The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach
Read The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Online
Authors: Stephen McGarva
T
his is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are all true and have been faithfully rendered as I have remembered them, to the best of my ability. Some names, identities, and circumstances have been changed in order to protect the integrity and/or anonymity of the various individuals involved. Though conversations come from my keen recollection of them, they are not written to represent word-for-word documentation; rather, I've retold them in a way that evokes the real feeling and meaning of what was said, in keeping with the true essence of the mood and spirit of the event.
To my beloved German shepherd Achates, and to the many teachers that passed through my life at Dead Dog Beach. You shared your wisdom without words. You were my friends, therapists, and protectors. You gave meaning to my life when I was lost, and left a legacy beyond words. You will always be loved and never be forgotten.
The dog is a gentleman;
I hope to go to his heaven, not man's.
âMark Twain, letter to W. D. Howells, April 2, 1899
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PREFACE
M
illions of families in America have pet dogs. Many books have been written about those relationships. Sadly, there are far more dogs in the world that aren't lucky enough to have human families. This book is about those dogs.
People who travel around the world are often greeted by a heart-wrenching sight: dogs or cats starving and sick in the street, shooed away from restaurants by waiters, and ignored by almost everyone else. It is usually only when one of these dogs bites or infects a human being that a community decides to do something about it, and then a lot of innocent living beings are rounded up and slaughtered.
What I describe in the following pages about my two years in Puerto Rico can be tough going at times. What a few bad, or simply thoughtless, people did to dogs on the island, in particular at Playa Lucia, or what's aptly known as Dead Dog Beach, is hard to fathom. If I hadn't witnessed the cruelty firsthand, day after day, I wouldn't have believed human beings could be so heartless and cruel to other living creatures.
It's important to consider the context in which the events that I describe in this book occurred. Despite its idyllic location in the sunny Caribbean, Puerto Rico suffers from a poor economy, high government debt that has led to austerity measures and reduced services, and a spectacularly high crime rate. According to CNN, there were somewhere north of sixty-eight thousand violent crimes reported in 2008, an increase of 9.3 percent from the previous year, this among a population of less than four million (and shrinking annually thanks to emigration to the mainland). In early 2013,
Morning Edition
on National Public Radio ran a four-part series called “Puerto Rico: A Disenchanted Island,” which discussed “how Puerto Rico's troubles,” including a “deteriorating economy, increased poverty, and a swelling crime rate,” were affecting the island's population. An article in the
New York Times
on June, 21, 2011, titled “Murder Rate and Fear Rise in Puerto Rico,” noted that while homicides were most prevalent in poor areas, they “occasionally spilled into San Juan's tourist areas and crossed into wealthy districts.” Compounding the drug-traffickingâfueled violence, the police department has itself been subject to investigation by the U.S. Justice Department, and the American Civil Liberties Union “has compiled its own report listing accusations of abuse by police officers against Puerto Ricans.”
In no way do I mean to condemn all of Puerto Rico or its residents. It is a spectacularly beautiful island populated by many warmhearted people. I also want to make clear that what happened to the dogs was at the hands of a particular group of people. Indeed, if I had not stumbled onto
that
beach and found
that
group of dogs, I would have had an amazing few years living on this tropical island. But, the truth is, I did find that beach and those dogs, and my life was forever changed.
If the scenes I describe here are difficult to read about, it is important that you don't turn away. We must bear witness to what happened on Dead Dog Beach, and what is still happening there and around the world. Please keep reading and spread the word.
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T
he day began like any other: I was doing my morning rounds with the dogs, as I had been for more than a year now. I parked my SUV by the large metal shipping containers at the entrance to the beach and walked the dirt road down to the water, looking for newly dumped dogs. They usually arrived scared, hungry, and badly abused. Those were the lucky ones. I also scanned for the remains of those who'd died in the night, often of gunshot or machete wounds if not from simple neglect and starvation. The air was filled with the singing of the coquis, the tiny native frogs who lived in the trash piled among the palm trees.
The lush vegetation that lined the road often reeked of decay. When I arrived at the water's edge to begin my first feeding, the dogsâmy packâgathered around like they always did. They were eager but orderly, in anticipation of food and human kindness. The hairless leather skin, the visible festering wounds on their bodies, the disfigurement of mange and broken bonesânone of these horrible afflictions masked the dogs' inherent sweetness and desire for basic affection.
Suddenly the pack ran a few yards down the beach, excited by something. I looked up and, not far from where I was feeding the dogs, there was a young horse lying quartered and decapitated, ropes still tied to its legs and head. From the tire tracks in the sand, I could tell that it had been ripped apart by pickup trucks. Dogs weren't the only animals that suffered in this tropical paradise. Any animal that had outlived its usefulness, even if solely due to a lack of proper care by its human owners, could end up at this remote beach, far from public scrutiny, as a victim.
The horse looked like it had been blown open, its blood, sinews, and viscera scattered across the white sand.
Through the cloud of swarming flies, I saw movement inside the obliterated torso. A small puppy lazily stretched out its legs amid the entrails. It had crawled inside the dead horse to fend off the morning chill.
I reached into the mare's carcass and grabbed the puppy. She wiggled and squeaked as she looked up into my eyes, surprised to see me. A sickly-sweet blood and horse smell wafted off of her. She yawned and nosed my damp hand.
I carried her to the water to wash off the gore, then dried her with my shirt and cradled her to my body as I walked back up the dirt road to my truck. The pack followed me, their tails wagging in anticipation of breakfast.
In the tall grass to the right of the road, I heard a squeak followed by a muffled moan. Still cradling the puppy in my arms, I pushed the grass aside with my foot. Three more puppies, the rest of this one's litter, were suckling on their dead mother. She had a foamy film around her mouth, the telltale sign of poisoning, another common method for eliminating unwanted dogs.
And so began another day at Playa Luciaâa tropical paradise I came to know as Dead Dog Beach.
ONE
W
hen I was a kid, I ran away from home every time one of our pets died. Dogs, cats, birds, gerbils, hamsters: if it died, I was gone. I couldn't comprehend that people and pets I loved just switched off, despite how I felt about them. I wanted to feel more powerful than death. But instead I was helpless before it, so I ran. Death terrified me.
My dad, who had suffered from severe alcoholism, died a month after my eleventh birthday. I ran for miles and miles that day, then lay down in the tall grass of the countryside where I lived, until it got dark. My family worried each time I bolted, but they knew my routine. If they chased me, I'd go farther. So they quietly waited. They knew I'd be back once the pain eased.
After my dad's death, I struggled with myself and just about everyone else. I used to be a friendly, sociable kid, but now I got into a lot of fights at schoolâwith classmates and with teachers who made me feel inadequate because I was dyslexic and not a great learner. My mom was always getting called into school because of the trouble I got into, which made me feel guilty for causing her more pain.
To console me and help fill the emptiness, my mother got me a beautiful German shepherd puppy. I named her Tanya, after a friend of mine's hippie older sister who was always very kind to me and who, in retrospect, I probably had a huge crush on. My mother's plan worked. Tanya, the big, lovable German shepherd, and I were soon inseparable.
