Father Efrain “Louie” Martinez awoke to the sound of barking. He rubbed his eyes and peered out a window as the sun rose over the barren hills of San Juan Camotlán. Amid the maize and sugarcane fields, the village looked like a collection of cupboards painted white and left out to dry in the wind. Barking echoed over cactus and discarded glass bottles. Sunday mornings in San Juan Camotlán were usually quiet as a broken-down motorbike.
The barking was coming from the roof of the presbytery. Father Louie slipped on his trousers, fastened his suspenders, and hurried outside.
He found a German Shepherd dog standing on his roof.
“Buenos días, señor pastor alemán,” Father Louie said. “What are you doing up there?”
The dog stopped barking and panted. His tongue looked like an eel.
“How did you get on our roof?”
The parish didn’t own a ladder—assuming that a dog could climb a ladder.
“Come down right now.”
The roof was covered with red pantiles that were very slick. No one was ever allowed up there, except for repairs. Father Louie hadn’t washed or shaved or said his prayers and it was almost time for the morning mass. He was getting cross.
“If you don’t come down, I’ll get the mayor, Don Julio ‘Correcaminos,’ to bring a ladder and fetch you down. He’ll take you to jail after that.”
The German Shepherd stopped panting and barked in a friendly way. He had two small gray stars on his forehead, and his legs were as gold as a prairie sunflower. His sizeable paws were like potter’s hands, damp and dark almond-beige. Father Francisco, Father Louie’s junior associate, emerged from the residence. He yawned and looked up at the dog.
“That poor creature doesn’t understand you,” he said to Father Louie. “Dogs don’t speak.”
“Of course they don’t. I know that. But look at the racket he’s making. And it’s almost time for morning mass.”
“Dogs and children have their own clocks,” Father Francisco mumbled to himself. He whistled to the dog, who left the roof and landed gracefully on the ground. It was then that the two padres noticed he had a tiny pair of wings.
“¡Por Dios! Could he be an angel?” Father Francisco asked.
“A dog angel?”
“Why not?” Father Francisco, like his namesake, was very fond of God’s four-footed creation.
“A dog cannot be an angel because dogs don’t go to heaven. They aren’t capable of practicing the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity.”
“Perhaps he practiced the natural virtues to an exemplary degree. Dogs can certainly have prudence, fortitude . . .” Father Francisco struggled to remember the other natural virtues. Finally, he added, “And all the others.”
The wings were too small for a German Shepherd. They were the size and color of a thrasher’s wings.
“Go away, pastor alemán,” Father Louie said. “You are disturbing this holy place, even if you do have wings.”
Father Francisco was really beginning to grow fond of the dog. He had great dark eyes like the Virgin of Sorrows and thick, soft fur. Even his bark was charming.
“Do we have to send him away?”
“Why, of course. What do we know of this dog? We’ve never seen him before. He could be a Protestant for all we know.”
“But if he was Catholic, we couldn’t turn him away. Remember the scripture, ‘Whatsoever you do for the least of these . . .’ ”
“Yes, I suppose that if he were Catholic, we couldn’t send him away. Wait, what am I saying, he’s a dog!”
“He could still be Catholic…”
By this time, a small group of bystanders had assembled. Don Julio, the mayor, was among them. He wore a straw hat with a tiny roadrunner made from silk feathers pinned to it, and a good brown suit. People called him “correcaminos,” or “roadrunner,” because of the hat.
The mayor made a suggestion. “If Father Francisco wants this dog with wings to stay because he might be Catholic and a brother at that—let’s make sure he is Catholic.”
“How?” Father Louie asked, becoming impatient with the whole affair. The bell-ringer had already arrived to sound the bells for seven o’clock mass.
The mayor, Correcaminos, thought for a moment. He turned to the bell-ringer.
“Juan Carlos, can you bring us a small cup of wine from the sacristan?”
In short order the bell-ringer, a strong young fellow with legs of a deer, returned carrying a mug of sweet wine.
The mayor placed the cup before the dog.
He sniffed at the gold-red liquid, and after looking cautiously about for a moment, gleefully lapped up the beverage with his long eel tongue.
“There you have it. The dog must be Catholic. If he was a Protestant, he wouldn’t have touched the wine. You know how those ‘Aleluyas’ are.”
Correcaminos strutted about, his head bobbing, feeling as proud as a prince at his own cleverness, and looking for all the world like an actual roadrunner.
Father Francisco named the dog with wings Aguilucho, and they became the best of friends. Despite Father Louie’s misgivings, Aguilucho was always at Father Francisco’s side, whether he was at prayer or enjoying a few cups of wine. The dog with wings never got any older, and when Monseñor Francisco finally went to his reward, the loyal canine flew away to the hills.