I have two dogs, Chica and Farley. They’re dogs I adopted right off the streets of Guanajuato. The truth is they adopted me, and I’ve been the lucky one in the relationship. They put up with my inconsistencies, my moods, and my idiosyncrasies with amazing tolerance. I’m not sure what I did to deserve such easy love. Some questions are better left unasked.
It is my habit to have my hair cut every four to six weeks. Over the years there is less and less to cut, and more and more to trim in areas like my ears, shoulders, and neck. If you are a man in your forties, you probably know what I mean.
My trip to the barbershop, which is located just down the street from my house, is as much a social activity as it is a grooming appointment. A few weeks ago, I decided to bring my dogs with me to the barber’s. I thought I would show them off, and perhaps stir up some conversation with the guys.
All the usual characters were there when I went in: Diego the barber, Pablo his son, María his wife, and some other locals waiting for a trim. I asked if my friends could come into the shop, and the barber just shrugged and said, “Pásale!” My companions, Farley and Chica, made themselves comfortable on the tile floor and watched the goings on with mild interest. The conversation immediately turned to the topic of dogs.
Here on the streets of Guanajuato you can find every configuration of dog imaginable. Some of them look downright laughable, like those cartoon cards you can buy for your kids, where they match and mismatch the head, body, and legs with different outfits and body types.
Most dogs in Mexico are a mixture of breeds. On the streets of Guanajuato you can find every configuration of dog imaginable.
Some of the dogs are beautiful, all are interesting-looking, and the ones that have lasted more than a year on the street are definitely intelligent. These savvy street dogs have had a harsh training ground, and they’ve used all their canine skills to stay alive. Such are the dogs that adopted me. They aren’t purebred, nor are they perfectly proportioned, but are they ever smart!
As soon as the barber was done making cutting sounds above my mostly hair-free head, I got up and had my dogs stand together in the middle of the shop. I told them to sit. I asked them to stay. Then I left the shop. The dogs were alert: sitting perfectly still, they didn’t move a muscle. I came back into the room after about 30 seconds of standing out of sight on the sidewalk. The dogs saw that I had returned, but still they did not move.
The men in the shop looked at me with grins and shook their heads. They asked me how much I had to pay for such smart dogs, indicating with the hand signal that means “a big wad of cash.” They were surprised to learn that these dogs were not bought at a store, nor were they bred for their brains. I recounted the story of how they found me and marched into my life via the street in front of my house. I told them all I had done was take them in, had them sterilized and vaccinated, fed them, bathed them, and spent about five minutes training them every day.
No one could believe these dogs came from the street. That’s just it: many people here don’t see street dogs as real dogs. They see them as disgusting mongrels that spread trash, make messes, threaten their kids, and are a basic nuisance.
When I left the barber shop the second time, I again left the dogs sitting in the middle of the room, alert, perfectly still, and awaiting my instructions. I went outside and stood out of sight, and the dogs waited. After about a minute I gave the word for them to come, and they bounded out of the shop, straight to me. As we walked home, I chuckled to myself. I had given those guys in the shop plenty to talk about and think about for the next couple of days. Hopefully the next time they see a street dog they will think of me and my beautiful, intelligent, and entertaining mutts.