A Dog Named Bollo

María lived in the same house her mother had lived in, shopped at the same corner store, and attended the same school where her parents had fallen in love. She met Cristobal at seventeen — the exact age her mother had met her father. Every hobby, every choice, every path traced from her mother’s footsteps.

She married Cristobal in the same month her parents married, in the same church, just three days later. Someone else had a funeral on the 3rd of September. Her family had been talking about the nerve someone had died that day. How dare they?

Cristobal started the same job his dad had started around the same age. Because of inflation, it took Cristobal longer to save up for the same ring María’s mom had worn to her coffin — four months and four days longer. He sweat profusely, counting down the extra days.

The only difference María allowed herself was in a canister her mother had owned. While she had put rocks in it, María put her tips from her server job. See, María was exhausted of the mundane life that mirrored her mother’s. She decided she wanted a change. Her mother had thought of breaking the cycle but never had the courage to do it herself. “One step forward per generation, honey,” she had said. On the day María was supposed to get pregnant with Cristobal’s daughter (she was certain it would be a daughter), she walked into the pet shop with her trusty canister and got a dog instead.

Bollo was a three-month-old Golden Retriever puppy. She was in love the second he wag his tail and run around in circles. Bollo came home. The canister was left behind. He was adorable, just like every other Golden Retriever puppy. An endless pit of energy and fun. María had more than one breakdown over the responsibility that first year. Cristobal occasionally helped, but he wanted a daughter, not a dog, so it took some convincing.

When the daughter of her mother’s neighbor (who lived in her mother’s old home) asked about Bollo’s name, María said he looked like a perfectly baked bread roll, a perfect bollito, right out of the oven. María ignored her neighbor when she asked when she was having a bollito of her own in her oven instead. That was no one’s business but hers and Cristobal’s.

She walked Bollo on the same street her mom used to walk her on when she was a toddler. When María realized this, she crossed the street. Every night, Bollo fell asleep on her lap while she read a book. Cristobal, instead, fell asleep on the same sofa where her dad used to after a long day of work, watching the movies that had been on for generations. Otherwise, he bickered about his nonexistent offspring.

The bickering turned into arguments that became full-fledged fights that María tried to ignore. She felt new feelings that her mother had never explained about their generational home, their secondhand couch, even how Cristobal enjoyed it all. She couldn’t understand how Bollo did not make him happy, as he made her happy. She couldn’t comprehend how he was okay with the same job he and her dad did with a wife who looked like everyone else but wanted different things in life.

On a spring morning, Cristobal asked if she was happy. She wasn’t.

She wanted to travel, go to college, and see the world. She wanted to bring Bollo to a town with other dogs, teach him tricks, get him cute sweaters, and talk to strangers who also loved dogs. She wanted to have a doggy daycare and ensure Bollo had friends until the day he died. And once she grieved Bollo, she would start looking for another furry best friend to make her happy.

When she looked back at Cristobal, she saw tears. She’d seen no man cry before and didn’t know how to react. She asked if he was happy. He wasn’t.

He only wanted a daughter: to see her grow from a newborn baby into a woman who would one day find love at the same high school they met at and get married in the same church they did. He wanted to work at the same job his dad did, grow old with his wife, and die in the same house his family did.

So María packed her bags, put a bandana around Bollo’s neck, and left.

She didn’t know this yet, but in years to come, María would find a new town with lots of trails for Bollo; she would fall in love, be heartbroken, fall in love again, and work multiple jobs so she could one day afford her doggy daycare.

Bollo never left her side. They hiked together every Saturday, and she took him to the dog park, early in the morning before work. They got a small apartment in the basement of a nice family who occasionally sent leftovers and secondhand clothes their way and offered help anytime they needed it.

One day, María would meet Andrés, and Bollo would instantly approve of him; together they lived happily ever after.

By the time Bollo’s Doggy Daycare opened, Bollo didn’t run anymore but still enjoyed being surrounded by other dogs. His hips weren’t as good as they used to be. María would drag him around town in a little wagon cart so he could still enjoy trails, his tail wagging. María’s dream had come true. While it required much work, they were happy!

On one warm November day, María decided she’d bring back Bollo’s ashes home, to spread them near where he’d been born after all; she knew everything should rest where life began. The middle part being what mattered.

Change swept through María’s hometown, leaving her nostalgic. The corner she once knew was different, her high school closed, and her old home abandoned. She thought of Cristobal and hoped he found happiness where he belonged.

After one last drive past Bollo’s resting place, they left and never came back.