The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach (16 page)

When she drove off, I was left standing with Melanie, surrounded by dogs. It was now up to me to decide which ones were about to get a get-out-of-jail-free pass and go with Melanie for eventual homes back in the States. It was impossibly difficult choosing which dogs to take. I loved them all.

In the end, we loaded the remaining motherless pups into my truck for the drive back to San Juan. As I drove away, the dogs left behind gave me a look that was more heart wrenching than usual, so I was quiet during the ride. I wanted to be excited about the day's accomplishments, but I found it difficult to muster up the energy to pull it off. Melanie's optimistic attitude had vanished several hours earlier, when she'd realized that the dog problem at the beach was much bigger than she'd expected. She was tense and cranky with the dogs barking in the back of the truck. We arrived at the shelter a little over an hour later, unloaded our precious cargo, then continued on into San Juan to drop Melanie back at her place.

On the ride home, my heart ached. As wonderful as it was that so many dogs had got a new lease on life today, with the promise of a real home down the road, there were so many left to their own devices on that dangerous beach. I knew that many of them would die before the next rescue mission arrived. I would never utter my misgivings out loud for fear of sounding ungrateful—I was more than grateful for what these gals had done for me and my dogs—but as usual, it was complicated.

A
year into our Puerto Rico sojourn, taking care of the dogs was my full-time job; I did little to nothing else. The dogs depended on me, and I had come to depend on them too. There was something very healing for me about being with them. Until now I had never been able to re-create the feeling of purpose I'd had when working with orphaned kids in Southeast Asia years earlier. Instead of thinking only of myself, my days had been scheduled around taking care of children who had nothing. Now I felt alive again, like I was doing something that could make a difference in the world, that my actions actually mattered. Even if only to the dogs and me, I was making a difference.

As difficult as it was for me emotionally to bury the dogs, it was a job that needed to be done on a daily basis. The week following Mary and Melanie's visit was no exception. Some of the dogs that were too far gone when I met them passed away during the night. Some of the dogs I had nurtured back to health had been killed deliberately; some of them had received loving pats from Mary and been promised they would be on the next shipment off this miserable beach. I felt like I had betrayed them.

Often, when I was carrying a dog to the hole I'd dug, my mind would flash back to when I was a child and felt the need to run like hell from my fears. I had never actually been afraid of dying myself; it was more the fear of losing someone I loved. My dad. My grandpa. My childhood pets. I didn't want to be left alone without them. Every time, I had run until I fell from exhaustion. I'd lie there until dark and then walk home, often not getting back to my house until the wee hours of the morning. My family had worried about me, but they knew that if they chased me I'd go even farther and stay away longer. I could only imagine how hard it must have been for Mum and Nan to keep it together and be strong for us boys after Dad and Grandpa died. I remember hearing them cry alone behind closed doors when they thought we couldn't hear. But somehow they put on a brave face and remained strong for us kids and got us through incredibly tough times. I had always wished I could summon the kind of strength they had displayed.

Now I was being forced to face this fear of loss and confront my demons head-on. The dogs had no one else to take care of them when they died. I was beginning to identify different feelings I had each time I carried a dog to its grave, or held one in my arms as it died. It had begun when Pam and I had to put Achates to sleep. I had lain on the vet's office floor, holding his face and looking into his eyes. I didn't want him to go, but I knew in my heart it was time. The urge to run was almost too much to resist. But I needed to be there for him, and for Pam. I lay there with Achates for over an hour after he fell into his forever sleep. He lay there with such calm confidence and peace, I felt his energy flow through me and calm me enough to stay at his side. I never forgot that feeling, and relied on it now.

My daughter Bethany (from a previous marriage) and her boyfriend Ryan wanted to come visit for my birthday. I hadn't met Ryan yet, and I hadn't seen Bethany in a long time, so I was really looking forward to it. Neither of them had traveled far outside their small hometown in the American Northwest, let alone out of the country. I thought this would be a great opportunity for them to experience our island life and broaden their horizons.

I've always loved to people watch, and the San Juan airport is a great place to do that. Whether it was a gaggle of tourists being shepherded to the sheltered quarters of a cruise ship or a seasoned business traveler striding confidently to the car rental desk, it was fun to guess each person's comfort—or discomfort—level. Pam and I would sometimes make up scenarios for the people we saw, role-playing conversations we imagined they were having.

Bethany and Ryan were pretty entertaining to watch, like two deer in the headlights, as you might imagine a young couple traveling out of the country for the first time would be. They looked quite relieved to see me on the other side of the glass in the baggage claim area. And I was happy to see them and excited about all I had planned for their visit. First up, the joyride that was the trip to Yabucoa.

As we got into my truck, I said, “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time I'd like to ask you to stow your bags, put your seats and tray tables in the upright position, and please fasten your seat belts securely as we are ready for takeoff.”

The kids chuckled at my stupid Dad humor, not giving it much thought until we exited the parking garage.

The drive to Palmas del Mar was nothing out of the ordinary for me, but for them it was like a real-life amusement park ride. Bethany white-knuckled the dashboard, and Ryan did the same on the back of the seat.

“Enjoying the ride?” I said. I guess I could have warned them what driving was like in Puerto Rico, but I figured why spoil the surprise?

“How does anyone get where they're going without an accident here?” Bethany said, her voice a little tremulous with fear.

“Don't jinx it! We're not home yet!” I said smiling.

We arrived in one piece. When we drove through the entrance gates to the compound, the kids' fear turned to awe.

“Oh my God, you live here?”

I laughed. “Don't be too impressed. Consider it more of a white-collar prison with benefits.”

It was kind of fun to see how excited they were about where they'd be staying on their vacation.

Over the next few days, Bethany and Ryan joined me on my morning rounds with the dogs, and then we headed off to explore the island. I could tell they were trying to embrace every new experience I threw their way, and I was determined to help them change their small-town view of the world and their preconceived notions about other ethnicities and cultures. I avoided the typical touristy things people usually do when they come to the island on vacation, instead taking them kite surfing and snorkeling at out-of-the-way spots. Wherever we went during their stay, I made stops at some of my favorite street vendors for lunch. The roadside food stands sold amazing homemade dishes, often displayed in the kind of aquariums people generally keep pet fish in. Usually the vendors had a wood-burning grill right there. What was most fun for me was the places where I was considered a regular: the vendors didn't speak English, and I still had no Spanish under my belt, and yet we communicated beautifully and I was treated like family.

I was heartened to see how open-minded Bethany and Ryan were. I only wished I'd been able to give my kids more of this type of experience when they were little, but, as a divorced dad, I only had them with me for six weeks in the summer and every other Christmas.

In 1986, at the end of my three years with the orphans in Southeast Asia, I had returned home to Canada to recover from the malaria I'd contracted. Not long after that, I got a girl I barely knew pregnant. Determined to do right by her, I married her. It was a bad idea. In no time we had a second child. By the time I was twenty-four, we were divorced, and my kids grew up traveling between two families and sharing holidays. So I welcomed the chance to have an adult relationship with my now grown-up daughter, and to share my world with her.

In the middle of Bethany's visit, I got a call from Melanie saying that she wanted to bring her friend Monica from the World Society for the Protection of Animals to the beach. Apparently the WSPA representative had heard about the crazy gringo with a hundred dogs, and she was going to come to the island specifically to meet me. I welcomed the visit and promised to make time to show her around.

On the appointed morning, I brought the kids with me to the beach to get the dogs fed and settled before Melanie and her guest arrived.

Just as we were filling the buckets with food and water, an unfamiliar car rolled up right behind us. Always anxious about strangers who were up to no good, my hackles tingled when I couldn't see inside the passenger compartment past the glare of the windshield.

And then Melanie stepped out, laughing. “You didn't know it was us, did you?”

A pretty Hispanic woman stepped out of the driver's side. “Hi. I'm Sylvia. You must be Steve.”

We shook hands. “Welcome,” I said, the nerves of a few seconds earlier quickly dissipating into relief.

“I've heard a lot of good things about you and your dogs.”

“I'm about halfway through morning rounds. You're welcome to tag along while I finish up, though.”

“It's amazing how much control you have over so many dogs, Steve,” Sylvia said after a few minutes of observing my routine. I had nearly eighty dogs in the pack at this point. I gave her the backstories on each animal in turn. Like Mary before her, Sylvia was drawn particularly to Jess, the beautiful white shepherd who'd been so badly burned. Sylvia too was appalled by what I told her.

While we were talking, another car drove up, several men hanging out the windows, throwing bottles and shouting at the dogs standing on the side of the road. The car swerved for the dogs and just missed. Not satisfied, they made a U-turn and went for the dogs a second time. I tore through the parking lot on foot to cut these guys off. To my surprise, Sylvia was right there next to me, shouting at the men in Spanish. They pulled to a stop, exchanged a few heated words with her, then drove away.

“What did you say to them?” I asked.

“I told them we had their plate number and had called the police.”

I was impressed.

“You can hang out here any time you like,” I said. Sylvia stayed with the dogs and me for the rest of the day. She was a natural on the beach: passionate, tough, and lacking the patronizing attitude toward the animals that drove me crazy.

“Please come back anytime,” I said at the end of the day, giving her a hug.

“I will. And I'll try to get you some help down here, okay?”

M
y time with Bethany and her boyfriend came to an end, and I resumed my normal routine. It wasn't long before Melanie called again requesting I give yet another “Steve tour” of the beach for someone named Nancy Guilford, whom she'd met at an animal rights function in San Juan. Melanie had told her about my dogs, particularly Nina and Nicole, and Nancy wanted to help.

“She could be a big help, Steve. She's got money,” Melanie said.

“Okay, but please don't keep me waiting again. Be here at nine
A.M.
” I didn't mean to sound ungrateful—I was always willing to do whatever it took to get the dogs some much-needed help—but each day I had a laundry list of tasks to accomplish, and a glitch in the schedule could throw the whole day off.

Melanie chuckled. “I'll do my best. But no promises.”

This didn't bode well.

I got to the beach around 7:30
A.M.
to prep the dogs and get them settled for the day. I wasn't taking as much time with them as I normally did, so I could be ready for our visitors. Shortly before nine, I drove back up the road to where I'd made the den for Nina and Nicole and waited. The girls were still pretty sick and grew tired quickly after breakfast. After an hour waiting by the side of the road, the dogs wandered back to their den to sleep.

Moments later, Melanie and Nancy pulled up in a Ford Explorer. I was pissed off, and I'm sure it showed on my face.

“I know! I know! I'm late. There, we got that out of the way.”

I kept scowling.

“Steve, this is Nancy. Nancy, this is Steve.”

Nancy handed me a business card for her rescue group. She was pretty, perfectly coiffed, and overdressed in a pair of designer jeans tucked into a pair of really expensive-looking red leather designer boots. She didn't look like any rescuer I'd ever met. I would later learn that Nancy was a schoolteacher who had moved to the island a few years earlier. Her plans had changed when she met and married a wealthy land developer who'd been living on the island for about ten years. She initially started volunteering with Save a Sato, but found the organization too dysfunctional, so she started her own. Basically, she grabbed strays off the street and took them to an expensive vet in San Juan, paying whatever it took to get the dogs healthy. Her heart was definitely in the right place. But, like me, she had no long-term plan in place.

Given the delay, I skipped the preliminaries and jumped right in. “I want you to meet a couple of my worst-case dogs. Don't be alarmed by their appearance. They look pretty rough, but they're good girls.”