The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach (11 page)

I was losing this battle, and I had nowhere to turn.

And then in April, Pam received an e-mail from a woman in Florida named Martha Sampson. She explained that she worked at the refinery several days every month, and that during her last trip to the island she'd noticed a new mom with her puppies by the main gate and was concerned for their welfare, so she contacted Isabel Ramirez, who then put her in touch with us.

She asked if we could help rescue the dogs and get them medical attention, and said that “maybe” she could find them a home.

What the hell was I going to do with the mom and her puppies even if I was able to capture them? The refinery plant's security guards weren't going to let me anywhere near the property. I had several dozen dogs of my own at the beach that needed better medical attention than I'd been able to provide. And even if we could afford to bring the dogs to a vet for treatment, the vets in the area had already made it pretty clear they wanted nothing to do with them.

I wasn't sure we'd be able to help Martha, considering we needed so much help ourselves.

“Martha's in town,” Pam said one afternoon a few days later when she called me from her office. “She wants to meet you at the plant. Will you call her?” She gave me Martha's number. I didn't know what the hell I could do for her, but I dutifully called and we arranged to meet.

At the appointed time, I drove up to the main gate, but Martha wasn't there.

A couple of imposing security guards approached my truck. “This is private property. You need to leave now,” one said in a way that didn't invite discussion.

“Please, I'm picking up an employee.”

Just in time, a freckle-faced, auburn-haired woman came bouncing along in a bright orange jumpsuit. She had the kind of complexion that didn't fare well in the Puerto Rican sun. It had to be Martha.

“Jump in!” I said, pushing open the passenger door for her. My plan was to show her the dogs already in my care, so she would understand where I was coming from before she asked for any favors.

When we got to the beach, the sight of the dogs had her in tears. “I've been working with these dogs for months now,” I explained to her.” “I'm barely keeping them alive, and new strays turn up practically every day.”

“What you're doing here is amazing, Stephen. I don't know how I could handle it.”

“Caring about them isn't enough, though,” I replied, hoping to enlist an ally to my cause. “There's an entire culture that needs to be changed. It's the people who dump them, the vets, the politicians, the businesspeople who ignore them and worse. To most of the locals, they're not even dogs, they're rats. The way the dogs beg for food is just an annoyance to them. Martha, I'm not making this up. Pam's coworkers, people who have lived here their whole lives, people who actually admire what I'm doing here, have told me that I'm fighting a losing battle. The only way to make a difference is to
do something
.”

“Will you please come back to the plant and help me get that mother dog and her pups?”

Clearly she had her own cause. I appreciated her faith in me, but I couldn't take on another cause. I had to pick my battles.

“It won't be easy to do. A scared mother isn't going to want to be caught. And I don't know if you noticed, but the security guard wasn't too receptive when I arrived to pick you up. What makes you think they're going to let me help some stray dogs?”

“Can we please try?”

“What are you planning to do with the mother and the pups if we get them? Have you thought about that?”

She glanced at my pack nervously. “Can't we bring them down here?”

“Martha! You realize the locals call this place Dead Dog Beach, don't you?”

“I know, I know! But they'll kill her if she stays at the plant.”

“They're probably going to kill her if she comes here. I lose dogs every day.”

“Don't you think they have a better shot with you and your dogs?”

“Martha, my wife and I are already shelling out nearly a grand every month to feed these dogs. We're stretched pretty thin financially.”

She smiled and nodded like she was listening to me, but I knew she wasn't.

“I'd like to get the dogs to a vet,” she said in a singsong voice. I imagine she thought it would somehow sway me.

“Even if we were able to catch these dogs, there's no vet I know of who will take them. Do you know of someone who will? Maybe I missed one?”

Nope, nothing. She was full of hope and not much else.

As much as I was trying to resist Martha, I couldn't say no. I knew it from the moment I received her e-mail. These were innocent lives, and if I didn't do something about it, they faced certain death. I took Martha back to the plant to see what I could do.

Martha went in the gate herself and made her way to a rotting wooden foundation shielded by thick undergrowth where she thought the mother had made her den. She was only forty or fifty feet from where I stood on the outside of the fence. Watching her crawl through thick brush in her orange jumpsuit was a sight to see. She thrust her head into a narrow space between the foundation and the ground, then pulled out and yelled back at me, “I saw her for a second!”

“Forget it, Martha. It's not gonna happen now. You've scared her. She's going to move her pups all the way under the building. She has to want your help or you'll never get her. She'll just run, and I don't want her to abandon her pups.”

Martha came back out, crying, her hands clenched. “She's all alone in there.”

I asked Martha to stay by the truck for a few minutes. I walked over to the guards and asked if there was any way possible that they might let me in for a few minutes to get the dog and her pups. They wouldn't budge and insisted it was time for me to get in my truck and drive away

“I'm sorry it didn't turn out better, Martha. Sadly, I deal with this stuff daily, and there's nothing we can do right now.”

“I feel so helpless, like I failed her,” she said.

“I'll keep an eye out for her, okay? If she does relocate her pups outside the plant, I'll do everything in my power to get them to a safer place. It's the best I can do for now. The guards have pretty much tied my hands.” I knew this wasn't the answer she'd hoped for.

I left Martha standing at the gate, tears still flowing down her cheeks. As I drove away, I felt bad. Not for Martha, but for the dogs.

I
was driving down the road to the beach one day in the spring when I turned the first corner after the long straightaway to find a car coming straight at me in my lane. The crazed driver had his head out the side window and was looking backward, so he didn't even notice he was driving in my lane. Over his screams and the wail of his horn, he couldn't hear me either. I swerved at the last minute, slammed on the brakes, and managed to avoid a collision.

As he passed by me (I admit it, I gave him the finger), I turned to see the reason why he was angry: There were two very large dogs staggering like drunks in the middle of the road. Their front legs were splayed in a wide stance as they braced themselves, trying not to fall over, but it wasn't working. First one would take a step, fall down, and struggle to get back up, then the other dog would do the same.

I pulled my truck diagonally across the middle of the road to block traffic until I could help the dogs make their way to the shoulder. Several cars pulled up to my roadblock, honking and shouting with indignation. I ignored them as I tried to help the two dogs. They were both so disoriented that I eventually picked them up one by one and carried them to the grass a few yards off the side of the road. They lay down and stayed there until I could move my truck out of the way of traffic. For the moment, they were safe.

In the few minutes I was gone, they hadn't budged. They were terribly skinny, and it was obvious they were deliriously ill. Up close, I could see that once upon a time they had been a full-bodied Rottweiler and a German shepherd. I grabbed all the cans of wet food I had in the truck along with some water, and got them to eat and drink as much as they could handle. I waited with them a little while until they seemed more alert and coherent before I headed to the store for more food and dewormer.

When I returned, the two dogs were hiding in the bushes along the side of the road, as though waiting for me. The moment I pulled up, they greeted me with wagging tails and as much spring in their step as they were able to muster considering their physical condition. But within moments they were exhausted again, and I led them back to the edge of the jungle. I sat with them, hand-feeding them cans of wet food for about an hour before they fell asleep in my lap.

My heart was broken. I had seen some skinny, sick dogs in the last months at the beach, but not like this. I couldn't believe these dogs were still alive. The shepherd's skin draped off her bones in loose folds like wet paper towels over sticks. She had no muscle mass, only bone structure and mangy skin. The Rottweiler was in slightly better shape, but not by much. They both had collars hanging loosely around their necks. When I removed the collars, I noticed there were still a couple of links of broken chain dangling from them. They must have used the last of their strength to break free from the hell they were living in before they arrived here. And yet I thought they were strangely lucky, as this was the first time I didn't have to cut off a collar that had become deeply embedded in a dog's neck. Their starvation had likely spared them the long suffering of strangulation or serious infection I'd seen in so many of the dogs from whose flesh I'd had to cut out rusted bits of old restraints.

I certainly never planned to do veterinary work, but I was finding myself doing more and more of it by necessity. I'd seen some of the dogs die from the infections on their necks. And a few of the dogs that remained leery of humans wouldn't let me cut their collars off; I later found them dead.

As I left the two girls to attend to my regular rounds at the beach, I felt more depressed than I had in a while, and that was saying a lot. The girls tried to get in the truck with me, and I had to block them, which made me feel terrible. I opened another can of food and lured them back to the edge of the jungle, out of harm's way. Fortunately, the food held their interest long enough for me to slip away. It pained me to keep them separated from the rest of the pack, but I felt they'd be safer if they remained isolated until they gained enough strength to properly defend themselves if needed. The challenges a new dog faced trying to find its place within an already established pack were tough on the dog. They took a lot of energy and caused a lot of stress, both of which these girls couldn't afford at this time. They needed proper rest and nourishment in order to recover and become healthy again. I knew that as long as they had each other and remained hidden there alongside the isolated road they'd be okay, or at least I hoped so.

I did my rounds at the beach faster than usual, but I still spent several hours with the dogs. They had become so in tune with my moods, they knew I was feeling down and they tried everything in their power to make me feel better. I often struggled to believe that I was doing anything more than prolonging their inevitable death. I kept telling myself, if they died today, at least they had known that I loved them.

Later, on the way home from the beach, I stopped to look in on the girls again. They must have been in a deep sleep when I pulled up because they didn't hear the truck. It wasn't until I was right up on them that they startled awake. I had grabbed an old tarp that one of the fishermen had left at the beach, and used kite string that I kept in the truck to tie a rain shelter for them. Underneath, I lay a couple of blankets down to make a comfortable den where they could rest and regain their strength. They seemed grateful for my efforts. I soothed them back to sleep and sneaked back to the truck to make my way home. I didn't make it very far before I had to pull over and collect myself, I was crying so hard.

Over the next few days the girls seemed to be getting a bit stronger, and their spirits were improving, but they still had a long road to recovery. They seemed to enjoy my visits, and looked devastated when I left to tend to the other dogs. So I made it part of my routine to visit the girls on the way to the beach and again on the way home. I knew they still needed a little extra attention before they could be relocated to the beach with the others.

As the weekend neared, Pam was anxious to meet my newest friends. On Saturday morning, we were on our way to the beach bright and early. As I pulled up alongside the road near where I'd' made a den for the girls, I gave a whistle and a shout to summon them out of the jungle. On cue, they stumbled out of the foliage to greet me. As soon as they noticed Pam, it was love at first sight. They snuggled into her as if they'd found a long-lost friend. They tried to prance, but they were still too weak and emaciated to do much.

As I prepared their food, I looked back at Pam, who had the two girls pressed against her body as she sat on the concrete base of a utility pole at the side of the road. Pam tenderly wiped the goop from their eyes onto her pant leg. I knew this would be her reaction. Seeing these two beautiful creatures with so much love to offer, and yet so badly neglected and abused—how could you not feel devastated and helpless?

Lately I had been wondering if I was getting stronger or just desensitized to the carnage I witnessed daily. I refused to believe it was the latter. I never wanted to lose the ability to feel the dogs' pain. I'd rather feel the pain than feel nothing at all.

Pam and I needed to continue on to the beach to take care of the pack there before the weekend crowds started to arrive, putting the dogs in danger. Drunken people driving cars, motorcycles, and dune buggies made all the dogs vulnerable. Not to mention the poisoned food.