La Gringa Loca

Having reached an age when I no longer care very much what people think of me in a positive or negative way, I do sometimes wonder how I am regarded by my Nicaraguan neighbors. I am the only Norteamericana around, to my knowledge. Certainly I am the only gringa on the bus most times. But this morning, something happened that may have cemented my reputation forever.

I rose early. determined to put in a brisk walk before the day's heat set in. Brynn is my regular walking companion, and we started out in fine fettle, greeting folks at the nearby bus stop, when suddenly the leash came undone and Brynn took off on the highway. Well, I just snapped. Visions of her being run down have always plagued me, living here on the famed PanAmerican Highway as we do. And now, I ran, yelling her name and trying to slow traffic, gesticulating wildly. She gaily zipped along, me running behind, gasping for air, calling her name, and, I admit, sobbing in terror of her imminent death.

A family of four ran up from the bus stop, and the one young man took off after Brynn into a bean field. She ran faster, into a woods beyond. A car stopped, and the driver, another young guy, got out and joined the chase. Then, a motorcyclist stopped and after a minute, crossed the bean field, too, and disappeared into the woods. The rest of the family marched through the field, save for a daughter, Carla, who waited with me. Eventually, I heard faraway yelps of fear and panic from Brynn, plainly unhappy to be caught, and in a few minutes, the whole group emerged from the trees and crossed back over the bean field.

I was pathetically glad to have my dog back, safe and sound. I begged the man who carried her—and suffered a small bite on his arm for his trouble—to let me give him something for his efforts, but he wasn't having it. All these people who had joined the fray to save my dog, who is ridiculously important to me, simply smiled and left at the happy conclusion of this sudden drama.

Am I now the gringa loca, who is crazy about her dog? Who bursts into tears when her dog runs away? People hereabouts love their pets, but cannot lavish treats and care on them, as I and other Norteamericanos do. I wonder if the exigencies of poverty render devotion to a pet, such as I have for Brynn, absurd, or at least unseemly. Today, in any case, I saw much evidence of basic and immediate empathy for a fellow human, and her runaway pet. And I am most humbly grateful,