Beating a dog to death in the Buenos Aires port is the test they use to see if you’re capable of doing something worse. They say, Something worse, and then look away, dissembling, as if we, those on the outside, didn’t know that worse means killing a person, beating a person to death.
When the avenue splits into two streets, I opt for the quieter one. A line of red lights changes to green, one after another, and lets us speed ahead until a space, dark and green, appears between the buildings. It occurs to me that it’s possible there are no dogs in this plaza, and then the Mole orders me to stop. You didn’t bring a club, he says. No, I say. But you’re not going to beat a dog to death without a weapon. I look at him but don’t answer. I know he’s going to say something, because I know him now; it’s easy to figure him out. But he enjoys the silence, enjoys thinking that every word he says is a strike against me. Then he swallows and seems to think: You won’t be killing anyone. And finally he says: I happen to have a shovel in the trunk, you can use that. And I’m sure that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes are shining with pleasure.
There are several dogs sleeping near the central fountain. The shovel firm in my hands—my chance could come any second—I approach. Some of them start to wake up. They yawn, stand up, look at one another, look at me; they growl, and as I get closer they shrink back. To kill someone in particular, someone already chosen, is easy. But to choose the one who will die requires time and experience. The oldest dog or the prettiest or the one that seems most aggressive. I have to choose. I’m sure the Mole is watching from the car and smiling. He must think anyone who’s not like them is incapable of killing.
The dogs surround and sniff me, and some move farther away and lie back down, forgetting me. To the Mole, behind the dark glass of the car and his darkened glasses, I must be small and ridiculous, clutching the shovel and surrounded by dogs that now drift back to sleep. A white spotted one growls at a black one, and when the black one snaps at it, a third dog comes over, barks, and bares its teeth. Then the first dog bites the black one and the black one, teeth shining in the night, takes it by the neck and shakes it. I raise the shovel and the blow hits the spotted dog’s back; howling, he falls. He lies still. I think it’ll be easy to move him, but when I grab him by the legs he reacts and bites my arm and the blood gushes out. I raise the shovel again and hit him in the head. The dog falls back down and looks up at me from the ground, breathing fast but not moving.
Slowly at first, then more confidently, I gather his legs together, pick him up and carry him to the car. A shadow moves in the trees. A drunk peers out and says, “You just don’t do that. The dogs will remember you, and later they’ll take their revenge. They know,” he says, “they know. Understand?” And he sits down on a bench and looks at me nervously. When I’m about to reach the car I see the Mole sitting and waiting for me in the same position he was in before, but the trunk of the Peugeot is open. The dog falls like dead weight, and he looks up at me as I close the trunk. Once I’m in the car, the Mole says: If you’d put it on the ground it would have gotten up and run away. Yes, I say. No, he says, you should have opened the trunk first. Yes, I say. No, you should have done it and you didn’t do it, he says. Yes, I say, and regret it immediately, but the Mole doesn’t say anything, and he looks at my hands. I look at my hands, I look at the steering wheel, and I see that everything is bloodstained, there’s blood on my pants and on the floor of the car. You should have used gloves, he says. The wound hurts. The man comes to kill a dog and he doesn’t bring gloves, he says. Yes, I say. No, he says. I know, I say, and then I shut up. I decide not to mention the pain. I start the car and drive smoothly off.