Don’t come to Aruba, we’re full — that’s what I read between the lines when Marie, our Airbnb host, drove Dave and me fifteen minutes down Spaans Lagoenweg road to one of her favorite Peruvian restaurants. On the way, she pointed to the left side of the road, where brown, dead mangroves stretched together for a mile. “These are our lifeblood; they protect us during hurricanes,” she said. Quickly, she added, “But we never get hurricanes. We are so, so lucky.”
On the drive, she told us the government had just changed to the party she supports. “It’s too soon to tell, but we will see,” she said. Earlier that morning, she’d been up at 5 a.m. watching the Pope’s funeral, sharing with us one of his last wishes — that in the Vatican, Zelensky and Trump would come together to speak of peace talks. “How he treated that man was despicable,” she added. Even with all the ocean and longitude lines between us, I knew she and I had been cut from the same cloth. As she shared more of the Pope’s wishes, I noticed the hairs on my arms and legs stand up. She glanced down at her own arm and said, “I have goosebumps.” I pointed and said, “Me too.”
Later, when Dave and I wandered back toward the beach after dinner, my new dog friend was back. He’s black, with hangy ears, and unlike the other street dogs, he’s well-fed. He’s no stray — his collar tells me that — but his owner? Hard to say. Chili, a sandy-colored short-haired dog, belongs to Marie, and somehow the two dogs had decided to follow Dave and me after our seafood and rice, fish, mussel, and shrimp dishes, all the way to Mangel Halto, a quiet, sandy white beach.
Dogs here seem less tended to than they are back home. But it’s not the first time I’ve seen that — it was like this in Costa Rica too.
Marie had mentioned she’s not even sure where the garbage goes here. And yet, she speaks four languages, cares for her eighty-four-year-old mom with dementia, and owns a restaurant. Life feels messier and looser here, in a way that’s both beautiful and sad.
Which brings me to the hard part.
Just now, as I lay swaying in the hammock, a young kitty pressed its back into the underside, arching up toward me. It melted into my hand as I stroked its soft, new fur, and I found myself thinking, We should get Evelyn a kitty. I lingered there, running my hand along its tiny body, savoring the tender, almost weightless feeling of it swooning against me.
And then — too soon — it happened.
The black dog and Chili went after the kitten. By the time I stood up, they both had it. I can’t say for certain, but it looked like the back end had been badly injured. Two locals ran over, scooped the kitten up, and shooed the dogs away. I’m not sure if it’s still alive.
I feel guilty. I wish I’d acted sooner. I had just paused and given it so much love — and then that shitty thing happened.
I hate that the world works like this sometimes.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 