The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Read online

  Pam made herself a salad and sat down to do some work, while I stewed over my thoughts. I gazed at the reflection of the moon on the surface of the water and listened to the call of the coqui. If someone had walked into our lives at that moment, it would all seem too perfect. We were living on a tropical island in the Caribbean in a beautiful house, sipping mojitos by the pool. But it’s very different living in a foreign country than it is visiting on vacation and staying at an all-inclusive resort. Many of the other expat families we knew were struggling too. The reasons were different, but that didn’t really matter. The others all seemed to be in denial about how they felt. Whenever Pam and I would try to talk about our personal experiences and the challenges we were facing, the other expats would dismiss us, declaring how much they loved living there. They made us feel like we were alone in our unhappiness. But we knew we weren’t alone; it just appeared that way.

  I felt like I would smack the next person who equated our expat life to “being permanently on holiday.” They had no idea.

  When we decided to take the leap and move to Puerto Rico, we knew there would be some obvious hurdles to jump: finding a house, getting a car, figuring out where to get groceries and supplies, that kind of thing. These are the hassles of everyday life that back home we knew how to handle. But working out new systems and processes was only the half of it when you have a different language and culture to contend with as well.

  Generally one person puts his or her life on hold in order to live abroad as well. When a spouse is given an overseas assignment, the partner is faced with many obstacles that are often ignored. Unfortunately, the company didn’t offer support for trailing spouses. We thought I would be able to get a job and work part-time somewhere to socialize and make friends, but we quickly found out that it was a near impossibility. We assumed that Internet access would be easily available to maintain contact with friends and family back home, only to discover that it takes months to get connected and it only works intermittently.

  Many of our friends and relatives back home deemed our life exotic, seeing only the positives: the nice homes, the exciting travel experiences. They would visit and see our “new lifestyle” through holiday-tinted lenses. They saw us as fortunate and capable, but what they didn’t see was that often the experience felt a bit like the old duck analogy—giving the impression that everything was calm and under control on the surface, while just beneath the surface we were paddling like mad just to keep afloat.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  I woke up with a hangover from too many glasses of scotch, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from going to the beach. I’d never missed a day, and I wasn’t going to start now.

  I started the morning with the dogs at the storage containers, feeding and hanging out with them for about an hour before moving on to other areas of the beach. Most of the surviving dogs were present, but a few new ones were staying to themselves near the jetty, so I jumped into my truck for the short drive over to the point. I drove slowly, with the door open and my foot resting on the running board, so I could talk to the dogs as they followed alongside.

  As I rounded the corner and pulled into the gravel parking lot, I scanned for newcomers. Off to the left, at the far end of the parking lot, I saw a guy backing his boat and trailer down the dirt ramp into the water. Several other men were standing around watching. When I got nearer, I saw they had cornered a couple of my dogs between the breakwater and the boat ramp. They were having a big laugh taunting the animals, acting tough like they were lion tamers instead of jerks picking on defenseless, friendly dogs.

  Whenever I’d seen guys down here before, usually drunk, they tended to scatter when I showed up, but this lot was making so much noise they didn’t hear me approach. The dogs that had followed me were visibly upset. Some had fallen back and started to bark.

  I stopped the truck and got out just as one of the men reached into the bed of their pickup and pulled out a container of gasoline. Maybe it’s for the boat, I thought. But he wasn’t walking toward the boat. He was going toward the dogs they’d corralled. Before I could make a move, the man had doused the dogs with gasoline.

  One of the dogs tried to make a break for it, bolting between the men’s legs. He got through but not before getting his ribs kicked in. His terrified yelp caused my dogs to ratchet up the barking. He tumbled across the gravel, then got up and ran like hell. He never looked back.

  The men were whooping and hollering, taunting the dog they still had trapped between them, completely unaware of my presence. The dog was cowering, his head down and his tail between his legs, his whole body shaking. He tried to run, but the men kept scaring him back. The man with the container lunged toward the dog.

  “No!” I screamed.

  The gasoline sprayed through the air, drenching the dog’s body.

  The men roared with laughter as another man flicked a match toward the dog.

  The dog burst into flames. The men skittered out of the dog’s way as it thrashed around, falling down, smashing into everything in his path. The dog’s cries of pain were unlike anything I’d ever heard. Adrenaline surged through me. I was filled with pure, white-hot rage.

  The next thing I knew, I was running full speed toward the men. I slammed into the back of the man holding the gas can with my fists and elbows, knocking him to the ground. His head whipped back like he’d been hit by a car, as I stumbled over him into the middle of the group.

  I drew my machete before they understood what had just happened. Everything went quiet except for the sound of the screaming dog in the background and my heart beating like a war drum in my head.

  I maneuvered out of the circle and started backing toward my truck, the dogs keeping them at bay so I could get a safe distance away. There was no room for mistakes now. I knew they’d likely kill me if they got hold of me.

  The guy I’d knocked down got up. He made a move as if to get around behind me. I pointed the machete toward him.

  “Don’t even try it, you piece of shit! I’ll kill you where you stand!”

  In all likelihood, he didn’t understand what I said, but it didn’t matter. He stopped in his tracks and put his hands up in front of him in a gesture of surrender. They all took a few steps back.

  I was terrified. I felt surges of panic trying to take over. I had to convince them I was crazier than they were. Maybe I was. What the hell was I thinking? I hadn’t even helped the poor dog, which lay twitching and dying in the gravel fifty feet from where I stood. And now I’d put the rest of the dogs and myself in danger. I’m so stupid.

  I bumped into the front of my truck. The driver’s side door was still open. I slipped in and started the engine. The dogs disappeared into the jungle.

  This felt all too familiar, like a recycled dream. I flashed back to Kyle and the others lying dead in the gravel a few short months ago. Once again, my dogs had stayed by my side and protected me.

  I felt a nudge on my arm. It was Scampi, one of the first dogs I’d discovered at this beach a year ago. She must have jumped into the truck during the commotion. She was sitting on the passenger seat, whimpering and shaking like a leaf in the wind. I’d heard her bark during the confrontation—she had a strained, raspy bark that made me think she must have been kicked in the throat before I met her. She reminded me of a dog my dad had brought home from the pound for me when I was a little boy. I had named him Scamp, and I loved him more than anyone thought possible. Scampi and I had gotten close when I nursed her back to health after she’d eaten something that caused her temporary paralysis and she almost died. She had defended me one day, getting her ribs kicked in while chasing away guys looking to start a fight.

  I sat staring at the men through the windshield for a long moment before deciding it would be best to back the truck up and leave. The men looked relieved to see me pull away. I was scared to death, but I must have scared them more. I didn’t feel triumphant.

  I drove toward the end of the jungle
on the other side of the beach where I knew the other dogs would be hiding. I was out of sight of the men for now, but I needed to hurry up and get the hell out of there. The dogs had an intricate maze of places to hide in the jungle, so I knew they’d be safe for the time being.

  I pulled over and got out of the truck. Scampi needed to be with the pack. I felt horrible when I opened the passenger side door. She didn’t want to get out. I picked her up and shut the door behind me with my foot. If I didn’t, she’d try to get back in. I set her down on the sand. Her eyes locked onto mine. God, I loved this dog. How could I do this to her? We weren’t allowed to have dogs at the house we were renting. We’d be evicted, for sure. Our landlady had a caretaker who watched everything we did and reported back to her. I held Scampi’s face as I told her, “I’ll be back for you. I’ll get you off this beach if it’s the last thing I do. You just have to hold on a little longer, sweetie. Please don’t give up.”

  Once again, I found myself crying as I drove away.

  That evening I called Nancy to tell her what had happened. I got her voice mail. I tried Melanie. Voice mail. Then Martha. Voice mail.

  What else was new?

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  My rage was spilling into the rest of my life. The morning after the dog was torched, Pam and I were talking once again about how I needed to be more careful.

  “Steve, I’m serious. I better not get a call telling me you’re dead,” Pam said, with a new sternness I hadn’t heard before.

  I promised I’d try to rein myself in.

  I exited the freeway in Juncos and was making my way through town when I had to slam on the brakes at an intersection to avoid hitting a car that ran a stoplight. It was a close call. And then all of a sudden a guy pulled a slingshot maneuver to get past me on my left, but he didn’t have enough room because of oncoming traffic so he lurched back into my lane. I had to crank the wheel to the right and step on it to avoid being sideswiped as he pulled in front of me.

  I felt my blood boil. I honked the horn and flipped him off. He punched his brakes, nearly causing me to bump into the back of his car. I honked again. This time, he gave me the finger. Without a thought, up came mine as well.

  “Steve, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Calm down,” Pam said from the passenger seat next to me.

  “He started it! He nearly hit us!”

  The offending car had pulled into the left lane, and I started pulling into the right lane to make the turn. As I did, the car swerved into my lane again. I blared the horn and screamed.

  “Stephen! Leave it alone!”

  “I just want to drive you to work, Pammie. How is this my fault?”

  I jockeyed for position until I was side by side with the other car, which was slowly edging closer in the dense traffic. He was going to scrape right by me if I didn’t get out of his way, but I had nowhere to go. I felt twinges of fight-or-flight coursing through me. Pam was still telling me to take it easy, but I wasn’t really listening anymore.

  “Stop lecturing me! I’m going to let him pass, okay?”

  As the traffic began to move, the car moved over to the left again. The moment had passed. I started rolling forward in the right lane and I’ll be damned if he didn’t try to move over into my lane again. I lost it. I leaned on the horn and didn’t let up until the driver got out of his car. He put his hands on the roof of his car and screamed at me in Spanish. I kept on the horn. I guess he didn’t like that. He reached into the back of his car and pulled something out. He started walking around his car toward me. That’s when I caught a glimpse of his machete. Before Pam could stop me, I was out of the truck with my own machete in my hand.

  “You really want to mess with me, dude? Come on!”

  He stopped in his tracks.

  When I turned to get back in the truck, I looked quickly over my shoulder and saw that he was coming after me.

  “Get in the truck, Stephen!” Pam yelled.

  I shut the door. I wanted to stop him before he came any closer. I moved toward him until he retreated to his car. When I jumped back in the truck, Pam was furious.

  I started to roll forward, and this driver aggressively cut in front of me again. I steered up alongside, reached out my window with the machete, and whacked the roof of his car. It made a hell of a sound and probably a hell of a dent.

  He stopped and jumped out of his car again. I did the same. He looked startled that I wasn’t backing down. He screamed at me and swung his machete through the air.

  “Enough!” I yelled, and slammed the machete edge down onto the back of his car. There was a loud pop as beads of safety glass flew from the rear window. The man looked stunned. I hit his car again on the trunk and gestured as though I was coming for him next. He finally got back in his car and pulled away.

  I was standing in the middle of the street in a very rough town with a machete in my hand, having just had a major confrontation with a guy who probably lived here. Reality kicked in.

  I got back in the truck, put it in gear, and stepped on it. Just when I thought I’d lost the guy, I saw him a few cars back chasing us down in the middle of the road.

  The gate at the entrance to the manufacturing plant closed behind us just as he pulled up.

  As Pam got out, I said very little. “Bye. Love you.”

  “You’re out of control, Stephen. Are you going to be all right?” I knew she was pissed at me for losing my temper but keeping it to herself for now.

  I slinked out the gates looking carefully in both directions before proceeding back out to the streets of Juncos. I drove the rest of the way home wondering if I’d be killed because of a stupid traffic dispute. I was definitely losing my grip. I needed to settle down and clear my head. But I knew the dogs were waiting for me.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-ONE

  They’re shooting the dogs,” I said to Pam a few weeks later.

  I’d been finding CO2 cartridges in the sand, and the dogs were turning up with splotches of paint on them. Someone was using them as paintball targets. When I tried to clean the paint off their tender skin, the dogs would wince and whimper in pain. Up close, I could see that the spots where they’d been hit were swollen and red.

  Then I noticed that some of the dogs had what appeared to be infected insect bites on their necks, scalps, and other areas of their bodies. They could hardly sit still, twitching and gnawing at themselves. On closer inspection, it looked like ticks had burrowed under their skin. I managed to get one dog to hold still long enough to let me investigate. I picked and squeezed at the angry bump until a silver pellet popped out. Someone was shooting at the dogs with lead pellets from an air rifle too.

  Whoever was behind this was upping the ante. A few weeks later I started seeing entry and exit wounds on the dogs’ legs and shoulders. I found .22-caliber shells on the ground near the boathouse.

  Over time the dogs had learned that the food I put out for them was the only safe food, and they avoided food put out by strangers at the beach. I was grateful for this, since it made life a little less perilous for them.

  But they didn’t stand a chance against a bullet.

  Day after day, week after week, I had become hyperaware of imminent danger, to the point where I looked for it even when it didn’t exist. So it came as a complete shock when danger came barreling at me from something as mundane as a toothache.

  An old filling had been acting up, but with everything else going on, I just learned to live with the ache and chew on the other side of my mouth. Then, one Friday afternoon, I bit a piece of ice and a sharp pain tore through my jaw.

  I tried to ignore it over the weekend, hoping the pain would subside, but by Monday morning I was in agony and I decided to go see the local doctor at the shopping center in Palmas del Mar. He seemed like a nice guy. During the preliminary small talk, he told me that he was originally from the States but had moved to the island after medical school to be near his family.

  He too
k a look at the tooth and felt the glands in my neck.

  “There could be an infection in the root. We need to do something before it gets any worse.” He made a joke about the local hospitals as he wrote me a prescription for antibiotics and a painkiller. “Call me if the pain doesn’t get better.”

  Tuesday night I was standing at our barbecue grill making supper when the skin between my fingers and toes suddenly became so itchy I couldn’t stand it.

  “Maybe it’s an allergy to the grass in the backyard?” Pam suggested. I’d washed and folded my kite-surfing gear on the lawn earlier in the day. “Why don’t you jump in the pool?”

  She didn’t have to ask twice. The swim helped.

  We ate dinner and relaxed with a glass of wine by the pool. We had family coming to visit in a few days, and we were pretty excited, making plans for the upcoming holidays with them. My brother Barry, my mum, my stepdad, Blair, my daughter, Bethany, and her boyfriend Ryan were all on their way. Finally, we had something to look forward to.

  While we were sitting there, I noticed my fingers and toes starting to itch again. Now the roof of my mouth and the inside of my ears joined in.

  “Try another swim?” Pam said.

  It was late, and I was getting tired. I had to do something to calm my skin or I’d never get any sleep. I took her advice and then hit the hay. I was out cold in no time.

  I woke up around 1 A.M. to go to the bathroom. The itch was back, and the soles of my feet were uncomfortable now. Back in bed, I couldn’t get comfortable and drifted in and out of sleep. I lost track of time.

  At some point during the night, I was dimly aware of something lying on my face, like a pillow. I reached up to remove whatever the hell it was. When my hand touched my cheek, I jolted awake. What the hell? I couldn’t open my eyes. They were swollen and sealed shut. My hand against my face felt like water balloons touching.

  Fear and panic flooded over me. I was wide awake now. I did a quick assessment of my body. My hands and arms were hugely swollen and puffy. My feet and legs were the same. I couldn’t tell if my face was swollen, because I couldn’t feel properly with my hands. I couldn’t see, and my ears were filled with a ringing sound.