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Show Many people, even many Spaniards, believe that these Canary Islands were named after the bird. They were not. They were named after the peculiar dog which lives only here, a dog which looks and runs like a small deer, its long pointed ears flying in the wind and its buff-colored hindquarters floating gracefully up and down with each bound. Fleet and elusive, long-boned and beautiful, the dog is a mysterious animal even to the Islanders. It has never been domesticated. It makes no noise and does no damage. And when it is seen, which is seldom, it is almost always from behind: a shadow racing back into the hills. They call me Old John. I have been called that for a long time now, and my age was the first thing the sallow-faced young man wanted to know about me. I told him instead about the Canary dogs. He claimed to be a journalist, interested in the island, interested in me; but I could tell by his officious manner and pale, hairless chest that he did not work for any newspaper. Still, he had somehow managed to find out about my three passports; and for one nervous moment I suspected him of being the agent of some government, here to finally make me choose among them. At first I did not want to talk to him. I said I was not yet ready for my obituary. |