The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Page 14

  “Don’t even try it, asshole!”

  They talked among themselves for a few moments, then put their hands up in a surrender position. Slowly they placed their weapons in the bed of their vehicle, then piled into the truck and sped away. I held my hands over my face to protect against the gravel spraying from the tires.

  When they were gone, I walked to the water’s edge to look for the manatees. I saw two surface just offshore. Each had several arrows embedded in its flesh, but they were swimming together as a family. It seemed the duo was searching for another. My mind raced back to the time I had been in the water swimming with these beautiful creatures. I was certain they were going to die and there was nothing I could do to help them. There was no cell reception at this part of the beach, and there was no one to call anyway.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Steve McGarva?” a woman’s voice said when I answered the phone. “This is Susan Saltaro. I’m a reporter with Univision in San Juan, and I’d like to do a story on you and your dogs.”

  Finally, news of my work on the beach had made it to someone who could really help, on a big scale.

  We arranged a day and time to meet. I was simultaneously nervous and excited. It had been an unbelievably hard year, and I wanted to choose my words wisely during the interview.

  I arrived early at the beach that day, spending the morning thinking about what to say and what to leave out so as not to anger my enemies even more than I already had. I didn’t want to shame or embarrass anyone into doing the right thing. That never really works anyway. I just hoped that I could show by my example how to treat animals humanely, thereby compelling viewers to do the same thing. The more I thought about it, the more optimistic I became. I wanted the local community to stand up and be proud of the beautiful area where they lived.

  Susan and her team showed up right on time.

  “Would you like to meet the dogs?” I said.

  She and her cameraman followed me around the different areas of the beach where I fed the dogs. We strolled through the boathouse, our shoes crunching the broken glass that still covered the concrete floor. As we walked, I described what had happened to many of the dogs during my time here—the assaults, the dogs that had died protecting me, the poisonings.

  “This is one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard, or seen,” she said through tears.

  I was glad to hear her say that. It meant she was really getting it.

  Everywhere we went that day, the pack followed along, as always, being their lovable selves.

  “Are they always this sweet?” she said.

  “Always.”

  “And they always follow you around like this?”

  “It’s my pack. I’m their alpha.” I smiled. “It’s hard to believe they’ve been used and thrown away, isn’t it?”

  Susan and her camera guy decided to set up in front of the boathouse for the interview. And then she began, asking me questions in English, then translating them into Spanish for her viewers.

  “You moved to the island as a visitor from another country. You and your wife have spent a lot of time and your own money trying to clean up a problem that, quite frankly, isn’t yours. With everything you’ve been through in the last year, what message would you like to send to the viewing audience?”

  It was a damn good thing I’d prepared myself for a question like this. In my heart, I was pissed off and wanted to trash all the people responsible for the death and mistreatment of so many dogs, but I knew this wasn’t the time or place, nor would it help.

  “I hope people will feel compelled to take action and do the same thing in their communities that I’m doing here. I want people to realize that they can make a difference. It’s always a good choice to help another living creature.”

  She smiled, urging me to continue.

  “And it’s contagious! Before you know it, more and more people are doing the right thing to make the world a better place.”

  When the camera was off, Susan said, “You handled that really well.”

  “I wanted to put a positive spin on it. I want people to think there is some hope.”

  As they packed up the news van, Susan said, “Stay in touch, will you? I’d like to hear how things are going here.”

  I promised I would.

  When she was gone, I stood alone with my dogs on this beautiful, godforsaken beach, as on every day before this one. I hoped tomorrow would bring change. I really wanted to believe that this interview would be the big break we’d been hoping for.

  I had a strange feeling about it, though. It reminded me of a premonition I’d had years earlier while on a climbing trip, just hours before I witnessed a fellow climber land beside me after falling a thousand feet to his death. Or the day I’d begged my buddy not to fly his paraglider, only to see him lose control moments after launching and hit the ground, his body smashed into pieces before my eyes.

  Now, in the back of my mind, I worried that I’d just poked the wasp nest.

  The following morning, my senses were screaming at me when I got to the beach. I drove down the long beach road, whistling and calling for the dogs. Where the hell were they?

  I pulled up to the metal storage containers where the dogs usually waited for me. I jumped out, calling and whistling, but nothing.

  What the hell?

  I walked around, calling the dogs’ names until, finally, a few of the alphas poked their heads out of the jungle and from hiding places I’d never seen the dogs use before. They were looking over their shoulders as they approached me. They seemed relieved to see me.

  Instinctively I switched into damage control mode. I needed to do a head count and see who was missing. The results were devastating. It can’t be this many. They must be hiding somewhere.

  I walked with the pack down the beach along the edge of the jungle. I thought maybe some of the dogs had been scared enough to run toward the hotel. I had become a good tracker during this last year, looking for signs of change or something out of the ordinary. Down here, it could mean the difference between life and death. Now I walked the sand, looking for paw prints, evidence that the dogs had come this way. Nothing.

  I turned back toward the boathouse. As I got nearer, the dogs started acting strange again, spooked.

  It was always difficult to see inside the boathouse from the outside. My truck was parked on the far left side of the structure near the big side entrance facing the metal containers. I figured I’d cut through and have a look.

  I was about twenty paces in when my eyes started to adjust to the dim lighting. I did a slow scan of the giant empty space before me. And then I stopped.

  As I squinted across the boat slip, I could make out what looked like a line of dogs hanging from the metal structure along the ceiling. The pack started to bark. This is what they had been trying to tell me all morning.

  I faintly heard someone cry, “No!” I struggled to recognize the voice at first, and then I realized it was my own. I was vaguely aware that the pack was still barking, but I couldn’t really hear them anymore. They followed me as I ran toward the silhouettes hanging in the distance. I stumbled as my knees grew weak. I slowed to a walk, hardly believing my eyes.

  There were deep vertical and diagonal claw marks on the corrugated metal walls next to where my dogs hung by their necks, as though some of them had used their last breaths fighting to get free.

  Some of the dogs were lying dead in a pile on the floor. They must have poisoned these.

  Most of my missing dogs were there, but some remained unaccounted for. My head was spinning.

  Suddenly I was back in Canada, a young apprentice at a local automotive shop. I had gone to work early that morning to open up the shop and make coffee for the guys. I walked into the office to find my boss hanging by the neck from the rafters. I’d never forgotten the look on his face.

  Back in the present, I struggled to stay on my feet. Finally, I gasped for air, and my head cleared a little. It
seems I had forgotten to breathe.

  I had crossed over to a dark place in my mind, a place no one really wants to admit exists, but in desperate times you find yourself teetering on the edge and catch a glimpse of the other side. It’s a bad place to be.

  But I had to stay focused. I didn’t want the dogs’ bodies to fall and hit the ground as I freed them. I went back outside and got my SUV, backing it into position near the dogs. I climbed on the roof and began cutting them loose. Their bodies were heavier than I expected, and I struggled not to topple off. Over the next two hours, I lowered each one to the ground, and then carried them one by one to the graveyard.

  When I was done, I went back to the boathouse to get the truck and drove over to where the dogs lay waiting under the palms. Inside the passenger compartment, the air-conditioning felt good on my overheated body. It sharpened my thinking, but I felt guilty for enjoying this little pleasure while my dogs lay dead in the sand. I shut the engine off and got out to dig.

  One of the gardeners from the local hotel drove up alongside me in his little red Isuzu. He would come by from time to time to go fishing with his friends at the end of the road, where I’d seen the manatees shot. He always waved hello as he tootled by. He was one of the men who had warned me about the hotel owners and the police hating the dogs and me. This time, he stopped his truck and leaned out the window, his face resting on his arm. The pack didn’t get up or bark.

  “You okay, bro?” he asked, his brows furrowed.

  I choked back tears. I hadn’t seen anyone all day, and I’d kept it together until now.

  “Who would do this to my dogs?”

  He looked as though he might cry as well. “I don’t know. Maybe somebody who see you on TV last night. Everybody in Puerto Rico probably see you last night.”

  I’d been so excited about getting the word out to the public. “I thought it would help. I didn’t say anything bad about anyone. So why would someone do this?”

  “They want the dogs gone. They want you gone. Listen, anybody who would do this to dogs will do it to you. You got to be careful. Please, bro.”

  “I am not a careful man. Not anymore.”

  “You want help? Nobody should do that alone.”

  “No thanks, man. I’ll do it. You’d better go.”

  “I am so sorry, my friend,” he said, looking at the pile of corpses. “Very bad. They will go to hell for this, I think.”

  “This is hell.”

  He mouthed “I’m sorry” before driving away. I believed him.

  When I was done with my grim task, which took most of the day, I sat by the graves. Twenty-two dogs buried in one day. I hoped the eight that were still missing were all right, but I knew better. I’d find them in a few days when I could smell their decaying remains.

  I needed to go home and find a way to sort this horror out in my head. I felt like I was on the edge of losing it. Pam was constantly worried about me now. I suppose she had every reason to be. Most days I would downplay most of the crazy things that happened, to spare her the added concern. Sometimes I called her to tell her what had happened, but she’d be busy or have a meeting. I might try to call my brother Barry or my mum, but they weren’t here, and didn’t really understand what I was going through. And always, when I hung up, I was alone with my thoughts. Pam knew that when the days were especially bad, I might have a shot of whiskey earlier than normal, by myself. She was stuck at work and couldn’t do anything to help, or to stop me. But ultimately she trusted me, and she prayed my drinking wouldn’t become a real problem.

  It was the first time I seriously thought about quitting. All I had ever wanted was to save the dogs, but now they were dying because of me. It was a new low.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The next day the dogs were still a bit off. They avoided the boathouse and got pretty jumpy whenever a vehicle drove up to the beach. I was on edge too.

  I grabbed my Taser, machete, and billy club to bring with me as I walked around. There were still dogs missing, and I couldn’t rest until I found them. I decided to walk up an isolated dead-end road where some of the dogs had turned up in the past. It was eerily quiet as I went. It was still early, and the sea breeze was just beginning to kick up. I couldn’t smell anything . . . yet. And then I reached a spot where the dogs stopped following me. I knew I’d better investigate.

  I continued along to where one of the big black Labs had given birth to her puppies a couple of months earlier. I hadn’t patrolled this area on a regular basis since Mary had taken the pups to her house a few weeks ago.

  I rounded the corner and looked up. One of my dogs was hanging by the neck from a tree. His feet were tied with gauze, and tattered bed sheets served as his noose. Whoever did this had burned the dog after they hung him.

  I calmly walked around him, still numb from yesterday. I figured the other missing dogs must be near.

  I wasn’t able to reach high enough to cut him down, so I grabbed a shipping pallet that lay at the base of the tree to stand on. The dog had probably been there for at least thirty-six hours; it was already decomposing. Up close the smell was almost too much to bear.

  I struggled to keep my balance as I strained to reach high enough to cut the bed sheet with my machete in my right hand, using my left to support the dog. When the material finally gave way, the weight of the dog was too much, and I lost my footing. Next thing I knew, we were both falling through the air. I hit the pallet on my side, which knocked the wind out of me. I rolled off to the ground. I was dazed, holding my ribs, trying to catch my breath. I looked over to my left and screamed. The dead dog was in a heap right next to me.

  I scrambled to my feet and backed away in a frenzy, as though I’d never seen or touched a corpse. I started to cry when I realized that I’d dropped the dog’s body.

  The dogs were going nuts barking. I must have startled them when I fell.

  “Shut up!” I shouted to quiet them, something I had never done before.

  I was really rattled. I wasn’t sure I’d recover from this one. As I slowly made my way back to the truck, I was hurting in more ways than one. I needed to bury this poor boy.

  I had to do something with the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside me. I needed to talk to someone who understood.

  I called Melanie, hoping she might be able to think more clearly than I was and come up with a new game plan. My call went immediately to voice mail.

  I tried Nancy. Voice mail.

  I was furious with them for not answering, although they had already warned me that they had started screening my calls because they found the stories I told them too depressing.

  “What do you think it’s like for me and the dogs, living those horror stories every day?” I’d said.

  I knew it wasn’t fair of me to be angry, but I needed them. So much for that.

  I spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade of a palm tree (safely out of the trajectory of any falling coconuts). It was obvious to me that whoever had committed this massacre was sending a message, one I received loud and clear: they wanted me to stop. I don’t care. I won’t quit. They picked the wrong guy to mess with.

  I fell asleep with the remaining pack, about forty-five dogs now. But that number would grow again as more dogs were dumped daily.

  I was nudged awake by the sound of whimpering, a wet nose pressed against my skin. I looked at the concerned faces of my dogs and realized that, no matter how out of control things seemed, this was the most fulfilled I’d felt in years. These dogs were willing to die for me. And I was willing to die for them too.

  Nancy returned my call the next morning.

  “Steve, I’m going to put you on speaker. Melanie is with me.” They were on their way to a yoga class. “What’s up?”

  I felt dead inside. I was still angry they hadn’t called back the day before when I needed support. I told them briefly what had happened over the previous two days, which dogs were dead, which were still unaccounted for
. When I was done speaking, the only sound to break the silence was Nancy’s bawling in the background. I had nothing more to say.

  “Steve, you should stay away from the beach for a while,” Melanie finally said. “Let things settle down.”

  Easy for her to say. She didn’t know my dogs or care about them the way I did.

  “We’ve got a connection at the San Juan Police Department,” she went on. “We’ll give him a call. Maybe we can hire a private investigator to stake out the beach.”

  In the background, I heard Nancy say, “We should get some surveillance equipment, set up cameras all over the boathouse and the beach.”

  “How the hell are you going to manage that?” I said. I knew they were trying to make me feel better, but all I felt was disappointment. Desperate for something to ease the strain I was feeling, I decided to go paragliding. Whenever I felt I wasn’t coping very well, I headed to the central mountains to go flying. Flying always balanced me out, and I needed to settle my thoughts and get a bigger perspective.

  It was an amazing day. I flew harder and maybe a little crazier than normal, but I was feeling good again as I swooped and spiraled over the lush valley below. As the sun dipped down in the western sky, I landed between the horses and cows standing peacefully in the field near where I’d parked my truck, packed up my gear, and headed for home. Usually I’d feel a high from the experience that would last the rest of the day, drift into a peaceful night’s sleep, and wake jazzed the next morning. Not this time. From the moment I got behind the wheel, I found myself driving aggressively the whole way back to Palmas del Mar. I arrived home feeling bothered, out of sorts. My thoughts went round and round, like a dog chasing its tail.

  I sat out by the pool with a bottle of scotch and “drank about it” until Pam got home.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. Obviously it was a rhetorical question. She could see on my face that I was struggling.

  “Would you like something to eat?” she tried again.

  I wasn’t hungry. I just wanted to drink tonight.