Page 21 of Spiced!

“The vet says we go back in three weeks,” I said, immediately regretting the transition because there was no casual way to drop that sentence, yet I had done it anyway.

She breathed.

Just breathed.

But Abuela’s breathing had a vocabulary, and this breath said approximately four hundred words, all in Spanish—and Grandmother, which was its own language.

“Fine, his name is Brendan,” I said, because it was easier than letting her work the silence like some CIA interrogator.

“Bren-dan,” she said, letting the syllables roll on her tongue.

“It’s a vet appointment, not a date, Abuela. For vaccines.”

“Fine,” she said, warm and unbothered. “Saturday. Don’t be late.”

I ended the call and sat on the floor a little longer. Mofongo’s snores floated up from where he lay curled in my lap, absurd for something that small.

“She already knows,” I told him.

His breathing caught, and he adjusted himself without opening his eyes.

“I said his name one time and she knows.”

Mofongo’s eyes wiggled beneath his lids.

“Three weeks is not that long,” I said.

He resumed snoring with what I chose to interpret as agreement.

Mofongo woke me up at eleven-fifteen.

His crooning started small—one test sound launched into the dark.

I lay still and listened.

He escalated.

I surrendered.

We went outside, which in theory, I had understood. In practice, this involved me standing in the courtyard in pajamas while Mofongo approached the grass like a scientist establishing baseline data.

Sniff here.

Circle back.

Sniff again.

The courtyard had information, and he intended to have all of it before he committed.

“Anytime, papi.”

He looked up at me.

“I’m not rushing you. It’s only midnight.”

He sneezed at a patch of grass like it had personally offended him, then finally handled his business and looked up at me, waiting for his review.

“Muy bien,” I told him. “Perfecto. Good boy.”