Pet's passport

Cortazar's Maga borrowed a little dog from her friend Juliana. When I saw her, I felt a bit uncomfortable; I can't call her by her name, and I don't want to say "dog," even though she is. I decided to keep my distance, and we divided the house in two; I only visit her area to make coffee.

Days later, Juliana came to bring her food, although it seemed to me that she wanted to see how we treated her. We stayed chatting, and she mentioned that the pet had escaped from the war in Ukraine. Two volunteers grabbed a car, picked up every cat and dog they found among the debris, and headed west.

During the story, the little dog couldn't stop jumping and eating flies—she always does that—interrupted Juliana. The thing is, the volunteers left the pets at sanctuaries they found along the way, and this little dog was the last one. They returned to their native Kyiv, with their souls intact, and the car loaded with anecdotes. I almost said it would be better if the girls stayed and not the pets as refugees, and then Juliana gave me a hard pat on the shoulder, shouting, "Mosquito!"

She then mentioned that the little dog is used to eating only meat and pulled out two cans of processed chicken. She left some documents, the most picturesque of which is a pet's passport, and it made me quite uncomfortable because she treated me like an angel for sheltering such a noble being. Of course, in my angelic mind, I was only thinking about the sad fate of the flies, the mosquito, and the sacrificed chickens.

When I closed the door, I turned around, and the little dog looked at me intently. I thought she wanted to see her passport or maybe wanted explanations about what it feels like to be a war refugee; then I realized she wanted to eat. It didn't take her long to invade my area—"not there, Pixie!" I said, and I realized I was already doomed because I had just named her.