My son, a new cop in a middle-sized city
in the Midwest, sends me a text, a video
of him mirandizing a little lost puppy. The
video is filmed in the middle of his mid-
night shift, it’s grainy and night-vision red.
The juvey pitbull mix pads toward my son’s
voice: “You have the right to remain silent.”
He does, the screen turns to black as his
tiny nose approaches me. I imagine it is wet
and cold. He is only a baby, abandoned in a
waste water tunnel, or left among the un-
homed beneath a train trestle, or alone and
shivering, his shadow large amid the mosaic
of puddles populating an underpass. My son’s
voice is kind, and reflective, a little playful. He
knows that puppy better than any of us. When
he was found, in Barrio Kennedy, a poor neighbor-
hood in a large South American city, I hope
that Colombian cop whispered to him in a kind voice:
Buenas noches, Muchachito.
Ven aca, mijito;
Ven aca.
