“Ah,perfecto,” I exclaim, spotting a platter with the spinach-and-Parmesan tart she promised to make tonight.
“Bueno, gracias,” she says, smiling. Her dark hair is tied back with a red ribbon today, and she looks even more youthful than usual. “¿Necesita algo más?”
“No, nada más, gracias.”
She wishes me good night, and seconds later I hear her exit the house. After I finish eating, I lock all the doors, set the security alarm, and read for a couple of hours on the couch, then head to the bedroom. Some nights Poco waits a bit before joining Bas and me, but tonight he enters the room at the same time and jumps onto the foot of the bed.
“Come up closer if you want,” I say once I’m under the duvet. “I promise not to tell.”
As if understanding, he crawls to the spot next to me and presses his shaggy body against mine. I drape an arm over him in gratitude.Though I wake a few times during the night, straining to hear in the darkness, the only sounds I pick up are Poco’s snoring and the creak of the eucalyptus trees near the back of the house.
There,I tell myself in the morning.I did it.
But just before lunch, things start to unravel. Though Poco joined me when I first brought my work outside, he’s since disappeared. He’s probably off in the fields, I decide, chasing the small wild guinea pigs that roam the property. At one point I stroll into the kitchen to make a second espresso and notice that he hasn’t touched the food in his bowl.
I check the bedroom, where I’ve heard Maitena vacuuming.
“¿Sabes donde está Poco?” I ask.
No, she tells me, she doesn’t know where he is right now. After calling him from thegaleríawithout success, I search the house. While checking the great room, I hear a faint whimpering, and once I’ve followed the sound, I find Poco wedged behind the couch.
“Poco, whatisit?” I ask, wiggling my hand into the space and gently petting him. Without raising his head, he lifts two mournful eyes to better see me. It’s clear he’s sick, maybe with a tummy ache.
A second later a scarier thought jolts me.Snake.Though I’ve never seen one on the property, Bas warned me when I first came here thatyararás, a type of venomous pit viper, have been known to travel down from the hills to this region.
I call out for Maitena, alert her to the situation, and she summons Jorge. Poco, we agree, needs to be seen by the vet right away. The always competent Jorge manages to dislodge Poco from behind the couch and carefully loads him into the back of the car wrapped in a blanket. I join Jorge in the front seat, and the two of us set out on the bumpy twenty-five-minute drive. I send Sebastian a text, looping him in, and hear back almost instantly.
Poor Poco. I’m still in my meeting but please call the minute you know something, okay?
For sure
Once we arrive at theclínica veterinaria, Jorge does most of the talking, and since it’s tough for me to understand the exchanges, he repeats everything back to me in slower Spanish. The vet, a small man with wavy black hair, looks concerned, but after examining Poco, he says his vital signs are good and there aren’t any injuries or puncture marks indicating a snakebite.
“¿Tienen veneno para ratas en la casa?” he asks, and Jorge explains that, yes, there’s rat poison on the property but it’s protected in bait stations. The vet says that Poco most likely ate or drank something nasty rather than poisonous, but as a precaution he wants to induce vomiting and observe him for at least twenty-four hours.
“Muchas gracias,” I tell him, and kiss Poco’s head. The vet promises to phone later with an update.
As soon as I’m in the car, I call Bas on WhatsApp and fill him in.
“So, the vet isn’t too worried?” he asks anxiously when I’m done.
“He doesn’t seem to be, so you shouldn’t worry, either. Just focus on the meeting with your dad, okay?”
“Thanks,cariño. I’ll call you later.”
Like Bas, I feel awful about Poco, but as the kilometers pass, a sense of dismay invades my concern. Poco, the dog with a constitution of a damn ox, has gotten sick during the one time Bas is away overnight. I’m going to be all by myself tonight, maybe tomorrow night, too.
When we reach the property, Jorge drops me at the house and asks if there’s anything I need before he heads to the cottage.
“No, gracias, no necesito nada más,” I tell him, forcing a smile.
I return to thegaleríaand finish reviewing my work on the book. I also respond to a few emails, including one from my best friend, Ellie, a book editor who came up in publishing at the same time I did and followed, all the way to the end, the career path I imagined for myself but never finished—editorial assistant, associate editor, senior editor, executive editor, and then finally head of an imprint at a majorpublishing house. She’s not only been wonderful about staying in touch during the time I’ve been living with Bas, but she’s got a gift for offering the right words of support year after year. I know I can count on her not to tell me that a flickering lamp or the feather from a red-tailed hawk is a sign that the daughter I will never see again is keeping an eye on me from some other realm.
Finally, at six, there’s a message from the vet. Poco is better, drinking a little water, and might be well enough to return home tomorrow. Knowing Bas is probably talking to his father now, I text him the news instead of calling, and I also shoot a text to Jorge.
Not long afterward, the scent of sautéing chicken and onions wafts from the house. I look up and realize the day has turned to dusk. The only sound is the far-off yawn of cars on the highway leading toward miles of Uruguayan beach towns, including Punta del Este.
As I gather up my laptop and folders, preparing to go inside, I feel my body humming anxiously. I should have gone with Bas, I tell myself.
