Sheeeyit. I know I promised, long ago, that for the greater good of all mankind and for all the little children in the world, I would never daylog again. But, my fellow noders, some seriously fucked-up shit has been going down in Andalucia.

My life since I moved back home has been approximately as interesting as watching paint dry. Reeeally slow paint. I've been waiting for over three months for the paperwork on my residency to go through; I'm pretty sure they have a pack of trained monkeys urinating on it right now. Until I get my green card-or-equivalent, though, there's damn all for me to do.
I can't register for classes. I can't get a job. I can't even get on a train, plane, or donkey cart, because my passport was one of the documents requisitioned by the simian attack squad. If it weren't for high-speed internet access, they probably would have had to wrap me in cotton and put me on valium.

My life has become a series of daily routines designed to keep me, if not happy, at least sane. The broken-backed red chair in front of the computer calls my name, from the wee hours of the afternoon to the creeping half-way light that comes before dawn. It's my one source of entertainment. Of communication. Of free hot donkey-- er, I mean, of educational materials. It's also the surest way there is to get more potato-shaped than I already am, so I've taken to working out on a daily basis. I usually spend an hour or so pounding on the wall with my sparring gloves and doing calisthenics, which helps relieve any frustrations I may have immensely. I've also taken to walking up and down the beach. Preferably at night. While surf, sun, and sand will never make my top ten list of things I couldn't do without, even I have to admit that I live in one of the most stunningly beautiful places on the face of this earth.

Last night's walk was... much more eventful than I'm used to.

I had been walking along the shore for a good half hour, away from the hotels, the skeletal remains of concession stands and rum shacks that dry up and blow away when tourist season ends. I was wonderfully, delightfully alone. No idiots with double-wide baby carriages, no drunken teenagers passed out in the scrub, no startled Spaniards staring openly at my hair or clothes. No one else around for miles and miles; just me, the sea, and the pack of wild dogs fighting over something over by that rock formation just down the beach.


We've got a bad problem over here when it comes to strays. People don't spay or neuter their pets. At all. It's just Not Done. Add to that the number of people who buy a dog as a cheap form of home security, then turn those same animals out into the street when they become too much trouble to take care of or feed and you have a serious Situation. In the summertime, it's not too bad. They tend to scavenge things from dumpsters, and large groups of people scare them off. The off season, however, is a different story.
These beasties are not afraid of a single human being, all by her lonesome. The dogs that have been abandoned tend to be a bit more people-shy, but the truly wild ones view us as just something too big to be eaten in one go. If you go out by yourself after dark, it's a good idea to carry a stick of some sort, in case any of them decides to test that theory about "one go."

I, of course, was an idiot. I left my stick at home.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I began to edge my way back up the beach.
Which worked-- until I heard a scream.

Shit! Shit shit shit!

I froze in my tracks, then swore. Reached into my pocket for my borrowed cell phone, then swore again. Shit shit shit shit shit. Why did I get the feeling that the number for emergencies here wasn't 911? I tried it anyway.
Yep, it wasn't 911.

I heard the screams again. The voice was high-- child-like.

Oh, fuck.

I scrambled about in the sand, looking for rocks, shells, bottles-- anything I could throw to distract those fuckers. I managed to find good-sized stone and ran at the pack, screaming. Most of the dogs scattered when they heard me. There were only two left standing over the body by the time I got there-- huge sons-of-bitches, german shepherd-demonspawn half-breeds. One was worrying at an arm-- the other, the stomach. I took aim and managed not to totally fuck up for once. Pegged one of the bastards right in the head. He yelped and ran.
One down, one to go.
I came closer. The other dog raised its head and growled. I swallowed, but kept on edging in.
And here's where it gets weird.
The kid-- who I had pretty much decided was down for the count-- started to get up. Or tried to. I could see the bones in his arm where the dogs had eaten away at it. The blood was fucking everywhere. He made these wet, mewling, screaming sounds, like a pig being slaughtered. As I came closer, I could see that most of his throat was gone; I mean, by all rights, this kid should have been dead. But he was still screaming, still trying to get up. There was no way he was going to make it.

And then he bit the fucking dog.

That was it. Kid or no kid, I was getting the hell out of there.
I don't remember how long it took me to run the three or four miles back home. By the time I got back, I wasn't even sure what I'd seen. I told my parents. They freaked out. Panicked. Insisted on checking me out for head wounds and freaking spinal injuries. We called the cops. They said something about looking into the matter and coming around to take a statement. We're still waiting for them to show up, as usual around here.

...One thing I'm sure of, though. I don't think I have the heart to make dead baby jokes anymore.