On most Saturday nights, my Rottweiler has better taste in men than I do. After a few drinks, I’m easily entertained and less choosy than when I’m sober. That’s when Van Gogh the Dog steps in. I couldn’t give him a German name to match his heritage. I’ve been traumatized by too many movies about Nazis, and poisoned by a fling that flung me out of orbit with a selfish man from Berlin. So I made Van Gogh the Dog a Dutch cloggy with Germanic roots. Both of his ears are intact. I’m not some kind of sick-o.

“Why do you do this every weekend?” Van Gogh has understanding brown eyes. “What’s with you, Savannah Blue?” He often speaks to me in sing song. “Do you want me to growl until this one goes away?” He circles once before settling at my feet. There are torch lanterns burning to illuminate the beach bar. All the dogs, and their owners, are unleashed.

“Use your judgment. If you see that I’m in trouble, then do your thing.”

“Savannah, we need to talk about this in the morning. You’re only damaging your self- esteem by putting yourself in these situations.”

“Have you been reading my Self Help books again? I told you to stop that.”

“This is not the way to chase after your Authentic Self. If you feel like shit, you should meditate on this condition, rather than drink yourself into bed with some guy you just met.”

“Van Gogh. I think that’s enough. You’re supposed to be my protector, not my shrink.”

“I care about you. You’re the most important person in my world.”

“You’re just saying that because I feed you and rub your tummy.”

“Would you do that right now? You gave me an urge.” Van Gogh rolls over on his back, lifts his four legs in the air, and lets them relax.

“You’re such a good boy.” I touch his stomach, until his eyes close in rapture. I pull a crossword puzzle from my bag and study it absently.”

“Twenty-two across is codependency.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know the solutions to every crossword that was ever written. Wanna know the finale of the 8 o’clock soap?”

“No! Van Gogh. Don’t ruin it for me. I would rather carry on in suspended disbelief.”

“Can I give you a hint?”

“I won’t listen.” I cover my ears for dramatic effect.

“The guy gets the girl.”

“Stop it!”

“I’m a sucker for happy endings, too.” He pants and I feel his warm breath against my legs. I fold the puzzle into a tiny square and tuck it into my bag.

“You talk to your dog?” My Romeo of five minutes ago asks, when he returns from the bar with two drinks.

“No. He talks to me.” Van Gogh sniffs his shoes and makes a low growl.

“He doesn’t like me,” Romeo says.

“He’s a good judge of character. You must be full of bad intentions. I should go.”

Van Gogh runs besides me as I ride my bicycle past the beach. It’s a warm tropical night. The Brazilian moon is full and projecting the image of Saint George battling a fierce dragon. Here, the Man on the Moon and green cheese are Gringo nonsense.

“He was no good. A heartbreaker.”

“Now you sound like Aretha Franklin.”

“He was a liar, and a cheat,” Van Gogh says. “He smelled like fear.”

“What do you mean?”

“He smelled like a cornered rabbit who knows it’s about to die. He wasn’t telling you the truth. He just wanted to see how far it would go.”

“He wanted to see if he could bag me.”

“That’s all he wanted. A fast fix.”

“Men. Why do I waste my time with them?”

“They aren’t as loyal as I am,” Van Gogh says. “I have deep feelings for you that I don’t know how to express.”

“Van Gogh! Are you saying you’re in love with me?” I stop my bicycle to look at him. His brown eyes fill with tears.

“I only wish I could be everything for you.”

“Van Gogh. At this moment in my life, you’re my dearest friend. But I could never see you as more than a dog. You’re a wonderful dog, but I need to love a man. I could never be physically intimate with a dog. It’s not possible.” He sobs uncontrollably.

“It hurts me to see you hurting yourself. Promise me that you will be less reckless with yourself.” “I’m trying. You’re helping me. I listen to your warnings. I left that last Romeo drinking beer foam. I didn’t mess up because of you. Oh, Van Gogh! Don’t be sad. Think of how happy you make me.”

“In my next life, I’ll look for you as a man.”

Two street kids jump out of the darkness and surprise us. They want my bicycle. Van Gogh stands on his hind legs like a raging stallion. He barks from deep in his throat and shows his teeth. The street kids cower and begin to regret the attack. One wields a knife. Van Gogh rips the shorts off the smaller boy, who stands trembling in his underwear.

“Van Gogh. That’s enough.” The older boy is unfazed and lunges after Van Gogh with the knife. He drives it into Van Gogh’s chest and the two boys tear away. I throw my bicycle to the ground and run to him. “No. Van Gogh. Let me see.” The blood is already pooling beneath him. I pull the shirt from my back and try to put pressure on the wound.

“Let it be. Let it be.” He rests his head in my lap and licks my leg with his tongue. I feel his breathing stop and his body stiffens.

“Don’t leave me, Van Gogh. I need you!” I sob.

I dig a pit on the beach, beneath a coconut tree, and lower his body into it. My body shakes when I push the cool sand over him and I can barely see.

I lie in bed for three days and cry. I can only drink water and eat mangoes. The other food that I pull from the refrigerator makes me nauseous.

The next Saturday night, I ride my bicycle alone to the spot where all the young people hang out. A man with long black hair approaches me.

“Can I sit with you?” I glance at him skeptically. “I just want to talk.”

“I’m not very talkative. I’m in mourning.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I feel like I’ve lost the love of my life.” He looks at me with understanding brown eyes.

“Who was he?”

“You wouldn’t understand. My dog was killed. He was an incredible animal. He talked to me.”

“Why don’t you think I could understand that? My cat tells me her dreams.”

“What’s your name?”

“Vincent. I’m a painter.”

“You’re an artist?”

“No, I paint houses. See?” He holds out a hand that is covered with white paint speckles. The wind blows a strand of hair over my eyes and he reaches towards me to brush it away. I close my eyes for a moment and then open them quickly.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“It sounded like Van Gogh barking.”

We are alone on the beach, and there are no dogs to be seen.

“Was that you?” I smile and settle into his arms.