can water it all. I hope for Bianca’s return before we start. It will be damp and cold, especially after nightfall.
During irrigation, furrows and ditches are opened or closed to regulate the water flow. Tonight our water turn starts after dark; work will be done by the light of a torch, in this case, a mine-worker’s lamp attached to the head. I see the light move through the vineyards, the orchards, the vegetable garden the plum field. We are assured that our entire property is walked tonight and anything amiss will be noticed. By midnight Bianca has not returned.
Our night is restless, we are keen to all sounds but nothing out of the ordinary occurs. By dawn we decide to search on foot. We will not cover much ground but we already canvassed the neighborhood by car the night before. We start north of our farm, cross a fence, then a vineyard followed by an abandoned orchard where native vegetation has reclaimed the land. Tall grasses wave in the wind, dew covers the ground, the first rays of a weak sun dry the mist in the air, turn the tops of the trees an amber hue. It is beautiful. Through the tall grasses several dogs appear, they eye us warily; most trod off. Bianca is not with them. We get a glimpse into dog world; now we know what our dogs were up to when no command, however strong, could urge them back to our finca once they were headed across the field. They held their own coffee klatsch in the morning, their ‘thank God it is Friday’ in the evening. We stumbled into their private hang-out, and it is posted ‘no need for humans’.
Our walk, although beautiful is unsuccessful. In the meantime we talk to the school kids, the neighbors, the farmers and workers in the fields. The word is out, not much more we can do. The general consensus is that the dog is ‘stolen’. When I am incredulous, after all, new puppies aplenty in this rural land, the answer is simple: farm dogs are always needed, and one prefers a grown dog for the job, not a puppy. I shake my head in disbelief; a healthy, vigorous dog turns out a hazard! Despite the local belief Arn and I remain convinced that something else is amiss. We keep on the look-out. In the afternoon I grab my bike for another search. I cannot sit still and let more time pass.
I turn south this time, steer my bike over dirt roads and head for the river. I cannot imagine that she has strayed this far, but then again who knows. Something edges me on. I stop at the riverbank located on a steep promontory. A vast expanse of spiny bushes, interspersed by the tall white plumes of pampas grass, borders a shiny ribbon of water, the blue-shaded mountains of the ‘Cordillera’, the Andes mountain range, as its backdrop. For awhile I take in the view, see the birds of prey soar through the sky, hear the chatter of finches in the nearby bushes. The sounds of nature are interrupted by a farmer whose land I have trespassed. I tell him my plight; he directs me to a narrow path where he has seen a ‘Montenegro’ a few hours earlier. I set off in the direction.
Not soon after my chat with the farmer my bicycle breaks down; one of the pedals has loosened and fallen off. I have no means of repair but my bare hands and try as I might the pedal does not want to stay in place. I must walk back. I decide to take the short way home, through the fields. I want to be back before nightfall. I carry myself and my bike across ditches, over fences, around pools of water; I trudge through the mud of irrigated vineyards, I trip over barbed wire and fall over branches; with intervals I call for the dog. No response. Before long both tires are flat, courtesy of the spiny bushes, once the hallmark of this land. By sunset I arrive at the farm empty handed, disgusted and defeated.
It is not long before I am urgently called outside. Bianca has appeared out of nowhere through the south-facing vineyard, wet and limping. Her hind leg is badly swollen, her eyes are sunken deep in their sockets and her snout appears hollow. Her pelt has lost its luster. If ever a dog could be pale she is yet a shade lighter. She appears in shock and soon she collapses. No injuries other than her badly swollen leg are apparent. The contratista suggests we take her to the vet by morning, but I assess there might be no tomorrow. We close the house and set off for town.
At the vet’s we are greeted with the comments: ‘boy has she grown’ and then; ‘this dog has lost a lot of blood’. We figured as much. The vet examines her and tells us that a fractured thighbone has severed the main artery to the hind leg. The swelling caused by its bleeding has clamped the artery shut and stopped its blood loss. She is lucky to be alive. With this type of injury not much can be done other then stabilize the fracture with a cast. We leave her behind while we go into town to eat. Late at night we return home.
It is a week later and much is back to normal, some added chores. I am amazed how quickly a dog returns to doing what it does best: running the fields, sniffing the dirt, carrying sticks and tearing up whatever we want to keep whole. We do not know what has happened; the local story has changed from thieves to hooligans: ‘someone has beaten her’. I take it with a grain of salt. It tells me what one assumes, not the actual facts. Time will tell how things will turn out; fortunately we do not know the future.
Helena
Atuel Norte, June 6, 2006
hlouwe@hotmail.com
The day arrives that Bianca, the eldest dog turns up missing. She is eight months old and increasingly independent, taking off for whatever catches her fancy. When one morning Arn and I leave for town, the dogs remain unleashed since dark clouds threaten and they will not be able to find shelter if tied up. It is not the first time we let them roam free. In a few short hours, workers will be in the fields and at the house; we will return soon thereafter.
When we come home by mid-afternoon, Juanita, the younger dog, comes bounding down the driveway, ears flapping, feet pounding. One huge leap across the irrigation ditch and over the entrance bridge; then follows the usual greeting ritual for dogs the world over. We notice the absence of the older one, but do not pay much attention. I later ask the cleaning lady where Bianca might be: running in the fields with the contratista is her response. We get back to the chores of the day.
When the sun sets the contratista returns from the vineyard alone. He has been pruning the grape vines. Bianca is not with him, moreover, she was not at the finca when he first arrived. A first inkling something might be wrong. When she does not appear at the kitchen door when I start rattling pots and pans in preparation for our evening meal I know something is amiss. The first clatter of kitchenware in the late afternoon brings our dogs and cats out of hiding, wherever they are. Not this time.
Tonight is our last irrigation turn of the season; four hours of flooding the fields, two hours more than the customary allotment since the neighbor has decided to forego his turn. We are happy with the extra water; it means we can irrigate all three vineyards as well as the two orchards before winter’s rest. Usually we have only two hours irrigation time, sufficient only to flood half the property; tonight we can water it all. I hope for Bianca’s return before we start. It will be damp and cold, especially after nightfall.
During irrigation, furrows and ditches are opened or closed to regulate the water flow. Tonight our water turn starts after dark; work will be done by the light of a torch, in this case, a mine-worker’s lamp attached to the head. I see the light move through the vineyards, the orchards, the vegetable garden the plum field. We are assured that our entire property is walked tonight and anything amiss will be noticed. By midnight Bianca has not returned.
Our night is restless, we are keen to all sounds but nothing out of the ordinary occurs. By dawn we decide to search on foot. We will not cover much ground but we already canvassed the neighborhood by car the night before. We start north of our farm, cross a fence, then a vineyard followed by an abandoned orchard where native vegetation has reclaimed the land. Tall grasses wave in the wind, dew covers the ground, the first rays of a weak sun dry the mist in the air, turn the tops of the trees an amber hue. It is beautiful. Through the tall grasses several dogs appear, they eye us warily; most trod off. Bianca is not with them. We get a glimpse into dog world; now we know what our dogs were up to when no command, however strong, could urge them back to our finca once they were headed across the field. They held their own coffee klatsch in the morning, their ‘thank God it is Friday’ in the evening. We stumbled into their private hang-out, and it is posted ‘no need for humans’.
Our walk, although beautiful is unsuccessful. In the meantime we talk to the school kids, the neighbors, the farmers and workers in the fields. The word is out, not much more we can do. The general consensus is that the dog is ‘stolen’. When I am incredulous, after all, new puppies aplenty in this rural land, the answer is simple: farm dogs are always needed, and one prefers a grown dog for the job, not a puppy. I shake my head in disbelief; a healthy, vigorous dog turns out a hazard! Despite the local belief Arn and I remain convinced that something else is amiss. We keep on the look-out. In the afternoon I grab my bike for another search. I cannot sit still and let more time pass.
I turn south this time, steer my bike over dirt roads and head for the river. I cannot imagine that she has strayed this far, but then again who knows. Something edges me on. I stop at the riverbank located on a steep promontory. A vast expanse of spiny bushes, interspersed by the tall white plumes of pampas grass, borders a shiny ribbon of water, the blue-shaded mountains of the ‘Cordillera’, the Andes mountain range, as its backdrop. For awhile I take in the view, see the birds of prey soar through the sky, hear the chatter of finches in the nearby bushes. The sounds of nature are interrupted by a farmer whose land I have trespassed. I tell him my plight; he directs me to a narrow path where he has seen a ‘Montenegro’ a few hours earlier. I set off in the direction.
Not soon after my chat with the farmer my bicycle breaks down; one of the pedals has loosened and fallen off. I have no means of repair but my bare hands and try as I might the pedal does not want to stay in place. I must walk back. I decide to take the short way home, through the fields. I want to be back before nightfall. I carry myself and my bike across ditches, over fences, around pools of water; I trudge through the mud of irrigated vineyards, I trip over barbed wire and fall over branches; with intervals I call for the dog. No response. Before long both tires are flat, courtesy of the spiny bushes, once the hallmark of this land. By sunset I arrive at the farm empty handed, disgusted and defeated.
It is not long before I am urgently called outside. Bianca has appeared out of nowhere through the south-facing vineyard, wet and limping. Her hind leg is badly swollen, her eyes are sunken deep in their sockets and her snout appears hollow. Her pelt has lost its luster. If ever a dog could be pale she is yet a shade lighter. She appears in shock and soon she collapses. No injuries other than her badly swollen leg are apparent. The contratista suggests we take her to the vet by morning, but I assess there might be no tomorrow. We close the house and set off for town.
At the vet’s we are greeted with the comments: ‘boy has she grown’ and then; ‘this dog has lost a lot of blood’. We figured as much. The vet examines her and tells us that a fractured thighbone has severed the main artery to the hind leg. The swelling caused by its bleeding has clamped the artery shut and stopped its blood loss. She is lucky to be alive. With this type of injury not much can be done other then stabilize the fracture with a cast. We leave her behind while we go into town to eat. Late at night we return home.
It is a week later and much is back to normal, some added chores. I am amazed how quickly a dog returns to doing what it does best: running the fields, sniffing the dirt, carrying sticks and tearing up whatever we want to keep whole. We do not know what has happened; the local story has changed from thieves to hooligans: ‘someone has beaten her’. I take it with a grain of salt. It tells me what one assumes, not the actual facts. Time will tell how things will turn out; fortunately we do not know the future.
Helena
Atuel Norte, June 6, 2006
hlouwe@hotmail.com
