One dark night not long ago, we scooped a tan, medium sized dog up off the streets and made her part of our family. She arrived with an open heart and an eagerness to belong, as though she had been waiting for someone to say, All right then, come in—you’re home now. We named her Brisa, which in Spanish means Breeze.
Of course, we knew nothing of her past, so our first concern was her health. A veterinarian from our village came by and gave her a couple of injections to ease the pain in her injured foot and ankle. Soon after, we took her into the city for a full checkup, vaccinations, and to have her sterilized.
That was when we were told she had already been spayed.
This came as a surprise. We had inspected her ourselves and found no sign of it, but the veterinarian felt what seemed to be a scar—although slightly higher on her abdomen than expected. Relieved, and more than a little grateful, we took Brisa back home, believing the matter settled.
Then, about a week later, it happened.
Small drops of blood appeared on the floor in a trail. We checked both dogs for injuries—nothing. Brisa, meanwhile, was licking herself and being her usual affectionate self.
It slowly dawned on us.
Brisa was in heat.
We had no idea we weren’t just rescuing a dog, but welcoming a princess—one whose arrival would summon admirers from every corner of the neighborhood.
Our household was instantly thrown into a kind of quiet, frantic disarray. It is a good thing we don’t have wall-to-wall white carpets! Our floors are Saltillo tile, which means they can be mopped—and so they are. About thirty times a day.
She has shown a little curiosity about the other dogs, though she’s gone toward the fence, as if she is wanting engagement. She is not quite ready yet. Oso tried mounting her once, and she snapped at him sharply, as if to say, "Not so fast, mister!" But we can sense what’s coming. Soon enough, she will be wanting to be, as the old song goes, “where the boys are.”
A couple of days ago, a particularly determined neighbor dog made it through the barrier, resulting in a fierce and noisy altercation with Oso. I feared the worst for the other dog—and dreaded having to explain it to the vecinos. To separate them, I had to employ the large wooden staff I now carry. And this—all before Brisa has even reached the most intense stage of her cycle.
Apparently, the whole affair lasts about three weeks.
Ughhh.
Still, every time I look at her—tail wagging, eyes bright, heart wide open—my own heart responds in kind. Like her tail, it starts thumping all on its own. We remind ourselves that all things pass, even the messy and inconvenient ones, and that soon enough we’ll find a good clinic and get this little chapter of chaos resolved.
In the meantime, we mop, we watch, and we laugh when we can. Brisa, blissfully unaware of the trouble she has stirred up, simply continues being Brisa—sweet, loving, and very much at home.
