The Inaugural Feeding Station

In the sweltering coastal town of Saquarema, while normal citizens were busy with their mundane lives, something revolutionary happened on March 31st. The first FOUNS—those bizarre Nouns-shaped feeding stations for the forgotten canine underclass—was installed by a man known in these parts simply as Nick. I watched as his accomplice, a character called Estrela, conducted what they referred to as an 'inauguration,' though it bore little resemblance to any political ceremony I've ever witnessed.

The contraption itself is no ordinary dog bowl. It's a cement monstrosity with a distinctly rectangular head, containing the recycled remains of ocean plastic—a kind of architectural frankenstein that serves both as environmental salvation and canine soup kitchen. Two kilograms of brown kibble were ceremoniously poured into one compartment, while five liters of water filled the other—enough to sustain a small pack of street mutts through the Brazilian heat.

A Savage Revolution in Dog Welfare

'Let's change stray lives together,' Nick muttered, not to me, but to his social media audience—a rallying cry for his strange crusade. There was something deeply unsettling and simultaneously beautiful about watching a man dedicate himself to feeding creatures that society has collectively agreed to ignore.

This isn't just about feeding hungry animals—it's an assault on our collective indifference. The FOUNS, with its absurd cartoon-inspired design, stands as a garish monument challenging passersby to acknowledge what they've been trained to overlook: the four-legged refugees that populate our urban landscapes.

If Nick's plans come to fruition, this single installation will multiply like some concrete virus, spreading to thirty locations throughout the city. Each one will serve as both sanctuary for the beasts and indictment of the civilization that abandoned them.

The Reality Bites Back

But paradise, even a canine concrete one, doesn't last. The gods, or maybe just the damned Brazilian weather patterns, decided to piss all over Nick's parade—literally. Barely a week after the grand 'inauguration,' the heavens opened. 'We are passing throught rainy days over here,' Nick lamented through the digital ether on April 6th, 'so i cant refill the FOUNS :('. The revolution, it seems, was getting soggy.

Ever the pragmatist, even while trafficking in absurdity, Nick started scrambling for a fix. 'Already working in a way to keep the portion dry,' he typed, proposing some sort of goddamn PVC contraption with a cover. The irony wasn't lost on him – a man using ocean plastic inside his feeders now contemplating shielding them with more virgin plastic. 'I dont like to use this material,' he admitted, the faint whiff of self-loathing palpable even through the screen. 'Thinking on options.' The noble crusade meets the cheap, soul-crushing reality of keeping kibble dry. Welcome to the jungle, baby. You're gonna cry.

But the universe wasn't done kicking Nick Haaz in the teeth. The rain, that relentless Brazilian deluge, did more than just dampen the kibble. On April 7th, after three days of what must have felt like biblical flooding, Nick ventured out to inspect his creation. He found the FOUNS waterlogged, a stagnant concrete pond breeding God-knows-what kind of insectile filth. Worse, the paint—the thin veneer of respectability slapped onto this bizarre monument—had surrendered. '[T]he paint didn't withstand the rain either,' he reported, the grim reality sinking in. There was no quick fix this time. Like a field medic evacuating a casualty, he 'decided not to fill it up and bring it home for repair.' The first FOUNS, barely a week into its righteous mission, was temporarily decommissioned, hauled off for drying, patching, and a desperate attempt at waterproofing before being thrown back into the fray. The revolution, it seems, requires constant, thankless triage.