Flávia Stefani Resende
em 20 de junho de 2022
Flávia Stefani Resende
em 20 de junho de 2022
Bloody Mary (in English)
I have a special fondness for mornings like this, when I can stretch out on the lawn, soaked with spring, and lay peacefully under the canopy of the sycamore tree. Can you smell the grass? It makes a warm and gory bed beneath me.
Wait. That sounded weird.
How about a joke? I just thought of one, actually. This one is good.
A pit bull walks into a bar. What does he order? A bloody Mary!
Come on, that’s a good one. You see, I’m Mary the Yorkshire. I hail from a long line of distinctive English dogs. Just a moment ago, my head was severed by Bullie the pit bull.
Yes, that’s his name. Bullie, with a double L. Though I doubt he’s familiar with the spelling of his own name. He’s answered to my name several times in the past, the idiot. “Come here, Mary,” our owner would call out, tennis ball in hand, and off Bullie would go across the yard, his tail piercing the air like a propeller.
Now look at him, throwing my tail in the air like a frisbee. I suppose it’s fitting. I’m a toy dog. I was a toy dog? Forgive me, I’m having a little trouble with language.
About death. It’s too soon to jump to conclusions, but so far it doesn’t seem so bad. The blue sky, for instance: ten seconds ago, I barely gave it a thought. But with what’s left of my face staring skyward, I must say it’s remarkable. Did you know that the sky begins at the tip of snout? It smells like sunshine, like the quiet breath of a flower.
Hey, Bullie. Quick question: do I taste better than filet mignon?
Ha ha. Just kidding. Bullie wouldn’t know the difference.
A fly sits on my brow. I would have hated that. The clouds wisp by, murmuring. What’s that? I want to ask them. Speak up. This is not a funeral.
Oh.
All right, my one complaint: the sound of the doorbell going unbarked.
And here come the ants, one after the other. I hear them giggling softly underground, the excitement bubbling up in their antennae as they approach this giant banquet.
Now, let me tell you, things weren’t always hard. This is the first time I’ve ever died—that’s gotta count for something. I enjoyed the grass. I chatted up the birds. I spent countless hours belly-up, my warm fur glistening like gold on the grass. I went nowhere near Bullie’s bowl; I stepped away from my bowl mid-meal so Bullie could vacuum it up. I ignored all the toys, even the rubber ball with the bell inside.
But then this morning, Bullie saw me resting peacefully on the lawn and decided there were too many dogs in the yard, I suppose. You see? For some dogs, it’s that simple.
He cornered me by the gate. Because I’m swift on my feet, I hid behind the sycamore tree. But then Bullie found me. He growled and showed me his teeth and attacked me.
So I bit him. Hard. My fangs tore through the soft peach of his nose. And, Bullie, you know this already, snapped my head right off.
It happened so fast: in the split second between my biting his nose and ending up in his mouth, I saw something in Bullie’s eye. A sudden glow behind the pupil, flaring, the thunderbolt before the tornado. I recognized that feeling: fear. I had never seen it in him before. It must have scared him to realize I could cause pain. But it made my whole life worthwhile to see Bullie afraid like that.
All right, here’s my final joke. Ready?
What’s life like for the dog who messes with Bloody Mary? Ruff!
Flávia Stefani é escritora e tradutora, com mestrado em escrita literária pela Universidade de Nevada, nos Estados Unidos.
Imagem: fotografia de Magda Ehlers
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