Chapter I of "La loca 101" I I had a dog named Canela, but she died.
No. She didn't really die. She went to live out on the island of Tigre, because the Elders of the Co-op Association don't allow dogs in this building. "Look, I had a poodle," one of the old men informed me. "I had a poodle" (as though by being a poodle he was somehow more dog than Canela--the most you can say about her is that she's smart, black, and not very well trained) "and I had to kill him." Another of the Association's seniors, listening to all this, nodded his head in agreement. If the rules say "no dogs in the building," you grab your dog, kill him, and that's that.
Fortunately, Lisanti lives on Tigre. Really lives there. He's no weekend tourist. He has that frame house with the roses, the wisteria, the oranges, the long-haired tabby cats dropping off grapevines and onto platters of food, the mosquito invasion at sundown, and the periodic floods. When the river is full, he also has the the moon in the water.
I'm not going to talk about the ferns, the camellias, the wild strawberries, because then I'd never finish. I am going to talk about Lisanti though, and why we're lucky that he lives on Tigre. Lisanti is a gaucho queen. When he speaks you hear a blend of cowboy and senorita. He's friends with all the fags who spend their weekends in the house next door to ours, right between ours and Lisanti's. Their place is just adorable.
In the islands, the water, the climate, something or other, makes everything grow with tremendous force. By spring, trees of all sizes are completely covered with white wisteria and lilacs. But that's not enough for those boys. They hang cute little potted plants along the walls of the house. On Sundays they throw barbecues and invite Lisanti and a bunch of other gays over for lunch. Afterwards, they play the guitar and sing, and by six o'clock everyone is parked out on the pier, in suits and ties, waiting for the launch to take them back. Seeing them so staid and polite, no one would ever guess that earlier they'd been couples, dancing in the twilight.
"What do you think, Lisanti," we asked him, "who can we leave the dog with since they won't let us keep her here in the apartment." Lisanti said he would ask the watchman Antares, but just then, Antares got sick and died of cancer. Members of the island's development committee took up a collection for the widow and children, and Lisanti ended up with Canela.
The first week was terribly upsetting. I cried all day thinking that Canela would be unable to bear the separation and change in lifestyle; but the following Sunday, when we went to the island, we saw that she was just fine, and best friends with Lisanti's dog. They even went rat-hunting together. Lisanti cut one up with his mountain knife so they could share it. Imagine that pooch, the one who slept at the foot of our beds for five years and ate only grilled meat sliced up and served on a platter; now she's all over the island, catching rats and eating them raw.
Lisanti's children (because Lisanti had two children, in spite of everything) became attached to Canela and now they'd never give her back.
So everything worked out all right, but just the same I feel as though Canela died, because we never go to that part of Tigre anymore and to think of Canela walking through the bushes, stopping at the pier, barking like a lunatic at our arrival, is like remembering someone who's died.