“Olé, olé olé olé, olé, olé!”

The dogs and I returned to Fiske Pond for the first time after winter. The dam that takes us unto the loop trail was impassable due to water, so we went around. I thought we were alone till we rounded a small grove of hemlocks onto a downward path and there, coming down the path on the other side, was a man on a bike with a pit bull.

Henry touched noses friendly-like with the chocolate dog with very dark eyes, but Aussie went into full attack mode and a dogfight ensued. Loud and snarly, the two of them jumped up on their hind legs to take each other down.

“Olé, olé olé olé, olé, olé! Olé, olé olé olé, olé, olé!”

“What is this, The Voice?” asks Aussie, her head between the pit bull’s jaws.

“I’m cheering you on, Aussie.”

“This is not a football game, Illegal Chihuahua. Could you please cheer me on in the American way?”

“What way is that, Aussie?”

“KILL THE SON OF A BITCH! HIT HIM HARD! MUTILATE HIM!”

“Kill him, Aussie?”

“BITE OFF HIS BALLS! BEHEAD THE S.O.B.!”

“What’s a terrible thing to say, Aussie. What would he do without his balls?”

“I guess you wouldn’t know,” she mutters, her neck twisted so that she looks in the other direction. “Balls, for your information, are—”

“But Aussie, I’m a nonviolent dog.”

“Didn’t hear you,” says Aussie, whose ears are being chewed on.

“I don’t do violence and I don’t wish violence on anyone.”

“It’s the American way!”

“Martin Luther King was American, Aussie, and he was completely into nonviolence.”

“He was a Black American, an entirely different phenomenon.” Aussie is now on the ground, the pit bull on top of her.

“He was a great man, Aussie.”

“Goddam you, Enrique, I’m not talking about King, I’m talking about a pit bull. Just look at what he’s doing to me, mauling me with his thick paws. Pit bulls know nothing but violence.”

“That’s not true, Aussie,” says Henry, chewing on a biscuit thoughtfully. “The Senora had Bubale the pit bull for 10 years and said she was a wonderful dog. Funny, too. You’re not funny, Aussie.”

“You try to be funny with a pit bull’s teeth around your neck and—”

“Aussie, we’re all the Beloved Community. The Senora came home from Alabama and wants us to be part of the Beloved Community. You know what that means?”

“Ouch, that hurts! No.”

“We have to try to love those who hurt us.”

“Get off me, you monster, you rotten—”

“Now, now, Aussie. I don’t mean that you actually have to love them, but recognize that they have a point of view, that they have stories to tell that we must listen to.”

“This pit bull isn’t telling me stories, Illegal, he’s making me a story! A story in the past.”

“All stories are important, the Senora says. By the way, your fur is wet. Is that blood?”

“Drool, idiot. So far, he hasn’t broken any skin. Pete Hegseth would have fired him instantly.”

“He’d probably fire you, too, Aussie.”

“Me? Hurricane Aussie?”

“You’re a female, Aussie. Hegseth doesn’t like females. I guess you can always transition.”

“It’s not fair, this pit bull’s got claws, Illegal. The vet trims mine.”

“Complain complain complain. Trump hates whiners. You know what you have to do, right, Aussie?”

“Beat the shit out of him?”

“No, make a deal. Isn’t that the Trumpian way?”

“I would, only I got nothing to offer, so the pit bull isn’t making any deals.”

“There’s an echo here, Aussie.”

“Probably because my entire head is inside his mouth. He has terrible breath! I’m afraid this is the end of me, Illegal. I loved my life, gave it all I got, but this may be the end.”

“Come on, Aussie, you can win—and don’t forget, I’m next of kin.”

“Thanks for the poem, Illegal. Do me a favor. Tell the Senora I want a nice gravestone.”

“What should it say, Aussie?

“Here lies Hurricane Aussie. She gave as good as she got. See you in Valhalla, Illegal, where all great warriors go. Don’t fear death, Henry, and don’t weep for me Argentina.”

“I won’t, Aussie. Can I have your marrow bones?”