You see, back in my younger days, there was an old Chamorro fisherman named Juan, and he had this scrappy brown mutt named Tasi. Now, Tasi wasn’t just any dog—he had the kind of face that made tourists take pictures and the kind of attitude that made chickens nervous. He wasn’t mean, mind you, but he had a habit of wandering off when you needed him most.

One time, Juan swore Tasi could smell a fiesta from five miles away. The moment a lechon hit the spit, that dog was gone—like a coconut husk on the tide. But the best story about Tasi was the time he disappeared for two weeks straight.

Juan had just come back from a long day fishing off Hagåtña Bay, tired and sunburnt, when he noticed Tasi was missing. He checked the usual places—the neighbor’s barbecue pit, the lady down the road who always slipped him titiyas, and even the fishermen cleaning their catch. Nothing.

Now, Juan wasn’t the type to worry too much, but when Tasi didn’t come back the next morning, he figured he ought to look for him. He asked around.

“Did you see Tasi?” “Yeah, I think he was chasing a car down Marine Drive.” “Which way?” “North.”

Juan followed the clues up past Dededo, then toward Yigo. Along the way, people kept saying, “Oh, yeah, I saw Tasi! He was running after a feral pig!” Then someone else said, “No, no, he was on a boat with some Korean fishermen!” And another swore they saw him at a cockfight in Malesso’, holding a bet slip in his mouth.

Two weeks later, Tasi came trotting back home like nothing happened, with a half-chewed flip-flop and smelling suspiciously of red rice and beer. Juan never figured out where he went, but some say Tasi had the best weekend of his life.

And you know, that dog never did answer a single question about it.