Part \r\none |<\/B> The \r\nsurroundings of Ranch \"Rolito\" are so beautiful that it is hard to think that \r\ndeath could be creeping over the place. Annie Luna, granddaughter of the founder \r\nof this rural settlement in 1927, is now 70 years old and has silver hair and a \r\nsoothing gaze. But when she enters the kitchen, garnished with colorful flowers \r\nand imbued with the sweet scent of freshly baked Sconnes, she tosses off a \r\ncomment that leaves us startled: \"The sound of guts coming out of a guanaco is \r\ndreadful\". Magic fades.<\/p>\n\n\r\n\n
On \r\na ramshackle quadracycle, Annie has just returned from her weekly visit to the \r\nfurthest outpost of the ranch, located about 20 kilometers from the quarter \r\nwhere we are. \"The ranch caretaker used to take us round a large and lovely \r\npaddock and there were many dead chulengos [the guanaco calf]. And then we saw \r\nthem: there were about eight dogs. One white Husky, two black coats, another \r\nwith short black hair and short tail, two dark brown; It was a mixture\"She \r\nsays.<\/p>\n\n\r\n\n
The \r\ntroupe even seemed friendly; after all, it was just a bunch of dogs in the \r\nmiddle of the field. But Annie says that they immediately threw themselves onto \r\nthe ground and crept towards them rifle in hand. They never got to fire their \r\nguns because the pack probably had smelled them and escaped. \"We never had them \r\nat shooting range\" admits the old lady with pure disappointment. She did not \r\nfind comfort in being able to save from a certain death a calf that the dogs had \r\nalready separated from his mother. The fact that she could not kill any of the \r\nattackers filled her with distress.<\/p>\n\n
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