He is the one who never gets angry longer than two hugs
It is not a good idea to travel with a dog. Traveling, writes Paul Theroux, is something else: “Leave your home. Go alone. Travel light. Bring a map. Go by land. Cross the border on foot. Write a journal. Read a novel unrelated to where you are. Avoid using the mobile. Make some friends.” A dog—your dog—is a burden, a nuisance, a leaden ball in the socks of your quality of life.
Traveling with a dog may not be a good idea. It is not. And less so in this country full of rednecks and undesirables; of hoteliers with tassels and mediocre restaurants where they treat my dog like a criminal . Tied up at the door, and thank you. It's not a good idea - in short, planning a pleasant vacation with a dog that will make everything more difficult, more uncomfortable, less "enjoy unforgettable days" which is the slogan of El Corte Inglés vacations. Where, by the way, I can not enter with my dog.
It's not a good idea to pay extra thirty (thirty!) bucks for a bowl of water and a blanket on the floor, it is not a good idea to swallow the faces of the idiots on duty at breakfast time or that attitude that you are doing me a favor since I walk through the door of your “charming hotel” with my dog. It's not a good idea (it can't be) to get up every morning to walk the pooch on duty, plan each route around him and talk only in the corridors: “Are you coming or what? What's wrong with you today, Mario?
It is not a good idea to set foot in an airport with your pooch, and perhaps an even worse idea is to cage it in a 50 x 40 x 25 cm box (the official measurements) next to the gear and the Samsonites. It's not a good idea to go to bars sticking your head out like a convict "Can you come in?" in a country (this, yours) in which the legislation in this regard resembles that of a banana republic. An example: while Madrid, Barcelona and Gijón leave the decision in the hands of the owner of the premises, other municipalities, as is the case of Cadiz or Valencia, are prohibited by law the entry of dogs in their restaurants.
It's not a good idea, they tell me - they insist - to have to clean up vomit in the car , pick up shit on the street or pay the Gold Visa for the dry cleaner, because of so many hairs that the bastard loosens. Not a good idea, they say. But you see, when when I get home after a shitty day and four meetings with stressed people and their "good ideas" it is my dog who is happy as if a thousand years had passed since our last meeting -we met this morning-, it is he who does not hide, who eats me with kisses, who gives warmth to the stupid word "home".
He is the one who never gets angry longer than two hugs, who gives meaning to the alarm clock and the disappointments. You know which is.
It's not a good idea -well, live. To be alive. Carry a load. Pay the bill. Be faithful. Give everything for another living being. Suffer before each goodbye. Live unarmed. Love until it hurts.
It can't be.