After several years in Galicia, I’ve come to recognize an unwritten rule: When an animal dies here, a new one appears in our garden within five days!
Our Santos, a proud Dogo Argentino, had to be put to sleep. At the impressive age of 16, he had reached a remarkable lifespan for his breed. Rolf was immediately clear: “Heidi! No more dogs! WE ARE NOT TAKING IN ANY MORE DOGS!”

Admittedly, we already have enough to do: Every day, we feed our five cats, plus nine stray cats, the chicken gang, our old Rocco, a 16-year-old Labrador, and then there’s Bosci, the neighbor’s granddog. I call him a “granddog” because, like a typical grandmother, I completely undo all the training efforts of his owners.
Two days after Santos’ death – of course, following the rule of the series – a dog suddenly appeared in our garden. No, he hadn’t come with a pilgrim, and no, he wasn’t going to leave with one either!
I was in the garden with the hose, watering the plants, when I remembered Rolf’s promise: No more dogs! So, I told the dog to leave. No reaction. I aimed the water hose at him and sprayed him thoroughly. But he just sat there, staring at me with sad, dripping eyes. I couldn’t bear it. I turned around, went back into the house, and declared myself the most despicable person in all of Galicia.

The next morning, I went back to the garden – and there he was again, the little dog. He looked at me expectantly and nervously. Rolf was already working in his workshop. I called out loudly, “Roooolf! We have a new dog!”
“I know!” he shouted back. “I’ve been feeding him since yesterday!”
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