Real Stories About Dogs

I was 5 years old when I met Ronnie. He was the kind of dog you’d find in the streets of under-developed countries, as Venezuela. Most of them are about the same size (about 2 feet), very skinny, yellow, dark snout and eyes, black paws. Nothing special, and at the same time, everything in them is unique.

Auntie Hermione always had had dogs. Always mutts, stray dogs that were offered a home there and they gladly accepted, behaving wonderfully and thanking her every single second of their lives, with their always dark loving eyes and absolutely sweet unconditional adoration for her. My auntie had a big heart, full of love for everyone. All her dogs and other pets she adopted saw her beautiful soul and completely adored her back.

At Ronnie’s time, there were 3 mutts, all three yellow, probably not brothers, who knew, about the same size, Ronnie, Renny and Rino were the names. My auntie had a thing for a famous political leader that was killed “because he was going to change the country”, Renny Ottolina. So she liked any name that were similar to “Renny”.

But Ronnie was my favorite.

My aunt had a small garden too, which was used for the double purpose of garden and for-everything-storage. They didn’t have too much money, and there was also more people in the house to take care of: Two divorced daughters, with one child each, a single daughter (no child yet), and the un-married son, with one child himself. Ronnie used to be in the garden along with the other 2 dogs, except when I was there. He never left my side.

The house was never alone. I used to go to visit over weekends because we lived kind of far away. It was a very modest area, and the houses didn’t have fences, as it was a “lovely and peaceful neighborhood”.

I used to love spending weekends over my auntie’s house, in part because I got to be and play with Ronnie, in part because I was frankly spoiled by all the adults over there, especially my auntie. I was allowed to have exclusively Chocolate Nesquik® and crackers with butter for breakfast, which was something my parents would never allow me to.

In a very rare occasion, one day, the rest of the people left and it was only auntie Hermione and I at home. She was ironing clothes in the kitchen. I was beside her, talking the usual irrelevant kids do, and patting Ronnie, who never left my side while we were there. 

Auntie Hermione used to say I had a good conversation, but I really don’t believe so. She was too kind to everyone. In any case, there she was asking me things, answering others, seeming interested in whatever dumb thing I was saying.

Somebody called at the door, and auntie Hermione went to answer. This was a very old, colonial house in Caracas. Those ones are usually narrow but really long, some of them a block long, including the garden, so the entrance door was actually far from us. My point is that my auntie could not see me when she was at the door. Nor hear me.

I remembered my mom was once ironing clothes too and telling me that I should not come anywhere near the iron. I used to obey my parents a great deal.

But auntie Hermione, the poor soul, didn’t put any boundaries to me. Nor to anyone. She used to say I behaved like an angel, only because her children and grandchildren were really naughty and the comparison always favored me, being as I was, a very strictly educated child.

So I decided I was going to try this so deliciously prohibited thing called iron. Not too brilliant from me, I know.

But I went for it. Well, it was obviously a horrible burn in the palm of my right hand. I didn’t scream. I knew I was doing something wrong, and I was determined to bear the consequences (in this case, a searing pain) without a word, because I deserved it.

Ronnie thought differently. He sensed my pain, and became nervous and started to cry at me. I tried to calm him down, because I knew he was going to give me away, but he was determined to have me checked by someone who knew what they were doing.

As soon as my auntie came back from the door (I don’t even remember who it was, but it was definitely a quick visitor, because no one came inside the house), Ronnie went crazy with my auntie. He barked, growled, cried, jumped, did everything he had to get her attention. And boy he did. My auntie knew very well the dog and knew he wanted something. She started asking him, but as soon as the little fella went pointing me like crazy, my auntie knew something was wrong with me. I was holding as strong as I could my hand with the other one. But I had tears in my eyes.

I got a second-degree burn in my hand. It was really red and painful. I was tended immediately by my auntie, who gave me stuff I even don’t remember, “to prevent the blister to go too big”. I don’t really recall everything she did to my hand, but it was a bunch of things she did. The only thing I do clearly remember is her, going to call my Dad, and me, begging her not to. My Dad’s a doctor, a neurosurgeon actually, but he was obviously the “GP” for the whole family, the first point of contact. He came as soon as he could.

When he saw my hand, he smiled, praised the way it had been tended to, and said that because it was taken care of so quickly, it would not develop a big blister and not even a scar. He kissed it and made some comment to distract me from the awful pain, but in the name of love, it worked.

My auntie looked at me, with her loving eyes, so full of patience and understanding, but always looking for justice too.

I told my Daddy that if it hadn’t been for Ronnie, no one could have known what happened to me, maybe until it was too late, because I was determined not to say anything. But the dog cared for me even more than I did, apparently, or maybe he just knew children don’t always take the best decisions. So he did everything he could to inform the situation to a responsible person.

I don’t have a scar in my hand. For that, I need to thank Ronnie, who is definitely now in Dog’s Heaven, running like crazy, eating everything he wants, and playing all day long, smiling like happy dogs do.

They never told me how he died. One day, I was 7, and when I was left at my auntie’s house and went to the garden to greet my friend, he was not there. A horrible void was instead. I asked “where’s Ronnie!?”, and my always sweet, patient, with loving-eyes auntie told me, “he’s now with God, my child, taking care of more people over there, that really needed him”.

R. from Sydney