It's 1981. We're living in Urbanización El Casalot, Miami Playa, Tarragona. This is a brand new development and construction is still taking place. Across the road from our house workmen yell and babble among themselves, in between peeing on the street, spitting and blowing their nose on the ground. Their transistor radio blares forth. You can hear loud advertisements for Galerías Preciados, condensed milk and Camel cigarettes - 'El sabor de la Aventura!'. Occasionally the workmen burst into song, imitating Julio Iglesias singing "De Niña a Mujer" and "Hey". They're actually pretty good singers, not that I'm an expert, but Julio Iglesias himself would be happy, I'm sure, to be in my shoes listening to this open-air concert.
Something else the workmen do is play with a puppy. He looks like an Alsation or a German Shepherd pup, based on his colouring. He frolics about and seems to have lots of fun playing with the workmen.
That is, until they stop work for the day and go home.
Guess what happens to the pup?
They hide him inside the house they're constructing. They basically brick him up so that he can't get out. How do I know? At night I hear him howl his little head off. He's a poor wee soul. I can't stand it any more, so on Sunday when I know the men won't turn up I go and search for him inside the house. The noise comes from a corner where there are bricks stacked up. I pull the bricks away and lo and behold, there he is! He jumps up and down, his tail wagging, his tongue hanging out. He's absolutely filthy. He's covered in dust and cement and who knows what else.
I pick him up and take him home. I give him a lovely bath and feed him and give him water.
I want to keep him, but I reluctantly decide that it's not practical, and anyway, presumably he belongs to one of the workmen.
I have no choice but to take him back across the road, place him in the corner, and pile the bricks up again so that he can't escape.
I keep wondering how he is and can't wait until morning when the workmen will be back. At least he'll have company then.
On Monday morning the workmen arrive, making as much noise as a herd of elephants stomping around. I spy on them from behind the lace curtains to see if they'll let the pup out. They do. Out he comes, leaping up and down, his tail wagging furiously. He looks over at our house. I think he wants to come and have another bath, maybe some nice food.
The workmen stare perplexedly at him, scratching their foreheads. How did the pup get so clean?!
Did someone give him a bath?!
I think my secret is out for the workmen turn and gaze over at our house.
"Señora loca! Crazy lady!" they call out.
At least they're laughing. Maybe they're happy that I bathed the pup. Maybe they really do care for him?