Kicking Puppies and Fistfuls of Rocks

I sleep in pretty late here. I don´t stir until about 6:30, about an hour after my host mom leaves for work. I have a quick chat with my host senora, the grandmother and unquestioned matriarch of the family, then I go for my daily jaunt into town. I say "jaunt", because, as I understand it, the word makes no reference to a particular speed, and my jaunting speed varies greatly. Some days it´s a run, some days a jog, some days I jog into the town center and run home. It all depends not, as one might imagine, on my legs or my laziness, but on the local canine security. These dogs are mean and growly and they are as befuddled by my running as their tico owners, though in place of the odd stares, the whistling, hissing and cat calling offered up by their owners, the dogs snap and chase.

This is where the fistfuls of rocks come in. I keep my hands full of rocks as I run so I can pelt any overly curious pups, and this makes me feel more secure. In fact I feel pretty confident about taking on almost any of my four-legged foes, except for the local Rottweiler on a string.

Most dogs run freely through the streets, but not this guy. He lives on then end of a very heavy chain, which is tied to a sagging barbed wire fence, which is loosely secured to nothing, as far as I can tell. And though he doesn´t seem terribly concerned by my presence, I´m concerned by his. I know that if he ever decides I am a threat, they´ll be shipping me home in bags and boxes.