Tenía las patas adoloridas de tanto cavar.
Llevaban ya varias horas encerrados en esa cabaña. Luego de haber sido capturados, "los hombres malos," los habían obligado a entrar en aquel lugar oscuro y húmedo. Apenas penetraban destellos de luz por las rendijas y el aire estaba viciado de olores a amoníaco y a gasolina.
Su dueño, agazapado en una esquina, mantenía la mirada perdida y los dientes apretados. Pareció percatarse de su mirada y le respondió con una vaga sonrisa. "Todo va a estar bien" decía con los ojos. Mentía. Tantos años de vivir junto a ese hombre le habían llegado a conocerle.
Apenas era un cachorro cuando lo había comprado de aquella perrera infernal. Su dueño, recién graduado de la Escuela Militar, había sido aceptado a trabajar en las prestigiosas filas de la DEA y se había quedado encantado con este cachorrito tan especial abandonado a su suerte en aquel lugar de los mil demonios.
A partir de ahí no se separaron jamás y la relación hombre-perro en ellos se manifestaba en modos poco habituales. Se convirtieron en la pareja más efectiva de la Organización Policial, solucionaron muchos casos y destaparon numerosos complots. Sus compañeros, tanto hombres como perros, se preguntaban cuál era el secreto de tanto éxito y aquella comunicación infalible que tenían ambos. Él se cuidó de no hacerlo demasiado evidente pero entendía el lenguaje y el comportamiento humano, mucho más que cualquier perro.
Por eso, y además porque conocía a ese hombre más que a sus propios cachorros, supo que estaba aterrado, mucho más que en las tantas situaciones en las que se habían encontrado. Esos hombres malos le habían dicho que al anochecer los matarían a ambos. Estaban cavando la fosa en ese momento.
Él también debía cavar lo más rápido que pudiera, a pesar del dolor que sentía en las patas y las uñas. Pasado unos minutos se encontró con una superficie dura debajo de la tierra. Era concreto. La cabaña estaba construida sobre una base de hormigón así que era imposible escapar por debajo. Frustrado, se acercó a la puerta de madera y ladró con todas sus fuerzas. Dio zarpazos contra la madera y empujó con su hocico hasta el punto de sentir dolor.
Alguien vino. Era un hombre horroroso, lleno de tatuajes y con un olor, mezcla de sudor, alcohol y orina. Abrió la rendija y lo observó por un momento, y luego a su dueño. El extraño le gritó unas palabras y un latigazo de adrenalina invadió su cuerpo, producto del intenso miedo que percibió en su amo. Estaba inmovilizado, compungido, derrotado. Algo debía hacerse.
Empezó a ladrar aún más fuerte, casi compulsivamente. Con cada esfuerzo, su mente se iba reconectando con aquella zona primitiva y peligrosa, heredada de sus antecesores salvajes. Daba remolinos en el lugar, se mordía su propia cola, se arrastraba por el suelo. Sus ojos empezaron a adquirir un tinte de rojo encendido mientras perdía el control. Luego de abalanzarse sobre diferentes objetos quedó quieto, casi inmóvil. Los hombres, tanto su dueño como el bandido, se sobresaltaron al sentir un rugido seco y unos dientes envueltos en espuma blanca.
El perro se acercó a su dueño con paso lento y amenazante. El bandido, desde la rendija intentaba azorarlo pero aquel animal habían dejado de ser un perro entrenado, ahora era una bestia. Su dueño no lo podía creer. Constantemente le gritaba su nombre y le ordenaba que se detuviera, pero a aquel ser solo lo movía el instinto compulsivo de hacer daño. La Rabia.
En un último intento, el dueño interpuso su mano entre su cuerpo y el animal. Lo llamaba por su nombre y lo convidaba a calmarse. El bandido también repetía el nombre del perro y por un momento ambos hombres parecían aliados contra lo que se había convertido en un enemigo común. El perro se acercó y aún más, hasta sentir el tacto de la mano de su dueño sobre el hocico. Sus ojos retornaron a la normalidad por un segundo, mientras entendía su nombre. "Todo va a estar bien," dijeron aquellos ojos. Luego, envueltos en la violencia del gesto, volvieron a cambiar a el rojo encendido.
Se abalanzó y mordió la mano de su amo.
El hombre gritaba mientras intentaba zafarse de la mordida. Con su mano libre empujaba y golpeaba a aquel animal fuera de sí que babeaba y gruñía pero que no zafaba su presa, aunque la presión de la mordida era un tanto contenida. El bandido, también asustado, abrió la puerta y con un estrépito se precipitó adentro de la cabaña, para apartar a aquella bestia sin control. Pretendía golpearlo con la culata del arma pero apenas se acercó el perro soltó a su presa con rapidez y se escabulló entre los pies del delincuente y salió por la puerta abierta.
Una vez fuera, volvió en sí. Tuvo que hacer gala de su autocontrol y el entrenamiento recibido durante tantos años para calmarse. Echó a correr y al principio ganas no le faltaron de perderse en el monte y no regresar nunca más, se sintió libre y salvaje. Salvaje y libre. Pero, lentamente, cayó en el propósito de su misión. Todo había sido parte de su plan: el arrebato de cólera, la rabia y el ataque a su propio amo. Un plan para poder escapar de ese lugar.
Ahora la segunda parte era buscar ayuda.
Pasó todo el resto de la tarde atravesando monte abierto. Nadie se molestó en perseguir a un perro rabioso, probablemente se sintieron aliviados. Ese era la intención. Ahora, solo debía llegar a la comisaría lo más rápido posible y alertar a los oficiales de lo que sucedía. Ellos sabrían que hacer.
Casi famélico y muerto de cansancio llegó a la comisaría. Los perros detectaron su olor y empezaron a ladrar, agitados. La estación se puso en alerta y los oficiales salieron al porche armados con escopetas. Les costó reconocer al perro que todos admiraban. Estaba sucio y agitado, hacía remolinos en círculos, corría hacia el monte y luego regresaba a toda velocidad. No parecía estar en su sano juicio. Alguien salió con un lazo dispuesto a atraparlo.
El perro se esforzaba por comunicar lo que estaba sucediendo: "mi dueño está preso, lo van a matar, no tenemos tiempo." Pero nadie entendía lo que intentaba decir. Cuando vio al oficial con el lazo supo que le quedaba poco tiempo. Para que entendieran la gravedad de la situación debía comunicarse con ellos del modo que los humanos lo hacían. Era peligroso para él mostrar ese nivel de entendimiento pero su dueño necesitaba la ayuda.
Así que escribió, utilizando sus patas, el nombre de su dueño y una línea hacia la dirección en donde se encontraba.
Antes de caer la tarde ya la policía estaba ahí. Hicieron una redada y capturaron a todos los criminales infraganti. Confiscaron un cargamento de varios kilos de droga y numerosas armas. Mientras se producían los arrestos, el perro corrió hacia la cabaña para rescatar a su amo.
Pero él no estaba allí.
Siguió su rastro de olor que lo llevó a una zanja poco profunda detrás de la cabaña. Con marcado nerviosismo, se acercó al hueco esperando encontrar lo peor, pero el cuerpo que estaba allí aún vivía. Le ladró y su dueño abrió los ojos, como quien despierta de un sueño largo. Se lanzó dentro del hoyo y su dueño se puso en guardia. Tenía un trapo sucio alrededor de la mano herida. Pero no era demasiado profunda, el perro se había asegurado de eso.
Con calma se aproximó a su dueño, procurando no parecer agresivo. Se arrastró por el suelo y se volteó sobre su espalda enseñándole se barriga, como siempre hacía cuando era cachorro. El dueño se acercó a él y lo acarició con la mano herida. Una lengua cálida respondió a las caricias mientras los ojos del perro, tranquilos y profundos le decían: "Ahora todo va a estar bien."
ENGLISH
His paws were sore from so much digging.
They had been locked in that hut for several hours. After being captured, "the bad men" forced them into that dark and damp place. There were hardly any glimmers of light through the cracks and the air was foul with the smell of ammonia and gasoline.
Its owner, crouched in a corner, kept his gaze lost and his teeth clenched. He seemed to notice her gaze and responded with a vague smile. "It's going to be all right" he was saying with his eyes. He was lying. So many years of living next to this man had gotten to know him.
He was barely a puppy when he had bought him from that hellish kennel. His owner, a recent graduate of the Military School, had been accepted to work in the prestigious ranks of the DEA and had been enchanted with this special puppy abandoned to his fate in that place of a thousand devils.
From then on they were never separated and the man-dog relationship in them manifested itself in unusual ways. They became the most effective pair in the Police Organization, solved many cases, and uncovered numerous plots. Their colleagues, both men, and dogs wondered what was the secret of their success and their infallible communication. He was careful not to make it too obvious, but he understood human language and behavior, much more than any other dog.
Because of that, and also because he knew that man better than his puppies, he knew he was terrified, much more so than in the many situations they had found themselves in. Those bad men had told him that at nightfall they would kill them both. They were digging the pit at that moment.
He too had to dig as fast as he could, despite the pain he felt in his paws and nails. After a few minutes, he came upon a hard surface beneath the earth. It was concrete. The hut was built on a concrete foundation so it was impossible to escape underneath. Frustrated, he approached the wooden door and barked with all his might. He pawed at the wood and pushed with his muzzle to the point of pain.
Someone came. It was a hideous man, full of tattoos and with an odor, a mixture of sweat, alcohol, and urine. He opened the crack and watched him for a moment, and then his owner. The stranger shouted a few words at him and a whip of adrenaline invaded his body, a product of the intense fear he perceived in his master. He was immobilized, compassionate, and defeated. Something had to be done.
He began to bark even louder, almost compulsively. With each effort, his mind was reconnected with that primitive and dangerous zone, inherited from his wild ancestors. He whirled on the spot, bit his tail, and crawled on the ground. His eyes began to take on a fiery red tinge as he lost control. After pouncing on different objects, he stood still, almost motionless. The men, both its owner and the bandit, were startled when they heard a dry roar and teeth wrapped in white foam.
The dog approached its owner with a slow and threatening step. The bandit, from the crack, tried to frighten it, but that animal was no longer a trained dog, it was now a beast. His owner could not believe it. He constantly shouted his name and ordered him to stop, but that being was only moved by the compulsive instinct to harm. Rage.
In the last attempt, the owner put his hand between his body and the animal. He called it by its name and invited it to calm down. The bandit also repeated the dog's name and for a moment the two men seemed like allies against what had become a common enemy. The dog came closer and closer until he felt the touch of his owner's hand on his muzzle. His eyes returned to normal for a second, as he understood his name. "It's going to be all right," those eyes said. Then, wrapped in the violence of the gesture, they changed back to the fiery red.
He lunged and bit his master's hand.
The man screamed as he tried to pull away from the bite. With his free hand, he was pushing and punching the animal out of his mind, which drooled and growled but did not let go of its prey, although the pressure of the bite was somewhat restrained. The bandit, also frightened, opened the door and with a roar rushed inside the hut, to drive away that uncontrolled beast. He intended to hit it with the butt of his gun, but as soon as it approached, the dog quickly released its prey and slipped between the bandit's feet and out through the open door.
Once outside, he came to his senses. He had to use his self-control and the training he had received for so many years to calm down. He started to run and at first, he felt like getting lost in the bush and never coming back, he felt free and wild. Wild and free. But, slowly, he fell into the purpose of his mission. It had all been part of his plan: the outburst of anger, the rage, and the attack on his own master. A plan to be able to escape from that place.
Now the second part was to seek help.
He spent the rest of the afternoon traversing the open bush. No one bothered to chase a rabid dog, they were probably relieved. That was the intention. Now, he just had to get to the police station as quickly as possible and alert the officers to what was going on. They would know what to do.
Almost famished and dead tired, he arrived at the police station. The dogs detected his scent and began to bark, agitated. The station was put on alert and the officers came out onto the porch armed with shotguns. They had trouble recognizing the dog they all admired. He was dirty and agitated, swirled in circles, ran into the bush, and then came back at full speed. He didn't seem to be in his right mind. Someone came out with a snare ready to catch him.
The dog was trying hard to communicate what was happening, "my owner is in jail, they are going to kill him, we don't have time." But no one understood what he was trying to say. When he saw the officer with the noose he knew he had little time left. For them to understand the gravity of the situation he had to communicate with them the way humans did. It was dangerous for him to show that level of understanding but his owner needed the help.
So he wrote, using his paws, his owner's name, and a line to the address where he was.
Before nightfall, the police were there. They made a raid and caught all the criminals red-handed. They confiscated a shipment of several kilos of drugs and numerous weapons. While the arrests were taking place, the dog ran to the cabin to rescue his master.
But he was not there.
He followed his scent trail which led him to a shallow ditch behind the hut. With marked nervousness, he approached the hole expecting to find the worst, but the body lying there was still alive. He barked at him and its owner opened his eyes, like someone waking from a long sleep. It jumped into the hole and its owner stood on guard. He had a dirty rag around the wounded hand. But it was not too deep, the dog had made sure of that.
He calmly approached his owner, taking care not to appear aggressive. He crawled on the floor and rolled over on his back showing him his belly, as he always did when he was a puppy. The owner approached him and stroked him with his wounded hand. A warm tongue responded to the caresses like the dog's calm, deep-set eyes told him, "It's going to be okay now."