Animals

by HEBE UHART

Genres: General Fiction

Synopsis

From the winner of Argentina's National Endowment of the Arts Prize and the Manuel Rojas Ibero-American Narrative Prize comes this series of reflections on critters and their natural or not-so-natural habitats.

Hebe Uhart's Animals tells of piglets that snack on crackers, parrots that rehearse their words at night, southern screamers that lurk at the front door of a decrepit aunt's house, and, of course, human animals, whose presence is treated with the same inquisitive sharpness and sweetness that marks all of Uhart's work. Animals is a joyous reordering of attention towards the beings with whom we share the planet. In prose that tracks the goings on of creatures who care little what we do or say, a refreshing humility emerges, and with it a newfound pleasure in the everyday. Watching a whistling heron, Uhart writes, "that rebellious crest gives it a lunatic air." Birds in the park and dogs in the street will hold a different interest after reading Uhart's blissful foray into playful zoology.

Release date: June 22, 2021

Publisher: Archipelago

Print pages: 200

Sample

My History with Animals
My father used to enjoy confusing the children. He
would sing: “Of all the many birds that fly, I like the
pig.” My response to this song was first suspicion, then annoyance.
When I was about six years old, he’d take me on walks
around the outskirts of Moreno, which already turned to countryside
only eight blocks from downtown, and the plumpest cows
stood out there behind wire fences. He would tell me:
“Say hello.”
And I would say:
“Hello there, cow.”
If one of them mooed, he would tell me:
“See? Now she’s saying hello.”
Around the same period, we used to go over on Sundays to eat
at my uncle and aunt’s retreat in Paso del Rey, where my grandmother
lived. The place was enormous but more rustic than my
house. There were instructions about which things were off limits:
I mustn’t chase after the hens, mustn’t sit in the chairs on the
little patio as they could be rather dirty, mustn’t touch Milonga
the dog too much. Milonga didn’t belong to anyone; he was part
of the place and came and went with total autonomy, without
anyone sparing him a glance. But I liked to pet him, and I’d sit
on the ground while he stood by my side, at peace.
“He’s a street dog!” they’d tell me.
I didn’t understand the difference between street dogs and house
dogs, just as I didn’t understand the difference between wild and
cultivated flowers; for me, those tiny flowers that look identical to
daisies belonged to the same family; my mother called them flores
de bicho colorado, red mite flowers. A few years later, when I was
around nine, my mother sent me on a bus to Paso del Rey to visit
Aunt María, whose house stood next door to my other aunt and
uncle’s holiday home; they used to bring food for her. I brought
María whatever she asked for from Moreno: Rachel face powder,
hairpins, and a wonderful scented soap. Why she requested
these things I’ll never know; her long white hair hung down past
her shoulders, the dress she wore was totally threadbare, and she
kept chickens, shut up inside a little room (that felt like a place
for storing junk) so that they wouldn’t mingle with the chickens
from my aunt and uncle’s coop. She’d only let them out on very
rare occasions when she fancied it.When these chickens of hers
did get out, they were all crooked and unsteady, unable to walk
right. She did bathe a few of them; they were clearly wasting
away, but she didn’t appear to acknowledge the fact. I’d always
known she was off her rocker and accepted that, but by age seven
or so I wondered how it could be, given her state, that plants
sprouted for her just the same as they did for others. She had a
nice yard and even kept a sweetbriar rose, but I never caught her
watering a thing. The plants there were a little more unkempt
than those in other gardens, but I used to think that, since she
acted this way, so peculiar, she ought to have plants befitting her
condition, weird plants. Rain was common there, and I thought
it must have been a different sort of rain to suit her. Going there
to bring her the powder and soap was slightly unnerving for me,
since she received me warmly sometimes but other times kicked
me out, calling me a “gossip,” which was true, of course, since
I’d go back to Moreno and tell my mom about all the goings-on
around there. I now suspect they were sending me as a spy.
However perplexing this errand was, there was something nice
about taking the bus to Paso del Rey on my own. But on the
way into María’s house there was a little rustic wooden door, and
behind that door lay the southern screamer. A southern screamer
is like a kind of giant lapwing with large wing spurs; this one was
always idling around by that little door. I took my precautions
before passing through the doorway, taking the long way round
and never getting too close for fear of setting off its spurs. I know
now that they can fly; it’s a good thing I didn’t know back then,
or I never would’ve made it through. How the creature came to
be there, I couldn’t say, for my aunt never gave it a glance or a
name, being indifferent to the yard and the plants. In any case,
I always thought the southern screamer was a fitting animal for
my aunt; such a thing could never have lived at my house. Aunt
María called Milonga the dog “milord,” as though exalting his
name, and it’s quite strange to think of her calling him that, as I
don’t believe she was aware of the existence of lords.