I was having my morning coffee at Miško’s when Ilona Brečević arrived with her husky bitch, Donna. Ilona sat across the table from me, and Donna lied down on the ground next to my chair. Ilona and I gabbed for a while. Its head up, the husky lied quietly and panted, as always. Fifteen years old, Donna just watched people walk past. As of late, not even dogs interested it any longer. At some point it got up and started turning around in search of a better place to lie down. We did not pay her any attention.

And then Donna started shaking, gasping for air, coughing, and rearing backwards. It got entangled into a tall and rickety table by the pizzeria’s door. Ilona jumped up at once, but the husky was already prostrate on the ground. It shook a few times, and then it went quiet. Pee came out of its rear. “It cannot breathe,” Ilona exclaimed as she opened the husky’s mouth. “Something’s stuck in its throat!” It made a few nods, and stopped breathing altogether. I got up and looked at Donna. Its eyes were wide open, but it was not looking. Its tongue was hanging limp out of its mouth. “Donna’s dead,” I mumbled, but Ilona was not listening. Someone called a vet, and the verdict was quick: heart attack.

Out of the blue, Zlatko Ujčić appeared. His Jeep was parked right next to Miško’s. “What’s up?” he asked. He went to the husky, lifted one of its front legs, and pounded its chest a few times. “No, no,” Ilona implored. Then he closed its eyes, got up, walked to his car, and opened the back door. “Let’s put it in,” he said quietly. Picking up the limp body by the legs, he swung it in, and closed the back. “Put it into a plastic bag and bury it,” he said to Ilona. He got into the car, started the engine, and went down Borgo past the loggia. Both of them live on the same side of the hill. She followed him on foot as if in a dream. “What am I going to do?” she mumbled to herself.