A Night the White Dog Ran Past

It was a rainy night in November of 2010 when my friend Viki called and asked if I wanted to go play pool. The night was unusually quiet. My husband was out of town, and if I’m honest, loneliness had settled in heavier than the rain tapping against the windows. So I agreed and asked her to pick me up at my townhouse near the MAX line. At the time, I lived close to the MAX light rail—the train-like service that runs through Portland, Beaverton, Clackamas, Gresham, Hillsboro, Milwaukie, Northeast Portland, and even to the airport. The station nearby had a parking lot for residents and visitors who left their cars while riding into the city. I suggested we take the MAX, but Viki insisted on driving instead. Something about that choice felt off, though I couldn’t explain why. As we drove downtown, the rain blurred the streetlights and made everything feel distant, unreal. When we crossed Martin Luther King Street, Viki suddenly said, “Duck down.” I froze. “Why?” I asked. She told me there was a man pointing a gun at us. I saw the man, but I never saw the weapon. My heart pounded anyway. She quickly turned onto another street, and just like that, we were gone—safe, but shaken. We eventually arrived at the pool hall, a bar in a rough part of town. The kind of place where the walls seem to absorb stories they never let go of. We played pool for about two hours, but the uneasiness never left me. By then, I just wanted to go home. On the way back, another incident rattled me. A driver, full of road rage, followed us closely and flipped Viki off repeatedly. I told her to ignore him. All I wanted was to get home safely. It was around 1:30 am or 2:00 am in the morning when we parked in the lot near my place. The rain had slowed, and the night felt thick—too quiet. As we walked toward my townhouse, I suddenly saw a large white dog sprint past us. It moved so fast that when I turned to look again, it was gone. No sound. No trace. My stomach tightened. Instantly, my mind went back to the stories my parents told me when I was a child—stories of El Cadejo. They said there were two: el cadejo negro and el cadejo blanco. The black cadejo was an evil spirit that followed thieves, drunks, and those with dark intentions. If someone saw its face, they would either go mad or die with a fever, white saliva foaming from their mouth. It was said to steal souls. The white cadejo, however, was believed to be a protector—a guardian of good souls, shielding them from harm. My parents said that sometimes the white and black cadejos would fight over a soul. If the white one lost, the black one would claim it. Standing there in the damp night air, my skin prickled. I told Viki the story as we walked inside and admitted how strange the night felt—from the gun, to the road rage, to the dog that appeared and vanished. I urged her to stay the night and leave in the morning. I even offered her the guest bedroom, but she chose the couch instead. She left early the next morning, around 7 a.m., and the house felt quiet again—too quiet. To this day, I still wonder. Was it just a large white dog running through the night? Or was it the white cadejo, warning us that danger was near, watching over us when the night felt determined to test us? I don’t know the answer. And I think it’s something I will wonder about for the rest of my life.