–Hello, my name is Jordi and I have a question.I saw that your hotel allows pets, right? Pet friendly, it says on the website.
–Forks –an Irish receptionist on the other end of the phone responded solicitously.
-Well wellLook, we will be two adults, two girls, two dogs and about 300 sheep. Sheeps"!" I pointed out. There was a silence, a short cough, and then a: "What?"
I asked him if he had a dog and he said yes, and I replied that he did and that he also had about 300 sheep and that he loved them as much as dogs but in a different way, of course, because a sheep doesn't love you the same way he loves a dog, or a parakeet, for example. Here the Irishman interrupted me by asking me if that was a joke (one joke) and I replied no, that I never joked when talking about work. Then he made an audible effort to regain his politeness and explained to me that 300 sheep couldn't be considered pets.
And here everything started to go wrong. I told him that whoever thought he was the one to decide whether a sheep was a farm animal or a pet, he had no rights, and that if he thought he was talking to just any tourist, he was mistaken. I was a peasant! And not just a peasant: a peasant and a Catalan! And that, as that wise man said, gave me some rights when it came to traveling the world.
What the heck; Catalan and Spanish!Spanish, Pussy!"I said, raising an authoritative finger even though I couldn't see it, and then there was a "fucking "I don't know what" followed by a "fucking I don't know how many" and I replied that on March 28, 2023, the Spanish government had approved an animal welfare law, under which an animal sanctuary had registered a cow as a pet.
–Loli!
–What?
–Loli. Her name is Loli, the cow! –And she hung up.
I had to come up with a plan B: "Maybe someone who can replace me for a week," I thought.
At the agency, they told me that before hiring anyone, they had to conduct a small audit to assess potential occupational risks, and that once this was done, I could always hire more people I wanted.
A young woman came over with a logoed folder and started asking me questions as we walked around the farm. "The small bales weigh more than 40 kg," she noted; "the fork handle has splinters," "the tractor doesn't have a roll bar," and "the employer [me] doesn't have the necessary PPE." She asked me if we'd ever had workers before, and I told her no, that ours had always been a family business, but as dignified as any other, if not more so.
I reproached her for saying that what I needed were solutions, not problems, and she replied that she was just doing her job, and I said that if her job consisted of making people's lives more complicated, then hers must have a shitty job and I didn't think it made her feel very fulfilled. She tore the sheet of paper out of the folder, threw it on the floor, and said yes, of course it made her feel fulfilled, and empowered, and that it was precisely because of slavers like me that her shitty job made sense.
At that moment, my father, who is currently enjoying a miserable and euphemistic active retirement, was returning from the garden. Seeing us arguing, he stopped and asked me if everything was okay and if I had found a solution for the livestock while I was on vacation. I told him no, but that he shouldn't worry, that it wasn't his business anymore and that he would find it.
The solution, of course, ultimately consisted of leaving the father in charge of the flock, relieving him of any non-essential tasks and leaving everything as ready as I could. This, along with calling every evening to see if everything was working.
And the trip? Well, what do I have to explain? What a country, what pastures, what a way of living and working! What a sensible way of valuing everything that isn't asphalt. The greenery stretches to the seashore, and the entire landscape is dotted with farms and small groups of sheep and cows grazing here and there. People greet each other by lifting a finger from the steering wheel as they pass each other on the narrow roads that crisscross the country, and any store-brand yogurt bears a clearly visible message that it's made with milk from their highly respected owners.Irish farmers". The sale of alcohol is prohibited until ten thirty in the morning, live music is present in every corner and on the restaurant menus lamb and beef share the spotlight with "fish and chips".
I'm not going to say much about Dublin because we were only there for an afternoon and all cities seem the same to me: the smell of fried food mixes with the smell of urine, people are going about their business, and in every joker there are deranged people wasting away among cardboard and moth-eaten blankets.
During the return flight, with my head pressed against the airplane window, my daughter asked me what I was thinking.
“In everything and nothing,” I told him, “in the backlog of work waiting for me at home and in what our lives would be like if we had been born here.”
"I'll give you a hand, if you want," he said as he untied the knots in the headphone cables.
I lifted my head from the glass and, staring into the whites of his eyes, I said:
–Don't even think about it. Study hard and get a normal job.
He shrugged and put on his headphones.
–I’m serious, okay?
–Yes, Dad.
"Listen to me..." she took one of the earphones out of her ear. "Have you ever thought about becoming an occupational risk auditor?"
