That One Time My Beagle Betrayed My Accent
Why a slobbery tennis ball became my Spanish teacher
Ten years in the Dominican Republic have ironed most of the gringo creases out of my speech, but every so often a rogue syllable squeaks through. Last month I was in Bogotá’s Parque El Virrey, throwing a tennis ball for Luna, my adopted beagle, when she decided to sprint toward an impeccably coiffed poodle. The poodle’s owner, a Bogotana architect with neon sneakers, smiled and said: “¡Qué perrita tan juiciosa!” I opened my mouth to answer, but the first word that popped out was the decidedly Dominican “trulla”—slang for loud commotion. Her raised eyebrow told me my Caribbean roots were showing. What followed was a half hour of spirited small talk that highlighted every regional quirk in my Spanish Vocabulary, from Dominican sing-song intonation to Colombian diminutives. By the time Luna finally tired out, I had picked up three new dog-park phrases and surrendered two of my own. This post unpacks that exchange—because mastering Spanish in the wild means letting your dog pull you into conversations you never rehearsed.
Unleashing Compliments: Praising Dogs without Sounding Awkward
Choosing the right adjective for fur, size, and swagger
Complimenting someone’s dog is the canine equivalent of talking about the weather: safe, universal, and surprisingly revealing. Yet adjectives are a minefield. In Santo Domingo I’ll gush “¡Qué perrito más chulo!,” and everyone nods; in Medellín, “chulo” veers toward “pimp” or “cool dude,” not “cute.” Switch to “lindo” or “hermoso” and you sidestep regional confusion. My Colombian friends season their praise with affectionate diminutives: “perrito,” “orejitas,” “colita.” Dominican Spanish, meanwhile, leans into playful exaggeration: “Ese perro está pasao’ de bonito.” Notice the dropped final ‘d’ in “pasao’.” Understanding these micro-differences enlarges your Spanish Vocabulary and prevents back-and-forth explanations mid-fetch.
Texture matters too. A curly poodle coat is “esponjoso,” while a glossy Doberman sheen is “brillante.” I once called a Colombian mutt “peludo” (hairy) only to realize the owner preferred “melenudo,” which sounds more majestic. Compliments double as cultural mirrors; Dominicans valorize rhythm and charm, so their dog praises dance. Colombians prize clarity and warmth, so their words hug.
Sniffing Out Concerns: Health, Safety & Etiquette
From fleas to fangs—questions that keep conversations going
No dog-park talk is complete without a quick health check. Colombians tend to ask, “¿Ya está vacunado contra la rabia?” right after petting. In the DR, I more often hear, “¿Le sacaste la vacuna?” Same concern, different verb. The DR’s shorthand “sacar” (to get) contrasts with Colombia’s precise “vacunar.” My Spanish Vocabulary widened the first time I had to explain tapeworm meds: “desparasitar.” Roll that around your tongue; it’s a Latin rhythm exercise.
Leash etiquette changes, too. In Santo Domingo’s Mirador Sur park, leashes are suggestions; a security guard may remind you “Ponga la correa, jefe,” but enforcement is lax. Bogotá’s parks issue actual fines, so Colombians ask, “¿Dónde compraste esa correa retráctil?” Learn the noun “correa” (leash) and the adjective “retráctil” to avoid pantomiming. If you worry about dog aggression, politely probe with, “¿Es sociable con otros perros?” Dominicans might soften it: “¿Se lleva bien con los demás?” Etiquette lives in the verb choice; llevarse bien feels less clinical.
Regional Slang on Four Paws
A tug-of-war between Caribbean rhythm and Andean cadence
During one sun-drenched Sunday in Cartagena, I overheard a Dominican tourist declare, “Ese perro está jevi, loco.” The Colombian owner blinked. “¿Heavy?” he echoed, clearly picturing weight scales. Dominican “jevi” means “cool,” derived from English, but Colombians rarely use it. Conversely, Colombians sprinkle “chévere” into every third sentence, which Dominicans find quaintly retro. Stuff these terms into your Spanish Vocabulary—it’s social Velcro that makes small talk stick.
Slang also decides whether you sound approachable or aloof. Shout “¡Dímelo!” across a Santo Domingo dog run, and heads swivel in greeting. Try that in Bogotá and you might get a polite nod but it reads informal. The Andean alternative is the mellow “¡Quiubo!” from “¿Qué hubo?” (what happened). Mixing them is like giving your Schnauzer a tropical bandana in the highlands: endearing but conspicuous.
Spanish Vocabulary Table
Quick-reference phrases picked from eight muddy tennis balls
| Spanish | English | Usage Tip |
|---|---|---|
| Correa | Leash | In Colombia add “retráctil” for fancy versions. |
| Desparasitar | Deworm | Said after vaccines: “Lo desparasité la semana pasada.” |
| Chulo / Chévere / Jevi | Cool / Cute | Pick according to region: DR loves “jevi,” Colombia “chévere.” |
| Orejas caídas | Floppy ears | Great opener: “¡Me encantan sus orejas caídas!” |
| Morder / Dar mordida | To bite | Ask carefully: “No muerde, ¿cierto?” |
| Pelaje | Coat (fur) | For grooming questions: “Tuvo cambio de pelaje.” |
| Juicioso | Well-behaved | Colombian favorite compliment for dogs and kids alike. |
| Pasao’ | Over the top | Dominican slang; drop the final “d” for authenticity. |
Example Conversation: Sábado en el Parque El Virrey
A real chat stitched together from my notebook and muddy sneakers
James (DR-tinged Spanish):
—¡Dímelo, pana! Ese perro está jevi. ¿Cómo se llama?
Hey buddy! That dog is cool. What’s her name?
Carolina (Bogotá native):
—Gracias. Se llama Nube. ¿Tu beagle es juicioso? (Colombia)
Thanks. She’s called Nube. Is your beagle well-behaved?
James:
—Más o menos. Cuando ve palomas se vuelve loca.
More or less. When she sees pigeons she goes crazy.
Carolina:
—Tranquilo. Acá todos son chéveres. ¿Ya la desparasitaste? (Colombia)
Don’t worry. Everyone here is chill. Have you dewormed her yet?
James:
—Sí, en Santo Domingo el vet me dijo que estaba pasao’ de bien. (DR)
Yes, in Santo Domingo the vet told me she was doing more than fine.
Carolina:
—¡Qué bueno! Entonces después del parque podemos caminar por la Ciclovía.
Great! Then after the park we can walk along the bike path.
James:
—Dale. Pero recuerda que allá los policías exigen correa retráctil.
Sure. But remember the police there require a retractable leash.
Carolina:
—Lo sé. Tengo dos en la mochila. ¡Vamos!
I know. I’ve got two in my backpack. Let’s go!
Reflections from a Bi-Cultural Leash
Why skipping between islands and mountains sharpens your ear
Every trip from Santo Domingo’s humid Malecón to Bogotá’s brisk Altiplano resets my listening skills. My vocabulary stretches like Luna’s leash: taut in new contexts, relaxed in familiar ones. Dominicans teach rhythm, dropping consonants yet never intensity; Colombians offer diction and a smile you can hear. By courting both, I’ve learned that “mastering Spanish as an expat” is less about perfection and more about agility—adjusting register, slang, even volume, as fluidly as a border collie dodges cones.
So take your dog—or your metaphorical dog-park spirit—into as many conversations as possible. Praise a stranger’s mutt, ask about vaccines, confess your leash’s shortcomings. Each exchange stuffs another chewy treat into your Spanish Vocabulary pouch, ready for the next fetch. I’d love to hear the words you’ve collected while bouncing between countries. Drop them in the comments along with any canine tales. Let’s keep the dialogue, and the tails, wagging.
