I'm not sure how long the phone had been ringing, but I had a sinking feeling that this was not the first call. I answered, holding the phone a foot away from my ear. Maldita floja!
My gauge had gotten better since I moved back home. Mom was working as a noon duty that summer watching over asshole third graders who made fun of her broken English. Kids had crowded around a chainlink fence and as my mom walked over, she saw her negrito chow chow sniffing around some snot-nosed kids throwing rocks at him.
She played dumb and asked where Milo was.
Maybe he went to work. I yawned, too tired to realize the snarkiness of my comment. Pendeja! He is by MY school. Ven aggaralo antes que lo maten!
Nobody is going to kill your dog, I said. She must have heard about half of that before she hung up. I entertained the idea of letting that mutt roam free for a few more hours, but given my circumstances and given who was calling the shots, I decided against it. El que paga, manda.
On Wednesday mornings, Milo followed my mom closely while she dragged the trashcans to the curb. He sneaked out right before the black gate locked shut and waited, camouflaged easily by his coat so long as he sat patiently, like a good boy. Once her car screeched away, he would run down the driveway and follow mom towards the direction of the school. After that I wouldn’t see him until he came home around eleven or elven-thirty, just before she got home.
I followed him down the gravel road behind siamese pastel-colored houses from the early eighties. I peeked into backyards and saw formerly green lawns now brown with cracked patches of earth and yellow crabgrass islands. It was easy to tell which houses had kids. Sometimes they didn't have any – those houses had the nicest yards.