The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Page 10

  Whenever one of Pam’s coworkers asked me how it was going with the dogs, I usually made the mistake of answering honestly. I could see by the looks on their faces that they regretted asking. But one of my fellow trailing spouses approached me during a gathering to ask about some of the stray dogs running around Palmas del Mar.

  “The situation with the dogs is awful,” she said. “I hate seeing them roaming around the community by themselves like that.”

  Finally, I thought, someone who gets it.

  If only someone had interrupted our conversation right then. No dice.

  She continued, “Someone needs to get rid of them, it’s just not safe.”

  I cocked my head, not sure I understood her meaning.

  “Say again?” I asked inquisitively.

  “This is a really nice community, and we pay a lot of money to live here. I don’t think those dogs should be allowed to roam the property, scavenging in the garbage, you know?”

  “No, actually, I don’t know.” I was trying to keep my cool, but I didn’t like where this was heading.

  “All I’m saying is that they should do something about it. They should trap them or relocate them somewhere else. Just get rid of them.”

  The whole cool-keeping thing? Not happening.

  “Maybe if more people cared enough to do something rather than bitch about them being an inconvenience or an eyesore, they wouldn’t have to scavenge and beg for scraps.”

  She stared at me, not saying a word. Everyone within eavesdropping range stopped to listen.

  “Look, I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but these animals have feelings too. I have a lot of great dogs in my care every day. They’ve all been to hell and back courtesy of people who didn’t give a damn. I care for these dogs not because I have to, but because I want to. Some of those dogs have given their lives defending mine. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’ve said anything to make you uncomfortable.”

  She stood silently, looking at me wide-eyed and blinking nervously.

  “Funny thing about dogs—they’ll never betray you. More than I can say about most people.”

  So much for our vibrant social life living in Palmas del Mar.

  There were only two couples we still saw socially after that. They were sympathetic to my work with the dogs, and they were genuinely concerned for my safety and mental health. They invited us to do dinner every now and then, which helped get my mind off things and to show me firsthand that people still cared. I was disappointed in myself because of the way I’d behaved in front of Pam’s colleagues. I swore to keep myself in better check.

  By some miracle, I finally managed to find a veterinarian located in San Juan to look at Lannie, who had been struggling with her injuries since the day her pups were slaughtered in the boathouse parking lot. Though impatient, the vet showed some empathy after I told him what had happened. He patched up Lannie’s wounded eye and took X-rays.

  “She’s lucky, I guess. No breaks or internal injuries, as far as I can tell,” he said. “Who cleaned and sutured these wounds?”

  “I did.”

  “Not a bad job. Did you go to vet school?”

  “I’m sort of doing an internship at the beach.”

  I couldn’t face sending Lannie back to the beach after what she’d just been through, so Pam and I took her home for a few days to heal and get her strength back.

  I experienced a mixed bag of feelings having one of my dogs at the house. I felt guilty for having left all the others at the beach when they deserved a home too. But a few days later, our landlady and her son called to ask if they could come over.

  “You have a dog?” she said when they came by. “You know you can’t have a dog here, right? It’s forbidden in your lease.”

  I explained what had happened to Lannie, and their expressions visibly softened.

  “It’s only until she get a bit better, I promise.”

  “Okay, but you can’t keep her. A few days only.”

  “I know, and I really appreciate your understanding.”

  Then they got to the point of their visit. “We have to sell the house,” she told us. “My granddaughter needs an operation on her heart. She’ll die if she stays in Puerto Rico.”

  They needed the money from the sale of the house to send the little girl to Boston.

  “We’ll pay for a moving truck for you, but we have to sell fast so we can get our little one treated. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.”

  Two weeks later we found a new house in one of the other communities of Palmas del Mar. It felt unsettling to move again. As much as I was sick of living on the island, that first house had been a sanctuary of sorts. Now we were in another strange place with new people around us. It didn’t feel like home anymore. It was also in a less well-guarded section of the compound. Anyone coming to the hotel, beach, or casino could drive right up to our front door. A tall cinder-block wall surrounded the entire property, with one side backing on the impoverished community of Candelero, which we had been warned to steer clear of. That wall was topped with coiled barbed wire. Perhaps this would reassure some people about their safety. I knew better.

  One day I misplaced my keys and started to cry. It was unlike me to break down over something so trivial. “Pammie, I have to get out of here. I seriously can’t stay here anymore.”

  “We can’t just leave. I have a contract. I have an obligation to my job.”

  “You care more about your job than you do about me!”

  “They’ll fire me, Steve! Don’t you get that? What will we live on?” She was furious.

  At that moment I didn’t care. I had to get out. I started throwing things in a big duffel bag—shorts, a winter coat, climbing gear. It made no sense. Especially since up until now, it had been Pam who’d been begging me to leave the beach.

  When I looked up from the chaos I’d made of my packing, Pam was crying.

  “You can’t leave me!”

  “But—”

  “No! I will help you with the dogs, but you can’t just leave me! We made a deal as a couple to be together until the end.”

  “I think my end is nearer than we thought it’d be.” I reached for her, the craziness ebbing from my foggy brain. “And no, Pammie. I won’t leave.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  As luck would have it, I hadn’t heard the last from Martha Sampson. From time to time she e-mailed Pam, asking if we would consider starting a nonprofit organization together. With my knowledge and command of the dogs, and her making connections on the mainland from her home base in Florida, she thought we could really help the dogs of Puerto Rico. I liked the idea of doing something that would bring the plight of the satos into a public forum, and it would be a tremendous help if we could solicit donations toward the care and feeding of the dogs. Pam and I had been struggling for nine months to get people to take seriously what we were doing at the beach. If people here wouldn’t listen or help, maybe people back home would.

  However, there were long stretches of silence coming from Florida that gave us pause about the endeavor. When Martha did finally call, it was usually to ask a favor, like if we could pick up some random dog she’d heard about through a tourist who’d contacted her begging for help. I made it clear that I was unable to travel about the island looking for strays when my own workload was already more than I could handle. In her most recent call, she asked me to drive to a vet with some puppies. I didn’t want any dog to suffer because of people’s inability to work together, so I did what I could to accommodate her requests.

  “I’d like to help, Martha, but I know that vet. He’s one of the ones who made it crystal clear to me he wanted nothing to do with street dogs.”

  She claimed she’d worked out a deal with him, and he was willing to work with us now. I was doubtful, but I took her at her word.

  “What happens to the dogs after the vet visit, Martha? Have you thought about that?”

  “I think I have a place that�
�ll take them here in Florida. Don’t worry about it, I’ll deal with that later.”

  The next day I loaded the dogs she’d asked for into crates in the back of my truck and headed off to see the vet. I arrived to find the front door locked and the lights in the office out.

  I called Martha, but I kept getting her voice mail. After multiple calls, she finally answered.

  “What’s the deal? Do you actually have an arrangement with this guy or not? I don’t have time to run fruitless errands like this, Martha.”

  “Please, can you just take them to your house overnight?” I could hear her crying as she spoke. “I’ll sort it out, Steve. I swear.”

  “I can’t have pets in my house, Martha. It’s a violation of our lease. They have to go back to the beach.” I couldn’t keep the anger from my voice. “I can’t have this kind of thing happen again. It’s not fair to me or the dogs.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll call the vet in the morning and straighten this out. I promise.”

  When I dropped the dogs off that evening, I swore I could feel their disappointment. It was like I’d given them hope and then crushed it in one fell swoop. I could barely persuade them to get out of the truck.

  I drank a lot that night. I had been through too much with these dogs, and to play with their fragile emotions was unacceptable to me.

  Martha made arrangements for me to deliver the dogs to the vet the next day.

  I arrived at the vet’s office in Humacao a couple of hours after speaking with Martha. The vet was there this time, but he seemed irritated with me for showing up so late in the day.

  “I can’t do anything until tomorrow,” he said. “I expected you earlier in the day. This is terribly inconvenient.”

  “I was asked only a couple of hours ago to bring the dogs to you for treatment. I’m just trying to help them, man. Please.”

  He softened his tone when he realized I was just the delivery guy. “I told Ms. Sampson this morning to get the dogs here as early as possible so I could treat them while you wait and you could take them back to the beach with you.”

  “What?” I was incredulous. “I was told you were going to keep the dogs at the clinic until they get a health certificate and Martha found homes for them. My instructions were only to drop them off here.”

  “No! No! No!” he yelled, waving his hands in the air. “I can’t keep these dogs here. They are too sick. They need vaccinations.” This didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me considering that this was an animal hospital. “I’ll need cash up front for the visit,” he added.

  Holy shit.

  I called Martha’s number from my cell multiple times, but no answer. With the vet standing there, I left increasingly angry messages on her office voice mail and her cell phone.

  “Please call me back right away, Martha. It’s urgent.”

  She didn’t call.

  “Can you give whatever shots the dogs need and I’ll be on my way?” It was more money out of my pocket for dogs that weren’t even close to ready for adoption. I had others that had been at the beach a long time who were a lot more ready for a home. Not that these dogs didn’t deserve that too, but they needed more time.

  An hour later, I was heading back to the beach to drop off my friends. Again.

  A few days passed before Martha called me back. Even though I’d had some time to cool down, I let her have it. Through her sobs, she apologized for the misunderstanding and I let it go.

  I had to admire the woman’s tenacity. Soon afterward, instead of partnering with Pam and me on an organization, she actually formed one by herself and then called to ask us to do some volunteer work for her.

  Hurt as I was, I put my feelings aside. This was about the dogs, not me. If she was going to help foot the bill for some of the work I was doing and get some dogs off the beach, then it was worth holding my tongue. With any luck, Martha’s work would do some good in the end.

  And, thankfully, it did. “Listen,” she called to tell me one morning, “I’ve found a vet who’s willing to come to the beach with a technician to neuter as many males as we can round up. All we have to do is cover her expenses and a minimal charge per dog, which I’m prepared to do.”

  I was amazed. She seemed to have really come through. The vet was not only willing to work with us—but to travel from clear across the island to do it.

  “The only hitch is that I can’t get there until the night before, so I need you to organize things on that end.”

  “No worries. I’m on it. Good job, Martha!”

  Since Pam, Sandra, and I were the only ones in regular contact with the dogs and therefore the only ones who could handle them, we had little choice. But I welcomed this development regardless; it was a fantastic move in the right direction.

  I called the vet, Sarah Paulson, myself to find out what she needed us to do. She’d only spoken briefly to Martha and didn’t have a clear understanding of the logistical challenges we were facing. She had never been to my beach before, so I spent some time filling her in on the possible use of the boathouse as a makeshift hospital. On the phone, she was direct and confident and knew just what she wanted to see happen before her arrival. She was adamant about not wasting time; we would have to be as efficient and prepared as possible before she arrived.

  I liked her gruff New York accent and no-bullshit style. She was the polar opposite of Martha.

  “I understand completely,” I assured her.

  We had ten days to get things ready. The first step was taking a head count of all the males we planned to sterilize. For now we were doing only the males; the females’ sterilization was a more complicated procedure and would have to wait. We’d still be cutting the new puppy population down. We were also going to give all the dogs, male and female, whatever vaccinations they needed.

  Once we’d identified the males, we had to provide Sarah with a rough weight estimate of each one and an assessment of each dog’s overall health.

  The next phase involved preparing an operating theater. That weekend, Pam, Sandra, Sandra’s husband, Angel, and I began the difficult task of cleaning the old mechanical room and some empty offices in the abandoned boathouse to use for surgery and recovery areas. It was an ambitious plan in such a short period of time. We arrived early Saturday morning with our work gloves, excited that finally this theater of cruelty was going to be turned into a place of healing.

  However, the transformation was far more work than we expected. You never realize how much an object weighs until you try to move it. It turns out that equipment used to build and repair ships is bloody heavy. We used ropes and two-wheeled carts to make the job a bit easier, but by lunchtime, the heat and humidity had gotten to us. We were wrecked.

  There was twenty years’ worth of rusty machinery, derelict boat supplies, and broken glass all over the floor. There were rats’ nests behind and under everything we moved. The boathouse had become a human toilet for beach visitors as well. It was disgusting. The whole place needed to be shoveled, swept, and disinfected. It was going to take more than the weekend to get it done. Sandra and I would need to concentrate our efforts to finish during the week.

  By the following Friday, we had managed to prep and clean the rooms pretty well. I’d brought some climbing gear and suspended ropes and pulleys from the metal rafters, which we used to move the huge sheet-metal plates that had been leaning against the wall. We laid them across metal sawhorses we found in another room to fashion operating tables. I was pretty proud of what we’d been able to accomplish with a little creativity and good planning.

  The last step was to beg and borrow every crate Sandra and I could get our hands on to keep the dogs contained before they were anesthetized.

  A few days before our neuter clinic was to take place, Martha called.

  “I don’t think I can afford a hotel right now.”

  Pam and I thought it was strange that she hadn’t planned for this ahead of time. But since she was making such a positive effort in ge
tting this beach clinic to happen, we let it go.

  “Why don’t you stay with us for the weekend?” I suggested. I had a sneaking suspicion this wouldn’t be the last time she’d be asking for a place to stay.

  “Terrific! I’ll call you when I arrive Friday night.”

  When she arrived, I asked, “You ready for the big day?”

  “I’m a little nervous, but yeah.”

  I had no idea what to expect myself, but I was anxious to get started. I love the fear of the unknown.

  I was the first to rise the next morning, raring to get out the door as soon as Pam and Martha were ready to leave. I knew I’d be the one coaxing the dogs into the boathouse, and there were a lot of last-minute things to be taken care of before Sarah and her vet tech arrived. Sarah had promised to bring several crates with her, but I wanted to have ours set up and waiting for her so she could start right away.

  I hadn’t wanted to put the dogs in the crates too early, since I was pretty sure none of them had ever been in one. So when Sarah showed up, she was annoyed that the dogs weren’t crated yet.

  “I’ve got it under control,” I assured her. “When do you need the first dog?”

  “Now!”

  “Cool, no problem.” I knew the dogs would follow me, and when I gave a whistle, they were at my side.

  Sarah smiled.

  “Thank you, thank you. And now for my next act . . .”

  “Smart-ass,” Sarah said, laughing.

  I knew I was going to get along with this vet just fine.

  Angel, Sandra, Pam, and I started putting the dogs in the crates while Sarah and her tech set up their space and laid out their medical supplies. Pam and Angel were standing by to help prep the dogs for surgery and assist the vet. Sandra and I were on the prowl for the dogs that had split when they saw their buddies being put in the kennels.

  At one point Martha came over to me, looking frazzled.

  To be fair, I had recognized a few months earlier when I first tried to help her with the dogs at the oil refinery that she wasn’t exactly a natural around them. She was nervous, and they knew it. She was by her own admission a cat person, but it was obvious that she loved all animals and was doing the best she could to help. And some people just don’t perform well under pressure. It was then I realized that Martha’s place was behind the scenes, organizing events, raising money, but not in the trenches, where it can get pretty crazy and dirty at times. Office work may not be the spotlight position, but it’s an equally important job, and I appreciated what she’d put together. It was something I hadn’t been able to pull off on my own.