The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Read online

  At the end of the day, we had sterilized more than sixty of my male dogs and vaccinated the rest of the pack. I was pretty pleased and hoped it was just the beginning.

  After Sarah left, the rest of us stayed behind to look after the dogs as they awoke from anesthesia. Some took much longer than others, and it was quite a challenge to handle them as they staggered onto the beach like drunks. We couldn’t let them go near the water for fear they’d drown.

  I was totally beat and dehydrated from the day; I couldn’t get enough fluids in me. I had a pounding headache and felt a bit emotional about what we’d managed to accomplish. I knew it would have a lasting impact on the population issues that plagued the island. But it was hard to see my dogs in pain, even though I knew it would pass soon enough. It made them vulnerable targets on this beach. I worried quietly to myself so as not to steal the joy everyone was feeling.

  “You okay?” Pammie asked.

  “Just trying to process everything.”

  It was good to see others connect with my dogs. I didn’t feel so alone anymore, and I liked that.

  We were all ready to crash. Martha opted to stay back with the few remaining dogs that were still waking up while the rest of us headed home. She arrived back at the house about an hour after Pam and me. While she got cleaned up, Pam and I started supper and relaxed with a glass of wine.

  When Martha joined us, she too looked completely wiped out. It was clear the experience had taken an emotional toll on her as well. Considering what I’d been through with the dogs over the previous year, I could sympathize. I hoped that this experience would help her understand what my life was like with the dogs at the beach.

  The next morning, Pam and I were out the door to check on the dogs before Martha had gotten out of bed. We arrived to find most of the males hobbling around, their scrotums swollen to the size of grapefruits. On some of them, the skin had stretched to the point of splitting.

  I called Sarah right away.

  “It happens occasionally,” she said. “The swelling will go down in time. Don’t worry.”

  Knowing that an open wound in the tropics could lead to more serious problems in the best of times, I started all the dogs on whatever antibiotics I had on hand.

  I called Martha back at the house to tell her what had happened. No answer. When Pam and I got home a while later, Martha was gone.

  For several days afterward, I tried to reach Martha but to no avail. She had no way of knowing what had happened to the dogs after she’d left the island, but Pam and I were wiped out financially from the additional cost of having to buy antibiotics for more than sixty dogs. The emotional hit of losing a few of my dogs to complications pushed me back into a negative slump. I felt guilty for having done this to the dogs and angry at the lack of solutions.

  “I don’t want any more help with the dogs,” I told Pam and Sandra afterward. No one could care for my dogs better than I did.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  A purebred Boxer with tender traits, Evelyn was often one of the first dogs to greet me each morning on the beach. Emaciated in the beginning, she’d stagger about searching for kibble dropped or scattered by other dogs. I worked hard to put weight on her; I spoiled her with hand-feeding and special treats. I’d even massage her, manipulate her joints, and work on building her strength through gentle play and water therapy, breaking my own rules and playing favorites. I couldn’t help it, I had a crush on her.

  Eventually Evelyn’s body began to recover. Though still horribly thin, her coat became sleek and healthy, a sign that regular meals and vitamins were beginning to have an effect.

  Like the other dogs, Evelyn was hungry not just for food, but for attention. As desperate as they were for nutrients, they were always more interested in being petted than in the kibble I put in their dishes. Unlike feral dogs, these dogs had all had a taste of belonging; it explained the injured expressions on their faces and the shock and gratitude they displayed at being shown simple kindnesses. I empathized; I jumped at any kindness I felt now too.

  One afternoon I had to do some errands in San Juan, so I wasn’t able to spend all day with the dogs as I usually did. When I arrived back at the beach shortly before supper, I drove up the side road where I knew some of the newer and more timid dogs would stay hidden until they grew more comfortable with their surroundings. I’d usually find Evelyn here, socializing with the newbies. She had a way of welcoming them to the pack. She had the gentle nature and confidence that all pet owners wish for in their animals; the other dogs seemed to feed off her calm energy. It was clear they all loved her.

  But Evelyn wasn’t around. There were a few nursing mothers with their pups hiding out nearby, so I loaded up pails of food and water in the back of the truck to bring to their dens on foot. It was really strange that Evelyn wasn’t there; I had seen her just that morning.

  When I looked around, I could see that the other dogs didn’t seem themselves. They always revealed to me when something was wrong if I just listened quietly and followed their lead.

  I strolled through the boathouse toward the deserted shipyard on the other side. Some of the dogs seemed to hesitate near the entrance to the old mechanical room. A few of them walked into the room that we had cleaned last month for the neuter clinic. They sniffed the air and whimpered. I backtracked to investigate.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw Evelyn lying on the cold concrete floor. The world around me went silent. My heart and thoughts began to race. I startled myself when I heard myself say, “No. Oh, sweetie. No.”

  I walked over and knelt at her side. She was dead. I would have to call Pam and tell her I’d be late so I could bury my poor, sweet girl.

  And then I did a double take. There was a bed sheet pulled up over her lower body, and she was lying on a fresh beach towel. I wiped away my tears and saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She’s alive! She was unconscious, but she was breathing.

  I carefully lifted the sheet. It appeared a car had crushed her hindquarters. I figured her head had to have taken a blow too, enough to knock her out.

  I called Sandra to see if she knew what had happened.

  “I found her by the side of the road near the entrance to the parking lot.”

  “When was this? I was here this morning.”

  “I was running late today. Must have been around lunchtime, I guess.”

  It must have happened right after I left for San Juan.

  “I didn’t know what else to do. I called Sonia to help me carry her to the boathouse. I didn’t want to leave her out in the open.”

  I took a moment to collect myself. I was angry, but not at Sandra: it was this hellhole the dogs had to live in and the people who found pleasure in hurting them that fueled my rage. I knew Sandra would never do anything to harm the dogs. We were both doing everything in our power to help them and faced hard decisions on the beach every day. I knew Sandra didn’t have any money for a vet. Not that it even mattered. What kind of life was Evelyn going to have, even if she recovered? Who would take her?

  I sat with Evelyn well into the night, my hand resting on her rib cage. It was dark, the only light coming from a patch of moonlight shining through the doorless opening, but I felt safe with my pack at my side. I knew they could feel my pain and the pain of their fallen friend. At that moment life seemed very unfair. These dogs had done nothing to deserve this tortured life. There are shitty people all over the world who have it good, but these dogs? It didn’t seem right.

  I hoped that Evelyn would peacefully pass away in the night while she was still unconscious. I didn’t want her to suffer. I also didn’t want to be the guy who had to make the decision to end her life. I often felt that finding these dogs on the beach was like Achates’ legacy, that he lived on through the work we did helping other dogs. When times were tough at the beach, I’d find myself asking him for strength.

  I needed to go home to Pam. I had stayed at the beach much later than I ever had in the
eleven months I’d been on the island. I felt terrible leaving Evelyn alone on the floor, but I had no choice. There was nothing I could do for her. The dogs stretched and yawned and walked me back to the truck.

  At home, I peeled off my clothes and took a shower. I let the cool water run over my body. I was tired. Not a normal tired, but the bone-crushing kind of tired that comes with depression. I needed something to take the edge off, to numb me a bit.

  Pam brought me a glass of scotch and I talked. She didn’t say anything; she just looked very sad for me. She could feel my pain too.

  “Why is this bothering me so much? I mean, I get it, I love Evelyn. But I’ve buried so many dogs. What’s so different this time?”

  And then it hit me: When I’d buried those other dogs, they had already been dead when I found them. Evelyn was still alive, still suffering, and I was doing nothing to help her. Initially I’d been upset at Sandra for leaving her alone, and now I’d done the same thing. I lay awake all night thinking about what to do.

  First thing in the morning, I dropped Pam at a coworker’s house to get a ride to work. I had to get to the beach.

  The dogs greeted me as usual. I quickly and somewhat carelessly laid their food out for them, then made my way to where I’d left Evelyn the night before.

  She was still breathing. Shallowly, but breathing. She was such a good girl, such a fighter to have survived nearly starving to death and whatever abuse she’d experienced living on the street. Now this.

  I walked to an area of the beach that had cell reception and called Martha. After all the favors I’d done for her, it was time to call in a chit. When, as usual, my calls went to her voice mail, I tried calling a couple of vets myself, but I could never get past the receptionist.

  I tried Martha again later. At last, she answered.

  “Sandra told me what happened,” she said when I told her about Evelyn.

  “Can you talk to your vet? He’s not taking my calls, and we can’t just leave her here. She needs to be euthanized, Martha.” I wanted the vet to come to the beach, to do it before she woke up and felt the pain of her injuries.

  “Sandra thinks she’ll be all right when she wakes up. We should give her a fighting chance.”

  I wish I could say I respected that line of thinking, but I couldn’t. It was selfish.

  “Martha, she was crushed. The most humane thing we can do is end her suffering.”

  “Let’s wait and see how she does, Stephen. We can make a decision when she wakes up. I know an organization that helped a dog with similar injuries—they got a wheelchair apparatus so he could walk.”

  Did she just start talking about wheelchairs?

  “Evelyn is a street dog, Martha. People didn’t want to help her before she was run over by a car. What makes you think anyone will go to such extremes for her now?”

  Martha started crying. “The only reason I didn’t do anything before is that I had no money.”

  I went off. “So how much money do you have now? Do you think vet bills, rehab, and doggy wheelchairs are all going to be free?”

  All I heard was sobbing on the other end of the line.

  “Martha, I know these dogs better than anyone. I owe it to Evelyn to give her the dignity she deserves. Please! I’m begging you to call the vet and ask him to come down here.”

  “Let’s wait until I hear back about the wheelchair.”

  My final words to her weren’t pretty. I hung up.

  I went back to Evelyn. Nothing had changed. I talked quietly to her, petted her face, and begged her to let go.

  I arrived home late and in need of a drink, as I had the night before.

  When I got back to the boathouse in the morning, Evelyn raised her head from the floor. I was surprised and happy to see her smiling face, but I could immediately sense her distress and pain. The look in her eyes was a plea for help. I lay on the filthy floor next to her and held her head. I couldn’t help but feel I had failed her.

  I was desperate, so I called Martha again.

  “I’m still waiting to hear about the wheelchair,” she chirped.

  I held my tongue. I begged her to call the vet.

  A couple of hours later, she called back. “Can you take Evelyn to the vet’s office? I’ve made arrangements to pay for the visit.”

  I was alone, and Evelyn was a big dog. I knew that any movement would be agony. I wasn’t willing to do that to her.

  “Is there any way you can convince him to come here? I can’t move her.”

  A short while later, she called back. “Okay, he’s coming. Can you meet him on the side of the freeway by the toll booth near Palmas del Mar and show him the way?”

  I waited nearly two hours, but at last he arrived, and he followed me to the beach. Once again, Evelyn was clearly happy to see me. The vet had a quick look at her.

  “You made the right decision.” The injuries were too extensive. Her spine and pelvis were crushed, and her internal organs were shutting down. I could have guessed all this, but now I felt a little better about choosing to end her life.

  As the vet injected the lethal dose into a vein in her front leg, I held Evelyn’s face, stared into her eyes, and told her how much I loved her. Within moments, I felt her spirit leave her body. I spoke softly, “No more pain, sweetie.”

  The vet got up and walked back to his truck without a word. I was alone, holding Evelyn.

  I carried her to the graveyard and buried her, my dogs at my side the entire time. They were very quiet. I sat in the sand with the pack until dark. I was exhausted.

  In the days that followed, I ran into Sandra and Sonia at the beach. They were sad about Evelyn, and questioned what I’d done.

  “I wish you had given God a chance to heal her,” Sonia said, with Sandra translating for me. (Since I spent 90 percent of my waking hours with the dogs, I never mastered Spanish the way I’d intended when we got to Puerto Rico.)

  I didn’t want to argue with her. She believed what she believed. I knew it wasn’t the last time I’d have a conversation like this. The choice to humanely euthanize a dog is controversial in the rescue world. I hadn’t experienced it until now. But I never doubted that I’d done the right thing by Evelyn, just as I’d done the right thing by my beloved Achates in the end.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  A round this time, I got an e-mail from a woman named Melanie Shapiro in San Juan. Months earlier, Betsy Freedman, the Save a Sato representative in Boston, had promised me, “Help is on the way.” As it turned out, Melanie was that help.

  Melanie worked with a group that rescued stray cats in Old San Juan. But she also had contacts at a privately run rescue shelter near San Juan, and she wanted to take some of my dogs there. However, as I learned in our initial exchange, Melanie lived over an hour away and didn’t have a car, so I wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to be able to help me at my beach. And given my experience with Martha, I was doubly wary of another outsider’s intentions, however good they might be.

  But as always, the dogs came first, and I couldn’t turn Melanie away without giving her a chance. When I spoke with her on the phone a few days later, we made a plan for her to come and see my dogs for herself.

  One morning at the end of the week, I drove to San Jan to pick her up. She’d given me an address, and told me to wait in the car for her. I arrived on time, and waited. And waited. I didn’t really want to bug her, but after forty-five minutes cooling my heels in the truck, I relented and called her cell. No answer.

  Then, a few moments after I hung up, she appeared on the balcony of her apartment.

  “I’ll be right down! I’m just getting a cup of tea!”

  Judging from her obvious bed head, I figured she hadn’t even gotten up yet, at least not until I’d called and woken her up. It wasn’t her fault that I hate when people make me wait, but I’d gotten up extra early and driven ninety minutes through brutal rush hour traffic to get here, and, to make matters worse, I was now really
late to feed the dogs. I had a set schedule with them, and I knew they counted on it. I didn’t appreciate wasting my time waiting for a stranger.

  Finally, Melanie came down. As she approached the car, I took note that she was wearing shorts and flip-flops, exactly what I had suggested she not wear to the beach. Caring for the dogs was tough, dirty work. And her fair, freckled skin was going to take a beating in the tropical midday sun. But I wasn’t her father, so I didn’t say anything. She lived on the island, so I figured she knew what she was doing.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I asked Mary Eldergill to meet us. She’s another rescuer from the south side of the island,” she said on the drive to Yabucoa.

  Great, that’s all I needed, another do-gooder getting in the way of what really needed to be done. I guess my skepticism showed on my face.

  “Don’t worry, she’s a veteran at this. She’s been rescuing dogs for more than twenty years.”

  As I navigated the long narrow approach road to the beach, I rolled the window down and whistled for my pack. They popped out of the vegetation and fell in line along the side and rear of the truck as I pulled into the parking area near the metal storage containers. I jumped out and got my usual hero’s welcome.

  Melanie stayed in the truck, her mouth agape. I couldn’t tell if she was impressed or apprehensive. It was a lot of dogs.

  “You can get out,” I said. “The dogs are fine.”