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Do they feed her?

I was staring into the big olive eyes of a very cute but skinny dog with a visible ribcage. She was friendly and excited, wagging her tail.

“Sometimes,” Gabriel responded, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s a neighbor’s dog. They let her run free.”

He was also cute, with romantic curls of light brown hair and sparkling gray eyes.

We were standing on the pool deck at the designer vacation home in the middle of the Costa Rican jungles. A stunning property with steel and expansive glass walls reflecting the surrounding canopies full of birds and howler monkeys.

The mysterious neighbors probably lived in a similar place, which led to an uncomfortable question: Why would you live in a multimillion-dollar house, but feed your dog only “sometimes”?

Suddenly, the whole trip came to me as a mess: the crowded airport lounge, the horrendous Costa Rican roads, the hippy-surfer vibe of Tamarindo with parking chaos, the romantic horsemen leaving horse poop on the most beautiful local beaches. Was I overhyping this trip for way too long to find myself struck with reality in the middle of these trendy magazine-cover interiors?

I did not want to dwell on it. I went back to chatting with Gabriel, the property manager, about local attractions, travel, and where he came from. “Argentina!” he declared playfully, and we went on about how much we liked Argentina and all the places we had been to. I did not want to be distracted from the tropical vacation mode I had been dreaming about for the last six months. I had four full days to enjoy all the natural beauty around me, and I hoped the dog would not come back, and I would not have to see Gabriel again. I was wrong. Both times.

Gabriel was not a great manager at all. The retractable glass walls did not work properly. The windows could have used a wash. The remote battery for the gate died too soon. The next day, when we came back from the beach, I sent him a message to replace the battery. He replied: “Hi sexy, sorry for not answering. I was napping after lunch.” I raised my eyebrows. Me? Sexy? Sure, I am, but this is not what I’m paying for. “Let me know when you want me to come up,” he wrote. “You can come up right now,” I responded. And he came up. Topless. With the kind of body that comes from multiple hours in the gym.

I sent my son to collect replacement batteries and toilet paper that he brought, while I watched the scene through those magnificent glass walls. What was it? Maybe nothing, but in my world, people come to work fully dressed, and you don’t call your clients “sexy.”

The next morning, I was standing on the pool deck and saw him leaving his little house below. He was with a girl. Long blond hair under the motorcycle helmet. They both left on his bike. I felt like I was in a strange movie set about someone’s midlife crisis or about an aging woman looking for a new place in life.

Another day and another beach were waiting. And the dog came back. Why did she? Please, not again. My daughter was fascinated by her. They played, they cuddled, and one afternoon, while we napped, the dog found her place sleeping on the deck. Perfect picture of a happy family, which put me in tears.

What is going to happen to this poor creature when we leave? Will she have enough to eat? What do we do? Can she please disappear again so I can enjoy my vacation? This is when that beautiful jungle house on the hill started feeling like a setting for some horror story where no one could help save you from any troubles.

Well, the internet was available, and Facebook too. I posted pictures of the dog and my desperate cry for help. Within hours, I was flooded with all kinds of answers. Neglected dog, shelter contacts, and veterinary clinic locations. The most sensible ones were about finding the owner. The idea seemed scary to me, but by morning, I had decided to try.

The morning came rather quickly. By that time, the owner had already found me. At first, I got a very long message from him. A few minutes later, my phone rang. An angry Italian man was on the other end. His voice rose with each word. The dog’s name was Violetta. Some tourists had left her at a vet years ago, and he had taken her in. Now she was dying—terminally ill, roaming between the houses she knew, looking for familiar faces. Not neglected. Dying. And because of my Facebook post, half the city was now calling him, warning him that strangers wanted to take his dog. He was furious. He demanded that I remove the post immediately.

I felt some relief that Violetta was safe with her family.

After that, we left for the airport. On my way there, I was swearing to myself that I would never go back to this country. NEVER. An hour later, I got another message from him. The Italian had cooled off, come to his senses, and was apologizing for the inconvenience, for the misunderstanding. He released and appreciated my compassion for his dog and so on. He hoped we had enjoyed our time in Costa Rica. I did not know what to think or what to tell him back. What was it again? Was it a typical colonial sentiment to get something fixed in a place where I don’t live? Was I really so wrong for caring too much?

I met a dog with a name, a man with a temper and a heart, and saw how a fragile, kind creature can bring together people who care.

Pain, wildness, and kindness—all folded into a story worth telling.

After we got home, I felt lost after all this drama, replaying all the events in my head and wishing they had unfolded differently.

Finally, I wrote my Italian a letter:

Hi Paolo, I hope you are doing well. I came home from CR, settled down, and had more time to think about what happened. Knowing how much you love Violetta, I want to share something about her—a personal story. My dog, Rita, died last year. She was a beautiful springer spaniel. She was 15, blind. She wasn’t very active in her last years and asked for very little. All she wanted was to lie down next to a person she could trust and feel safe with. I still miss her very much.

I saw something similar in Violetta. At first, I thought she was looking for food, since she looked skinny, but now, looking back, I know she was looking for people to be with. Maybe she found us. She came to say “hello” when we arrived, and she came to say “goodbye” when we were leaving. She learned our daily routine and would greet us every day when we were coming home from the beach. Even when we were resting and didn’t play with her, she would sleep on our patio because she was at peace being around a family. And if we were the family that could give her a sense of safety and comfort, I believe that sense of safety should remain with her. And it will also stay with us as a very heartfelt memory about our time in Costa Rica. ❤️

…It remained unread.