The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are all true and have been faithfully rendered as I have remembered them, to the best of my ability. Some names, identities, and circumstances have been changed in order to protect the integrity and/or anonymity of the various individuals involved. Though conversations come from my keen recollection of them, they are not written to represent word-for-word documentation; rather, I’ve retold them in a way that evokes the real feeling and meaning of what was said, in keeping with the true essence of the mood and spirit of the event.

  DEDICATION

  To my beloved German shepherd Achates, and to the many teachers that passed through my life at Dead Dog Beach. You shared your wisdom without words. You were my friends, therapists, and protectors. You gave meaning to my life when I was lost, and left a legacy beyond words. You will always be loved and never be forgotten.

  EPIGRAPH

  The dog is a gentleman;

  I hope to go to his heaven, not man’s.

  —Mark Twain, letter to W. D. Howells, April 2, 1899

  CONTENTS

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Preface

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Get Involved in Animal Rescue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PREFACE

  Millions of families in America have pet dogs. Many books have been written about those relationships. Sadly, there are far more dogs in the world that aren’t lucky enough to have human families. This book is about those dogs.

  People who travel around the world are often greeted by a heart-wrenching sight: dogs or cats starving and sick in the street, shooed away from restaurants by waiters, and ignored by almost everyone else. It is usually only when one of these dogs bites or infects a human being that a community decides to do something about it, and then a lot of innocent living beings are rounded up and slaughtered.

  What I describe in the following pages about my two years in Puerto Rico can be tough going at times. What a few bad, or simply thoughtless, people did to dogs on the island, in particular at Playa Lucia, or what’s aptly known as Dead Dog Beach, is hard to fathom. If I hadn’t witnessed the cruelty firsthand, day after day, I wouldn’t have believed human beings could be so heartless and cruel to other living creatures.

  It’s important to consider the context in which the events that I describe in this book occurred. Despite its idyllic location in the sunny Caribbean, Puerto Rico suffers from a poor economy, high government debt that has led to austerity measures and reduced services, and a spectacularly high crime rate. According to CNN, there were somewhere north of sixty-eight thousand violent crimes reported in 2008, an increase of 9.3 percent from the previous year, this among a population of less than four million (and shrinking annually thanks to emigration to the mainland). In early 2013, Morning Edition on National Public Radio ran a four-part series called “Puerto Rico: A Disenchanted Island,” which discussed “how Puerto Rico’s troubles,” including a “deteriorating economy, increased poverty, and a swelling crime rate,” were affecting the island’s population. An article in the New York Times on June, 21, 2011, titled “Murder Rate and Fear Rise in Puerto Rico,” noted that while homicides were most prevalent in poor areas, they “occasionally spilled into San Juan’s tourist areas and crossed into wealthy districts.” Compounding the drug-trafficking–fueled violence, the police department has itself been subject to investigation by the U.S. Justice Department, and the American Civil Liberties Union “has compiled its own report listing accusations of abuse by police officers against Puerto Ricans.”

  In no way do I mean to condemn all of Puerto Rico or its residents. It is a spectacularly beautiful island populated by many warmhearted people. I also want to make clear that what happened to the dogs was at the hands of a particular group of people. Indeed, if I had not stumbled onto that beach and found that group of dogs, I would have had an amazing few years living on this tropical island. But, the truth is, I did find that beach and those dogs, and my life was forever changed.

  If the scenes I describe here are difficult to read about, it is important that you don’t turn away. We must bear witness to what happened on Dead Dog Beach, and what is still happening there and around the world. Please keep reading and spread the word.

  PROLOGUE

  The day began like any other: I was doing my morning rounds with the dogs, as I had been for more than a year now. I parked my SUV by the large metal shipping containers at the entrance to the beach and walked the dirt road down to the water, looking for newly dumped dogs. They usually arrived scared, hungry, and badly abused. Those were the lucky ones. I also scanned for the remains of those who’d died in the night, often of gunshot or machete wounds if not from simple neglect and starvation. The air was filled with the singing of the coquis, the tiny native frogs who lived in the trash piled among the palm trees.

  The lush vegetation that lined the road often reeked of decay. When I arrived at the water’s edge to begin my first feeding, the dogs—my pack—gathered around like they always did. They were eager but orderly, in anticipation of food and human kindness. The hairless leather skin, the visible festering wounds on their bodies, the disfigurement of mange and broken bones—none of these horrible afflictions masked the dogs’ inherent sweetness and desire for basic affection.

  Suddenly the pack ran a few yards down the beach, excited by something. I looked up and, not far from where I was feeding the dogs, there was a young horse lying quartered and decapitated, ropes still tied to its legs and head. From the tire tracks in the sand, I could tell that it had been ripped apart by pickup trucks. Dogs weren’t the only animals that suffered in this tropical paradise. Any animal that had outlived its usefulness, even if solely due to a lack of proper care by its human owners, could end up at this remote beach, far from public scrutiny, as a victim.

  The horse looked like it had been blown open, its blood, sinews, and viscera scattered across the white sand.

  Through the cloud of swarming flies, I saw movement inside the obliterated torso. A small puppy lazily stretched out its legs amid the entrails. It had crawled inside the dead horse to fend off the morning chill.

  I reached into the mare’s carcass and grabbed the puppy. She wiggled and squeaked as she looked up into my eyes, surprised to see me. A sickly-sweet blood and horse smell wafted off of
her. She yawned and nosed my damp hand.

  I carried her to the water to wash off the gore, then dried her with my shirt and cradled her to my body as I walked back up the dirt road to my truck. The pack followed me, their tails wagging in anticipation of breakfast.

  In the tall grass to the right of the road, I heard a squeak followed by a muffled moan. Still cradling the puppy in my arms, I pushed the grass aside with my foot. Three more puppies, the rest of this one’s litter, were suckling on their dead mother. She had a foamy film around her mouth, the telltale sign of poisoning, another common method for eliminating unwanted dogs.

  And so began another day at Playa Lucia—a tropical paradise I came to know as Dead Dog Beach.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  When I was a kid, I ran away from home every time one of our pets died. Dogs, cats, birds, gerbils, hamsters: if it died, I was gone. I couldn’t comprehend that people and pets I loved just switched off, despite how I felt about them. I wanted to feel more powerful than death. But instead I was helpless before it, so I ran. Death terrified me.

  My dad, who had suffered from severe alcoholism, died a month after my eleventh birthday. I ran for miles and miles that day, then lay down in the tall grass of the countryside where I lived, until it got dark. My family worried each time I bolted, but they knew my routine. If they chased me, I’d go farther. So they quietly waited. They knew I’d be back once the pain eased.

  After my dad’s death, I struggled with myself and just about everyone else. I used to be a friendly, sociable kid, but now I got into a lot of fights at school—with classmates and with teachers who made me feel inadequate because I was dyslexic and not a great learner. My mom was always getting called into school because of the trouble I got into, which made me feel guilty for causing her more pain.

  To console me and help fill the emptiness, my mother got me a beautiful German shepherd puppy. I named her Tanya, after a friend of mine’s hippie older sister who was always very kind to me and who, in retrospect, I probably had a huge crush on. My mother’s plan worked. Tanya, the big, lovable German shepherd, and I were soon inseparable.

  A few months later—less than a year after losing my dad—my grandpa died. He was the last remaining male adult in my life. After that, I withdrew completely. I mostly spoke to my dog; only when necessary did I speak to my mum, my nan, or my brothers. Soon Tanya was about the only friend I confided in. We slept together every night, my arm around her warm torso, its rising and falling soothing me to sleep.

  I confided all my pain, loneliness, and hardest times to Tanya, and she listened patiently—and understood. When the local bully came near, Tanya would raise a lip and growl, and he knew not to touch me. In time, Tanya even drew me out of my shell. She was a very loving dog and seemed to recognize people with good hearts. When we ran around the neighborhood together, dodging in and out of the Russian oaks, she lured good-hearted people back into my life, and soon I was starting to socialize again.

  One afternoon I was in the backyard playing with Tanya and a neighbor’s dog named Doobie. The two dogs ran full speed side by side and playfully nipped at each other’s necks. Suddenly Doobie broke formation, bolting through the partially open gate and across the street. Tanya made as if to follow her companion but stopped in her tracks and looked back at me when I called for her to stop. In my peripheral vision, I caught sight of an exhaust-spewing old pickup truck racing down the street. I heard the din of its rusty muffler. The pursuit instinct and the thrill of the chase won out over obedience. Tanya and the truck were destinies about to collide. Doobie ran free and clear while Tanya was not so lucky. A bleary-eyed driver stepped out of the vehicle smelling of whiskey and cigarettes.

  Please. Please. Please. Don’t let her die. It’s my fault. I did this to her. My thoughts were running into and over one another, tumbling in a bloody confusion of guilt and shame.

  Sitting in the bed of the truck, I held her head in my lap, trying to soothe her but barely being able to stomach the agonizing sounds of her whimpering in pain. It was too much to bear. Not a boy but not yet a man, I cried as the truck that put us in this position delivered us to the vet.

  I held her close as the vet pushed the needle into her vein. I begged Tanya not to leave me. Not now. I felt her chest gently rise and fall for the last time as she took her final breath.

  “Stay as long as you need to, son.”

  Tanya was gone, and I was alone again. Saying good-bye felt like an eternity. Dogs have to die. Boys have to grieve. Life is not easy. When I summoned enough strength to stand, I wiped the snot and tears off my face, walked out of the office, and started running.

  When I couldn’t run anymore, I collapsed in the grass and cried until my heart rate and breathing slowed. The moment drifted away, replaced by a numb sadness and the inevitable return of my own powerlessness to change destiny.

  After losing my best friend, the symbolic replacement for my father’s love, I struggled again.

  At fifteen, I felt so much despair that I tried to kill myself. From that point forward, I remained guarded and distant emotionally. I faked happiness so as not to be asked questions or draw attention to myself.

  Then I got my act together, and, at age seventeen, I graduated from high school and volunteered to travel to Southeast Asia to work with orphaned children for three years. It was the change of environment and perspective I desperately needed. Seeing innocent children struggle from day to day just to survive made it impossible to keep feeling sorry for myself.

  As a result of my attempts to outrun pain, I became an escape artist. I escaped into art, like painting and sculpture, and into extreme sports, like rock and ice climbing, mountaineering, paragliding, kite surfing. These were the things I felt gave me control over death. The art felt eternal, like I was leaving a piece of myself behind for others, and the sports took me as close to the edge as humanly possible without going over. They became a way of life, a way for me to live completely in the moment, temporarily forgetting everything that would otherwise weigh constantly on my mind.

  The sports I do are inherently dangerous, and thus viewed by many as selfish. However, no matter how great the risk, the rewards are greater. The better I became at sports, the more risks I took. And so it’s always been hard on anyone who loves me to accept this part of my life. It cost me many relationships before I met my wife, Pam. The women I’d dated had tried to change me, to stop me from risking my life for something so seemingly frivolous. But I lived for the feeling of complete freedom, and I had accepted long ago that I’d likely die in pursuit of it. Because even in these pursuits, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that I really didn’t have any power over death. But when I stood on the fine line separating life and death, I could choose to control my fear.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  What do you think about moving to Puerto Rico for a few years?” Pam asked me one evening in the spring of 2005. Pam worked at a biotech firm that specializes in developing and manufacturing drugs used to treat cancer, diabetes, and other serious diseases. In her own way, she too was working to beat death. Perhaps that’s why she put up with me.

  Her bosses in the quality compliance division, where she worked as a liaison between the company and regulatory agencies like the FDA, had asked her to take a short-term assignment at their Juncos site in Puerto Rico, which was home to a state-of-the-art facility for biotechnology manufacturing.

  Never one to turn down an adventure, my answer was immediate: “When do we leave?”

  We’d moved a couple of years earlier to the historic Hill and Harbor community, originally populated by fishing captains, in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, in hopes of putting down roots. We bought an old house that I put a lot of time into restoring, but all too often Pam was away on business trips, and, frankly the sleepy New England lifestyle was killing me. And despite our best efforts at nesting, Pam and I both suffer from an incurable wanderlust. It was one of the things that attracted us to ea
ch other in the first place.

  In addition, I still hadn’t recovered from the loss of our German shepherd, Achates, a few months earlier. He had been my faithful companion for over ten years, and I missed him terribly. At the end of his life, he had been a noble old man in great pain. Sometimes I wondered if we had delayed the decision too long and selfishly kept him alive. He was like a child to us, and Pam and I had always hoped that, when it was his time to go, he’d just go in his sleep. It didn’t happen that way.

  Putting a dog down is the darkest day of pet ownership, a decision that doesn’t come easy and one that you can never feel proud of, or forget. When we returned home that evening from the vet’s office, I told Pam that I would never have another dog. But lately, when she was traveling, I’d been lonely. I had no companion other than a bothersome neighbor who kept asking me to repair things in his home for free.

  So this opportunity was a stroke of luck for both of us. It didn’t hurt that Puerto Rico happened to be an extreme athlete’s paradise. The prospect of moving made me feel more alive than I had in years. I couldn’t pack up my art supplies and sports gear fast enough, but it took a few months to iron out the logistics, including finishing the restoration of the house so we could sell it.

  In the meantime, we took a reconnaissance trip to the island in April. Pam’s company assured us we could back out if we didn’t like what we found. I had never been to Puerto Rico before and knew little about the island, but upon arriving in San Juan I was surprised to see the pervasive poverty. While there are plenty of beautiful tourist attractions in the old city—blue cobblestone streets and imposing fortifications dating back to the sixteenth century when the island was a Spanish possession—modern San Juan was a vast sprawl of high-rises amid low-slung cinder-block buildings topped by corrugated metal roofs, all of it enshrouded by dense jungle.

  After exploring the city, we drove southeast from San Juan toward the area where we’d be living. The trip was hair-raising, but not just because the local custom for highway driving seemed to have been inspired more by NASCAR than the comparatively polite rules of the road I grew up with. What really affected us was seeing emaciated dogs wandering the roads, and gaunt horses tied to the freeway guardrails. The animals barely reacted to the cars and trucks whizzing by at seventy miles an hour, less than five feet from them. Every so often we’d see a dog lying prone and lifeless by the side of the road. On one stretch, I saw a horse lying halfway across the slow lane of the freeway. Its legs were akimbo and its head was jammed up against the railing. Rigor mortis had set in. Pam didn’t notice, so I chose not to point it out to her.