Mi perrito Fiu Fiu: Francisco Toquica | Curated by Carolina Cerón

At 7 in the morning, the routine begins. He wakes me up by licking me, positions himself between my chest and my face, and looks at me impatiently; in this house, patience does not exist, to make sure I understand what time it is. I get up, he gets excited, wags his tail, makes sounds, jumps, gets on and off the bed while I go to the bathroom, get dressed, put on my shoes, and grab the leash that has a plastic bone-shaped box with bags. I put it on him, and we go out.

The bags are colorful, rolled up, the brands that sell them are PopArt perripopis, plásticpoo, popoluche, popitosypapitos... Well, not exactly, but something like that. While he does his business, I have no magazines to entertain me, I only read the inscriptions on the bags, with drawings and sometimes brand logos, descriptions of the materials they are made of, advice on good practices, environmental care, and how to be a good neighbor. Once the dog is done, I take a bag and pick up after him. If the bag works properly, it means the dog is fine, and the bag becomes a measure to recognize my pet's good health and also to show that I am a good neighbor. The bag cleans the place, and in the end, it allows me to complete the task.

Then, I dispose of the bag in the trash, thinking about returning home. Every day is the same, two or three times a day. The world fills up with waste from good neighbors, with wrappings designed for organic matter. Thousands and thousands of bags, thousands and thousands of waste from dogs that are well. Yesterday, I went out at 9 instead of 7, my dog ​​wasn't the same, and I wouldn't be the same either. The bag didn't work, and I never had to use them again.

Maria Francisca Sanin Abisambra.