The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Read online

  Finally we crested a hill and caught a glimpse of the Caribbean Sea, twinkling blue out to the horizon. This was more like the paradise we’d both envisioned when Pam got the offer to come here.

  Our destination was Humacao on the southeastern coast. It was just a little over an hour’s drive from San Juan, but it felt worlds away from the capital. The southern half of the island was a lot more remote and less developed than the northern half. The villages were smaller, which I appreciated, having grown up in a small mountain town in British Columbia, and the jungle felt more imposing, as if the buildings and roads could barely keep it at bay.

  We drove around, checking out different seaside communities. I was captivated by the beautiful Caribbean beaches as well as the majestic dormant volcanic mountains of the surrounding rainforest.

  “I wonder if anyone has flown those,” I said to Pam.

  She just smiled. I suppose I was a little predictable after ten years together. She knew I’d have my paraglider up there soon enough.

  But my main goal was to find places where I could kite surf. Kite surfing combines the thrills of both paragliding and surfing: you stand on your board and use the power of the wind in your canopy to propel you across the water. It’s a sport I’d recently taught myself, and I intended to make the most of my time here mastering it. The majority of kiting is done on the north and southwest coasts of Puerto Rico; I hadn’t found anything on the Internet about kiting near where we would be living. And that was fine by me, because I love a challenge, especially when it comes to doing something no one else has done.

  As we explored more of the countryside, I became more optimistic about living in Puerto Rico. Besides the many adventure opportunities, I’d get to refocus on my art as well. If this scenery didn’t inspire me, nothing would.

  When we returned to our home in Rhode Island a few days later, I joked to Pam, “The door to this place won’t get the chance to hit me on the ass on the way out.”

  As spring turned to summer turned to early fall, our move date was suddenly upon us. With packing help from my brother Barry, we escaped the predictability of Rhode Island for the unknown of Puerto Rico.

  When the real estate agent provided by Pam’s company brought us to the gated entrance of Palmas del Mar, the resort community in Humacao that would be our new home, I was stunned by the sheer size of the property. It was bigger than both Pam’s and my hometowns combined. I didn’t know then that it prided itself on being the largest planned community in the Caribbean, with banks and stores, two golf courses, a marina, a fancy private school, a casino, a country club, and twenty-four–hour security guards.

  Although this was where most wealthy Puerto Ricans and expats lived in minimansions, we were able to secure a lease on a modest three-bedroom house that had enough room for visitors. There was also a small outbuilding shoehorned into the backyard that I could use as a studio. I felt more disappointed than privileged to be living the gated lifestyle, but I figured Pam’s company knew best. Pam had heard from some of her coworkers on previous business trips to the island that house burglaries were common, and being in this community would keep us safer, or so we thought.

  That first night in our new home, with most of our household belongings two months from joining us, it seemed like we had checked into a hotel rather than a new life.

  “It feels like we’re on vacation,” I said.

  “I know,” said Pam. “Except I have to go to work on Monday.”

  “Well, it’s not Monday yet. You wanna go to the beach?”

  Palmas del Mar had its own gorgeous white sand beach, so we borrowed a golf cart—the vehicle of choice there—and made our way to the ocean in the late afternoon to enjoy the end of the beautiful day, listen to the waves lap gently against the sandy shore, and watch the spectacular sunset.

  Yeah, this is home, I thought.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  On Monday morning, while Pam readied herself for her first day in her new job, I loaded the car with my kite-surfing gear. Pam and I had agreed that I would take her to work in Juncos, a small city about thirty minutes away toward the center of the island, and pick her up in the evening. That way I’d have the vehicle to use during the day. I already had my sights set on a few beaches I had scoped out on Google Earth a few weeks earlier, and I was eager to check them out in person to see if they’d be good for kiting.

  After dropping Pam off, I headed back east toward home, passing the exit for Palmas del Mar and continuing south into Yabucoa. I crossed a long bridge that traveled the width of the swampy valley before making a left toward Playa Lucia. From the satellite images I’d seen, the road would soon be obscured by jungle. Google didn’t lie. A few moments after the turn, the road narrowed, and branches and leaves scraped along the sides of the truck. I was a little concerned about how I’d explain the new scratches back at the rental office when I turned the vehicle in. Luckily, I later learned that small scratches and dents were considered normal wear and tear here in Puerto Rico.

  Eventually the jungle parted and I popped through the other side. The view before me was incredible: white sand, tall palm trees running the full length of the beach, and the aqua-colored sea beyond.

  I couldn’t wait to get my gear out of the truck, take out my little plastic wind meter to measure the wind speed and direction, and launch into the surf. I parked, strapped the gear to my back, and began my walk to the shore. My heart was racing with excitement.

  I scanned my new surroundings, looking for obstacles or sea detritus that could pose a hazard. I needed to be extra careful since this was a new sport for me and I was doing it at an unfamiliar beach and, worse, without anyone else nearby in case I needed help—a bit of a no-no in extreme sports. Launching near a half-buried tree limb or one rusty old rowboat hidden by weeds could mean a bad stumble or worse, so I needed to get the lay of the land as best I could before hitting the waves. As I looked around, taking in the extraordinary beauty of the place, I started to notice a lot of garbage along the perimeter. I wondered how someone could just toss a McDonald’s wrapper on the sand in such a beautiful place.

  In the near distance, I spotted some sort of animal lying in the sand. I could kind of make out four legs and a skinny, furless tail, but that was all. I dropped my gear where I stood and headed toward it. As I got closer, my heart dropped and a wave of nausea surged through me. It was a dog, or what was left of one. His rib cage was visible through the sparse tufts of dark fur; he was so sunburned on the areas where fur had fallen out that the skin was split and bloody. His ears and snout were knobby and covered in calluses.

  I looked around for something I could use as a shovel to bury him. I’ve always believed that every creature deserves dignity in death.

  And then the dog raised his head and wagged his tail.

  Aw, hell. How was this even possible?

  “Hello, sweetie,” I said, trying to keep my voice at a soothing level so as not to alarm the poor guy. He had clearly been through enough already. “What happened to you, sweetie?”

  He stumbled to his feet as I approached, understandably wary of me. He was clearly weak and dehydrated.

  “I’ll help you, boy, don’t worry.”

  My voice seemed to calm him, so I kept talking gently. In a few moments, he seemed less nervous. He wobbled back and forth on his feet and wagged his tail, drawing invisible figure eights in the air. I knelt beside him in the sand and cried. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could have abandoned this poor, helpless dog on the beach. And yet he was friendly to a complete stranger.

  Trying to guess his breed was nearly impossible, but I thought he might be part Siberian husky from his readily visible bone structure and, more distinctively, his eyes—one blue, one hazel. For a husky not to be readily identifiable, I thought, was horrifying.

  I knew he would die soon, in a few days if not a few hours. It seemed to take all his energy just to stand for those few moments, so I gently guided him to a lying down p
osition to rest. He folded up like a flimsy deck chair and sighed.

  I stayed with him for a while, then decided to head for the store to get some dog food. “I’ll be right back, okay, buddy?” I said, petting his disfigured head. I threw my gear back into the SUV and raced away from the beach, this time with no thought of what the jungle was doing to the SUV’s paint job.

  Problem was, I had no idea where to go. I hadn’t been to this part of the island before. It was still pretty early in the morning, so I just hoped to find something open. Finally, I did.

  Communicating with the store clerk was a bit of a challenge since I spoke no Spanish and few people, especially in rural areas, spoke English. But eventually I made my needs known and was pointed toward the baby aisle, where I grabbed a couple of bottles of Pedialyte, remembering that our vet had recommended it to us a few years earlier when our German shepherd was sick and dehydrated. A dog as emaciated as that husky had to be dehydrated too, I figured.

  In the pet food area, I picked up several cans of wet dog food and a five-pound bag of dry food, figuring I should have it just in case, as well as some disposable dishes for the food and water.

  Back at the beach, my new friend was still lying in the sand. He began wagging his tail when he saw me. As I approached, I noticed a few other dogs peeking out from the edge of the jungle. They stayed back, but seemed curious. As I bent down to get the food and water ready for the husky, I felt a nose brush my arm. It was attached to another small dog that wanted my attention. As I looked around, I counted about a dozen dogs standing around, tails wagging, waiting for breakfast. It seemed that while I was away, the husky had told a few of his friends that treats were on the way.

  “I’m not going to have enough for all of you,” I said, looking over the motley crew, all in varying stages of emaciation. I fed them everything I had. Then I headed back to the grocery store and cleaned out their dog food aisle. In the weeks to come, I would learn that wet food was easier on the dogs than dry. It doesn’t bombard their nearly shut-down digestive systems and takes less energy to digest. I also learned to resist the urge to overfeed them, which would just make the dogs sick to their stomachs.

  I arrived back to a hero’s welcome. As I dished out more food and water, I couldn’t help but notice how patient and polite the dogs were. They simply watched and waited for me to give the okay to start eating. It confirmed my suspicion that these dogs weren’t mean or wild, as people tend to assume when they see strays on the street.

  Many of the dogs had deep gashes or other open wounds. They didn’t look like cuts from ducking under fences; they looked more like someone had cut them deliberately with a huge knife. The wounds were infected and packed with sand. A few had badly broken bones that had healed improperly. One little black female’s front left paw pointed toward the sky; she used the second joint of her leg as a foot, her body twisting awkwardly when she walked. Another small female looked as if she’d been doused in gasoline and set on fire; her skin was charred and split everywhere. How could any of them stand to be around a human being?

  I knew it was best to place the food down and step back to let the dogs eat and drink in peace, especially considering that I was dealing with street dogs that had likely been abused or dominated. Yet, as they ate, I began gently petting their backs and necks, slowly moving my hand toward the bowls of food to see if they had any food aggression. Considering that they were starving to death, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they did. Instead, as I touched each one, it would pause from crunching away on the food to look up at me and wag its tail. There was no pausing, growling, or lifting of the lip in warning. It seemed they were just grateful I was there.

  When they finished the last of the food and water, some of the dogs hobbled away from the dishes to relieve themselves. As they did, the diarrhea looked like someone had turned on a faucet full force and let it run. Dogs are generally sensitive to changes to their diet, so this wasn’t surprising—even a well-tended family pet will often get diarrhea if its food is changed abruptly. That’s why veterinarians advise that any change in a dog’s food be made gradually, mixing the new food in with the old until the dog becomes acclimated. Obviously, I didn’t have that luxury with these dogs. And unlike pets that have been well cared for, these dogs’ feces were full of worms.

  I found a spot of shade and sat down, my back against a palm tree. I had sixteen new friends now surrounding me. Some of them fell asleep with their heads in my lap; others dug cool holes in the sand nearby for a nap. Watching them rest, their legs twitching as they chased lizards in their dreams, I felt more anger than I knew how to manage. But I also felt more peace than I’d felt in ages. Already I felt like these were my dogs. I decided to start naming them, a task I took very seriously. I looked over at the tattered husky first, and asked him silently what I should call him—Blue Eye, he said. One down and fifteen to go.

  Once I finished naming a few of them, I was struck by a much bigger question: What was I going to do with all these dogs? They needed more than food and water. They needed lifesaving medical treatment. If I left them here without helping, I knew for sure they would die.

  I actually considered abandoning Playa Lucia to find another beach where I could kite surf. Perhaps I could just forget about the dogs and pretend like this morning’s events had never happened. But as I sat with my new friends that afternoon, my mind carried me back to my childhood experience of the true love and loyalty of a dog. I remember saying to someone once, “We could learn a lot from dogs and their loyalty to their humans. Their ability to forgive is amazing.”

  Beyond that, there was a hole in my life since losing Achates earlier that year. I found myself wanting to make him proud and care for his brothers and sisters here on the beach. I couldn’t replace him, but perhaps by doing what I could to save these lives, I could fill the void I felt without him at my side. I had no choice but to help the dogs. I knew deep in my heart that if I walked away, it would be a decision I’d regret the rest of my life.

  I stayed there the better part of the day, gazing at an old abandoned boathouse in the distance, trying to figure out how I was going to follow through on this silent commitment I was making to the dogs, to Achates, to myself. First of all, I was going to need a lot of supplies.

  As the sun moved across the sky, I knew I was going to have to pull myself away for the night. I hated the thought of leaving the pack that was now my responsibility. To make it worse, a couple of the pups tried to get into the truck when I opened the door. It was painfully obvious they didn’t want to be left alone again, and, in a way, I could relate. As I started the engine, I looked to the side and saw every dog watching me go, their eyes begging me not to leave them. It actually hurt to see them looking so scared and abandoned. A few of them ran alongside the truck as I drove down the road, but stopped after a few yards, too weak to go any farther. I cried the whole drive back to the house.

  I didn’t know how I was going to manage it, but one thing was clear: the dogs needed me.

  And I needed them. I just didn’t know it yet.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  On the way home, one other thing became crystal clear: I stank. I’d had the dogs lying across my lap most of the day. They were all pretty smelly, especially the ones with mange or infected wounds. I hadn’t really focused on anything but their nutrition until now. I was pretty sure the skin condition was Demodex, or demodectic mange, which is not contagious (unlike sarcoptic mange, which can be).

  Demodex mites are normal parasites on many hosts. Generally they cause no problem because the host’s immune system limits their growth. However, if the host is sick or has a compromised immune system, the mites can multiply quickly. When there are too many mites, their feeding destroys enough skin cells and hair follicles to make the fur fall out and the skin itchy, red, and often covered in festering boils. In addition, as the number of dead mites increases, both the skin damage and the decaying mites can cause bacterial infection in
the skin. When a dog has a weakened immune system or is under extreme stress, it is more prone to this condition and slower to recover than a healthy dog.

  When I got back to the house, I threw my filthy clothes into the washing machine and got showered as fast as I could. I called Pam at work to tell her what had happened.

  “I’m going to need to get food and supplies for them. Are you okay with that? It might get a little expensive.”

  She didn’t bat an eye. “Of course you can’t leave them there. Do what you have to do. I’ll find a ride home tonight. Good job, hon. I love you.”

  “I love you too. See you in a bit.”

  I rushed to Sam’s Club, grabbed the biggest cart they had, and headed for the pet food aisle, where I loaded as many 55-pound bags as would fit. I then cruised the cleaning supplies aisle for disinfectant hand wipes, rubber gloves, and first aid supplies. I was no vet, and I’d had no formal training in animal rescue. I was guided largely by intuition and past experience with my own dogs, as well as the EMT certification I’d received years ago as part of my mountaineering and paragliding instructor training.

  The checkout lanes were at least ten customers deep, and I worried I wouldn’t make it to the pharmacy next door before closing time at six o’clock. But just as I was about to stash the cart and run out to grab medical supplies first, a young cashier looked at the mountain of dog food in my cart, smiled, and motioned for me to follow her. She opened a new register, and while she scanned my items, asked where I was from.