My Life in Argentina and Beyond

One year ago tomorrow (the 15th of December fell on a Monday), I made frantic phone calls to Argentina. The first phone call, from a pay phone outside the NY public library on 58th between Park and Lexington, informed me that Chiquito was very ill. He had anemia and the vet was doing all he could for him. I rushed to the library and looked up anemia on the Internet. I called Argentina again and told the vet’s wife that maybe a blood transfusion would be a good idea. Silence on the other end. I raised my voice. Are you there? I asked. She hesitated for a minute and told me that Chiquito was dead. Dead? Yes, my husband did everything he could, but he couldn’t save him. I cried; I couldn’t stop crying.

I want you to know, she continued, that it was hard to give you this bad news over the phone. This is long distance. We petted him and gave your dog as much affection as we could in the brief days that he was here.

But every time I called my neighbor, the one taking care of him, she said he was fine.

Well, maybe he was fine then, the vet’s wife said. But he missed his owner. Before hanging up the phone, I asked her to pray for him.