Casco Viejo: The Second Season, Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

Carmen was a Casco Viejo street dog. She roamed freely around the old section, along the narrow, cobblestone and brick streets, bordered by uneven, pock-marked sidewalks and around piles of sand and stacks of cinderblocks in front of construction sites. There were cats in doorways she knew to avoid and small barky dogs on balconies that seemed to yell at her, jealous of her freedom.

Carmen was also a pet. Her owners, Barb and Mitch Multusky, two retired educators from Saginaw, Michigan, would take Carmen on walks on a leash at least twice a day along the Paseo General Esteban Huertas, a promenade that curved around the top of Las Bovedas, the fortified walls that protected the old city. Mitch, who used to coach basketball before he became a vice principal, often said that this “had to be one of the prettiest dog walks any where in the world.” A trellis of pink, white and purple bougainvillea shaded about one third of the walkway, and then opened up to breezes off the Pacific Ocean that lapped at the walls where dungeons (bovedas) were located. The legend is that prisoners were sometimes chained to the walls at low tide and faced their fate at high tide.

Barb liked to sit on a bench, with Carmen at her feet, and gaze out at the skyline of the modern Panama City. More and more skyscrapers seemed to be rising up every day along the coast of Panama Bay. Barb was trying to cut back on her cigarette habit so she never smoked in their one-bedroom loft apartment, about a block away. She only indulged her guilty pleasure outside, so the bench was ideal as pelicans swooped by in formation. Mitch called them “the Panamanian Air Force.” Carmen would sit patiently and wait to be adored by young tourist women with ankle bracelets, or kids, who had gotten loose from their parents (Some Panamanian children were afraid of dogs, which seemed silly in Carmen’s case, since she was less than 30 pounds and on a leash.) or couples of various ages, who were out for a romantic stroll.

The rest of the walkway curved around the tip of the peninsula, with views of the Amador Causeway, the man-made break water that bordered the entrance to the Panama Canal and then the Bridge of the Americas, a tall, steel-girder arch that spanned the canal and connected the city, with the western half of the country. Out at sea, a number of ships rested at anchor, waiting their turn to pass through the canal. At night, their lights reflected in long thin lines across the water, near three small islands that were stuck in shadow at the end of the causeway.

Every time, Carmen paused at the top of the steps that led down to the Plaza de Francia, where the monument to the failed French effort to dig the canal is located. Mitch liked to say, as Carmen seemed to survey the statues and tall obelisk with the French rooster at the tip, that “Carmen loves a view.” Especially in the evening when the sun set behind the mountains past the far end of the bridge, the views were, as Mitch often noted, “stunning.” Scattered along the way, were Kuna Indians, at tables or sitting beside blankets, selling molas, ornate, stitched panels of cloth with bird and lizard designs that were actually part of their native costume. The tiny women (Kunas are the second smallest people in the world, after pigmies) wear the molas as kind of bibs, and they also wear colorful scarves, multi-print blouses and skirts and beaded anklets. The men wear tee shirts and baseball caps. Tourists buy the  squares of dark black or green cloth with bright green, yellow and orange designs and turn them into pillows or wall hangings. Most of the vendors know Carmen’s name. “They don’t have any idea what our names are,” Mitch points out, “and they don’t seem interested; but they all know Carmen.” Maybe it is because to some extent Carmen is one of them.

Barb and Mitch feed Carmen and take her for regular visits to the vet, but they have no intention of interfering with Carmen’s freedom. Like the Kunas, who resisted Spanish domination in the old days of conquest, Carmen has no intention of being held prisoner. The Kuna nation still rules over an autonomous province in Panama today—tiny free spirits. The Multuskys put the collar on Carmen (a simple, thin leather affair, with no dog tag), in the hope that no one else would take custody of the little dog with the funny black and white face. Their apartment is located on the ground floor and looks out on a court yard in the center of a three-story restored colonial house. There are six other apartments in the building. Three barred windows open onto the courtyard from the Multuskys’ living room. When ever, the windows are open, which is often, Carmen has no trouble slipping her thin white, wiry body between the bars. She then slips out between the bars of the locked gate at the building’s entrance and is on the street again.

Barb first spotted a small white puppy with a half white and half black face curled up behind a potted palm in the courtyard—it was as if she was hiding out after she had apparently snuck in through the bars of the gate. The puppy was thin and dotted with what turned out to be nearly thirty ticks. “Okay, we can keep her” Mitch said “but only if we can clean up her dirty black paws.” It was a joke. Mitch at 6’4” 240 pounds, found it difficult to deny anything to his 5’3’’ thin, almost frail wife of 40 years, who had spent most of her career teaching fifth grade. Even though he could look imposing after all the practice he had in front of the bench at basketball games and in hallways filled with rambunctious kids, he was her gentle giant. They never had kids, but “we’ve had hundreds of other people’s kids,” Mitch liked to say, “actually thousands.” Both of them, particularly Barb, had become pet lovers over the years, numerous dogs, mostly Labs and a few cats; but when their last Labrador Josie died, they decided not to get another, since they were planning to move to Panama in a few months.

That was almost a year before, so both of them were ready for Carmen. They actually liked Carmen’s independent streak, though neither could resist worrying that she might one day never again step though the window grate, one black paw at a time. So far, so good—Carmen always came back from her daily jaunts around the neighborhood and slept every night at the foot of their bed. Her water bowl was always kept full; and there are usually at least a few nuggets of dry dog food in a matching stainless steel bowl. Unlike the Labs that they had back in the States, that gobbled food as if it was their only meal ever, this mutt would snack, (Barb called it “grazing.”), eat some, or most, but seldom all of the food that her (Now there’s a question. Would it be owners—not exactly; parents—when talking to Carmen, Barb and Mitch referred to each other as “Mom” and “Dad”; friends; benefactors; roommates?), people would fill when they noticed it was empty.

Sometimes, Carmen would be locked in the apartment, when her people went out; but she didn’t seem to mind. The dog seldom barked; and never even cried when she was a puppy. There was food and water in her bowls; and when the door shut, she would climb up on the couch and sleep. Sometimes, the Multuskys were gone for most of the day and sometimes for just an hour or two, but they always came back. It is hard to tell if dogs tell time, but Carmen never punished them for their absence, by chewing or peeing or wailing. When a key was inserted in the door, she would jump up and greet who ever came in, which turned out to always be Barb and Mitch. Soon after, one or the other humans had the leash and a plastic poop bag, and Carmen would accompany that person for a stroll.

Barb and Mitch were confident that most of the street guys that helped park cars; and most of the squatters, who occupied the building next door; and the Policia Tourismo, who patrolled the streets looking out after the clueless tourists; and the residents nearby knew that Carmen was their dog and that the neighborhood would look out for and keep an eye on their happy, innocent , independent pet/ward. They were right too. Particularly, the street guys, “bien cuidados,” Juan and Jamon, who staked out the intersection by the building where the Multulskys lived, liked Carmen, who often hung out with them as the fellas pointed out parking spots and directed people into the spaces. The usual rate was fifty cents for such a service. Juan or Jamon (…which means ham in Spanish. The man’s actual name was Horace, but his skin was kinda pink like ham.), would watch as Carmen’s curved tail would disappear around a corner; and they would always grab her ears and pet her with plenty of “Hola Carmens” when she returned from where ever she had been.

In fact, Carmen had a secret life. Every morning, around nine, she would slip down a narrow alley between two buildings and then crawl under a wooden gate located in a six-foot wall that enclosed a small backyard garden. A narrow laha (stone and concrete) pathway led through the rose bushes and ginger plants to a patio where Beth Page was having her morning coffee at a glass topped table with white-painted iron chairs.

Beth, at 58, was not quite retired and ran a real estate operation from her lap-top computer that sat on a table just inside the sliding glass door. Both she and her husband made “a very good living” in real estate in Arizona, before moving to Panama, where they bought the narrow three-story house. The plan was that they would put baby boomers together with real estate deals, while enjoying “a nice change of scenery” along with some “opportunities to make a killing” in their adopted country. The only problem was that her husband Frank died suddenly of a heart attack, at 57 (he was actually a year younger) on the day after they celebrated their first year in Panama. Beth, who still had a good figure with what some people would describe as a nice set of tits, dyed her hair blonde like many women whose hair had turned gray. When she was younger, her hair had been brown. Even though Frank was gone, she was determined to follow through with the plan.

Without hesitation, Carmen would hop up on the empty chair and sit there like a little girl at a tea party. “Buenas dias, Carmen,” Beth would usually offer as a greeting. It was funny really, but Beth never mentioned breakfast with Carmen to Barb. Some people don’t like other folks feeding their dogs. Some get jealous. “What they don’t know, won’t hurt ‘em,” was Beth’s philosophy. Beth readily admitted to herself that having Carmen over for breakfast, was a selfish pleasure. Carmen was like a reliable rental dog, that would provide an element of entertainment, companionship even, without any of the hassle. If Beth wanted to go to the Pearl Islands for the weekend, she didn’t need a dog sitter. That was another reason Beth hadn’t mentioned Carmen to the Multuskys—if they needed a dog sitter, Beth didn’t want to be on their short list. She did tell herself that if Barb asked directly, that she would consider taking care of Carmen, for a while, but preferred this clandestine arrangement.

Usually, within a minute or two Tica, the maid, would place a dish of scrambled eggs in front of Beth and another smaller dish of eggs in front of Carmen. Instead of being chagrinned about serving a dog, Tica, a small young Indian, was as charmed as her mistress, because Carmen never dived in but seemed to wait politely for Beth to pick up her fork. Then Carmen licked her plate clean.

Carmen never did much dumpster diving, probably because she was hardly ever that hungry. Mongrels in Panama City were often referred to by the locals as “tinaqueros” which translates to tin-can dogs. It comes from the fact that at one time the brand name on many of the metal trash cans around town was Tinaco (a shortened version of Tin Can Corporation) and these were being regularly raided by los perros pobres, until tinaqueros became a nickname for strays, who often knocked over a few cans in the process of scavenger hunting for food. Even though she looked the part, technically—floppy ears and uncut tail, Carmen was not a tinaquero, but rather the slightly more socially acceptable designation, “a rescued dog.”