There’s a crystal pitbull sitting on a worn pine pedestal outside the Escatimar Art Gallery in a
narrow alley in Madrid’s Malsana neighborhood.
It’s a dare.
It’s a legend.
It’s a real piece of crystal, and it’s worth a lot of money. Not set for life money, but too damn
much money to be sitting on an increasingly rickety piece of pine in an alley money.
Sometimes the pedestal is close to the door, and occasionally Lucia Ortega will even gently
touch the pitbull and very softly apologize to it.
She apologizes because she wants the glass canine to be broken.
It is her secret.
By now, in the three years she has placed the art on the pedestal outside the door of the little
gallery, she is shocked that it hasn’t been stolen.
Lucia is aware that she is beloved by the Latin Kings gang, She is not aware that that affection
has been circulated through the community and that there will be a price to pay for the theft of
the pitbull that will outweigh any financial gain.
Jorge Gil, Lucia’s ex-husband, created the crystal pitbull and gifted it to her.
When they parted, he claimed it as an asset of his own and the court ruled that Lucia could
keep possession of it in the gallery and that would account for some of the money owed her by
Jorge.
It was a barter, a maneuver and ultimately a lie.
But Jorge’s lawyers won, and her gift became a transferred asset.
How far from the door she placed the pitbull on the pedestal was her thermometer of how angry
and disappointed she was with Jorge that day.
Increasingly the pitbull remained close to the door.
Residents-no one knew exactly who-started a rumor that knocking over and shattering the
crystal pitbull would bring a dozen year’s bad luck.
Even well informed tourists had heard of La Leyenda del Perro de Cristal.
It sounded to Lucia like she had placed a curse on the dog, which she most certainly had not.
When people asked she debunked it.
“Why then, do you place the dog in danger, where someone could knock it over?”
“I want even those who don’t enter the gallery to enjoy it,” she said, and the lie usually caused a
light blush, giving away her dishonesty and refueling La Leyenda.
As her animosity to Jorge waned, and her anxiety grew that a poor soul would break the crystal
she once wanted very much to break and fear for their life or their luck, Lucia considered
bringing the shining glass hound into the gallery and for the first time replacing the No Esta en
Venta sign with a price tag.
Lucia took a week, made her decision and set her price. She would be doing nothing to her
pride to sell Jorge’s art. Charity would receive some of the money. Maybe she could let the
legend be that the dog disappeared one day, yet another legend to draw deep pocketed tourists
to her gallery.
Ringing up the purchase of a mosaic of the Manzanares River, she looked over the shoulder of
the customer to see Jorge standing at the doorway of the gallery.
Half Jorge.
Gaunt, troubled.
As Filipe, her assistant helped the customer carry the mosaic to a waiting cab, she saw both
men wince at the stench of her ex.
“I wish to be reunited with my dog,” Jorge said.
“The dog belongs to me now. You know that. I will sell him, and if you need money I will help
you. You are a mess.”
“Ah,” he said, “I am a wealthy man who simply doesn’t care anymore. My girlfriend won El
Gordo, split her winnings with me and trundled off to Canada with someone half my age. How
much for the dog, my dog?”
Lucia stared through Jorge.
“I planned on pricing it at 190,000 euros, Jorge. But…”
“Do you still have your Banco Santander account?”
“That’s none of your…”
Jorge fumbled with his phone, dropped it, picked it up and typed sloppily.
“Please leave Jorge.”
Lucia’s phone jingled in her pocket.
A notification from Banco Santander.
Jorge had sent her the money.
“Jorge, no. I wanted the money years ago…now I want the peace.”
Jorge shook his head and walked out the door.
Lucia followed as her ex scooped the dog off the pedestal. The pedestal fell, the dog cradled in
Jorge’s arms.
“No Jorge, you should not–”
Jorge turned, stumbled, and fell backwards, hugging the crystal he had created. His head
smacked the cobblestone street and blood emerged from it as though spread by a paint roller.
Lucia ran to Jorge and knelt.
His lips moved.
Lucia grabbed the pitbull, the once gift, the now symbol of other things and a legend that had
traveled beyond the shores.
At that moment it was just a hunk of glass above Jorge’s chest.
She set it aside as she calmly but loudly yelled Ayuda!
The crystal dog toppled and broke.
Jorge was breathing, shallowly, and bleeding like the drunk he had become.
Lucia shifted her weight, removing her sweater to place under Jorge’s head.
Her hand landed in the broken dog and the heel of her hand sliced like an onion.
“Ayuda!” she called again, raising a bleeding hand.
Pedestrians and shop keepers paused.
The bustle of the street slowed.
One voice spoke.
La leyenda, era cierta.
Someone else screamed.
The head of the dog broken from the torso rocked in the breeze.
The voice in the crowd repeated: La leyenda era cierta.
Lucia bent close to Jorge.
In unison Jorge and Lucia said “Lo Lamento.”
I’m sorry.
Jorge’s eyes closed.
Lucia screamed Ayuda! And some strolling shoppers echoed her request.
Near Lucia’s knees the crystal head of the dog rocked from the cobble and the crystal
spiderwebbed.
The jeweled eyes of the dog fell out, sparkling on the dusty ground.
Lucia could no longer feel Jorge breathing.
She put her bloody hand to her face and an onlooker fainted, breaking their skull on the
cobbles.
In the once quiet little gallery alley, people began to run.
