The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach (14 page)

However, the transformation was far more work than we expected. You never realize how much an object weighs until you try to move it. It turns out that equipment used to build and repair ships is bloody heavy. We used ropes and two-wheeled carts to make the job a bit easier, but by lunchtime, the heat and humidity had gotten to us. We were wrecked.

There was twenty years' worth of rusty machinery, derelict boat supplies, and broken glass all over the floor. There were rats' nests behind and under everything we moved. The boathouse had become a human toilet for beach visitors as well. It was disgusting. The whole place needed to be shoveled, swept, and disinfected. It was going to take more than the weekend to get it done. Sandra and I would need to concentrate our efforts to finish during the week.

By the following Friday, we had managed to prep and clean the rooms pretty well. I'd brought some climbing gear and suspended ropes and pulleys from the metal rafters, which we used to move the huge sheet-metal plates that had been leaning against the wall. We laid them across metal sawhorses we found in another room to fashion operating tables. I was pretty proud of what we'd been able to accomplish with a little creativity and good planning.

The last step was to beg and borrow every crate Sandra and I could get our hands on to keep the dogs contained before they were anesthetized.

A few days before our neuter clinic was to take place, Martha called.

“I don't think I can afford a hotel right now.”

Pam and I thought it was strange that she hadn't planned for this ahead of time. But since she was making such a positive effort in getting this beach clinic to happen, we let it go.

“Why don't you stay with us for the weekend?” I suggested. I had a sneaking suspicion this wouldn't be the last time she'd be asking for a place to stay.

“Terrific! I'll call you when I arrive Friday night.”

When she arrived, I asked, “You ready for the big day?”

“I'm a little nervous, but yeah.”

I had no idea what to expect myself, but I was anxious to get started. I love the fear of the unknown.

I was the first to rise the next morning, raring to get out the door as soon as Pam and Martha were ready to leave. I knew I'd be the one coaxing the dogs into the boathouse, and there were a lot of last-minute things to be taken care of before Sarah and her vet tech arrived. Sarah had promised to bring several crates with her, but I wanted to have ours set up and waiting for her so she could start right away.

I hadn't wanted to put the dogs in the crates too early, since I was pretty sure none of them had ever been in one. So when Sarah showed up, she was annoyed that the dogs weren't crated yet.

“I've got it under control,” I assured her. “When do you need the first dog?”

“Now!”

“Cool, no problem.” I knew the dogs would follow me, and when I gave a whistle, they were at my side.

Sarah smiled.

“Thank you, thank you. And now for my next act . . .”

“Smart-ass,” Sarah said, laughing.

I knew I was going to get along with this vet just fine.

Angel, Sandra, Pam, and I started putting the dogs in the crates while Sarah and her tech set up their space and laid out their medical supplies. Pam and Angel were standing by to help prep the dogs for surgery and assist the vet. Sandra and I were on the prowl for the dogs that had split when they saw their buddies being put in the kennels.

At one point Martha came over to me, looking frazzled.

To be fair, I had recognized a few months earlier when I first tried to help her with the dogs at the oil refinery that she wasn't exactly a natural around them. She was nervous, and they knew it. She was by her own admission a cat person, but it was obvious that she loved all animals and was doing the best she could to help. And some people just don't perform well under pressure. It was then I realized that Martha's place was behind the scenes, organizing events, raising money, but not in the trenches, where it can get pretty crazy and dirty at times. Office work may not be the spotlight position, but it's an equally important job, and I appreciated what she'd put together. It was something I hadn't been able to pull off on my own.

At the end of the day, we had sterilized more than sixty of my male dogs and vaccinated the rest of the pack. I was pretty pleased and hoped it was just the beginning.

After Sarah left, the rest of us stayed behind to look after the dogs as they awoke from anesthesia. Some took much longer than others, and it was quite a challenge to handle them as they staggered onto the beach like drunks. We couldn't let them go near the water for fear they'd drown.

I was totally beat and dehydrated from the day; I couldn't get enough fluids in me. I had a pounding headache and felt a bit emotional about what we'd managed to accomplish. I knew it would have a lasting impact on the population issues that plagued the island. But it was hard to see my dogs in pain, even though I knew it would pass soon enough. It made them vulnerable targets on this beach. I worried quietly to myself so as not to steal the joy everyone was feeling.

“You okay?” Pammie asked.

“Just trying to process everything.”

It was good to see others connect with my dogs. I didn't feel so alone anymore, and I liked that.

We were all ready to crash. Martha opted to stay back with the few remaining dogs that were still waking up while the rest of us headed home. She arrived back at the house about an hour after Pam and me. While she got cleaned up, Pam and I started supper and relaxed with a glass of wine.

When Martha joined us, she too looked completely wiped out. It was clear the experience had taken an emotional toll on her as well. Considering what I'd been through with the dogs over the previous year, I could sympathize. I hoped that this experience would help her understand what my life was like with the dogs at the beach.

The next morning, Pam and I were out the door to check on the dogs before Martha had gotten out of bed. We arrived to find most of the males hobbling around, their scrotums swollen to the size of grapefruits. On some of them, the skin had stretched to the point of splitting.

I called Sarah right away.

“It happens occasionally,” she said. “The swelling will go down in time. Don't worry.”

Knowing that an open wound in the tropics could lead to more serious problems in the best of times, I started all the dogs on whatever antibiotics I had on hand.

I called Martha back at the house to tell her what had happened. No answer. When Pam and I got home a while later, Martha was gone.

For several days afterward, I tried to reach Martha but to no avail. She had no way of knowing what had happened to the dogs after she'd left the island, but Pam and I were wiped out financially from the additional cost of having to buy antibiotics for more than sixty dogs. The emotional hit of losing a few of my dogs to complications pushed me back into a negative slump. I felt guilty for having done this to the dogs and angry at the lack of solutions.

“I don't want any more help with the dogs,” I told Pam and Sandra afterward. No one could care for my dogs better than I did.

A
purebred Boxer with tender traits, Evelyn was often one of the first dogs to greet me each morning on the beach. Emaciated in the beginning, she'd stagger about searching for kibble dropped or scattered by other dogs. I worked hard to put weight on her; I spoiled her with hand-feeding and special treats. I'd even massage her, manipulate her joints, and work on building her strength through gentle play and water therapy, breaking my own rules and playing favorites. I couldn't help it, I had a crush on her.

Eventually Evelyn's body began to recover. Though still horribly thin, her coat became sleek and healthy, a sign that regular meals and vitamins were beginning to have an effect.

Like the other dogs, Evelyn was hungry not just for food, but for attention. As desperate as they were for nutrients, they were always more interested in being petted than in the kibble I put in their dishes. Unlike feral dogs, these dogs had all had a taste of belonging; it explained the injured expressions on their faces and the shock and gratitude they displayed at being shown simple kindnesses. I empathized; I jumped at any kindness I felt now too.

One afternoon I had to do some errands in San Juan, so I wasn't able to spend all day with the dogs as I usually did. When I arrived back at the beach shortly before supper, I drove up the side road where I knew some of the newer and more timid dogs would stay hidden until they grew more comfortable with their surroundings. I'd usually find Evelyn here, socializing with the newbies. She had a way of welcoming them to the pack. She had the gentle nature and confidence that all pet owners wish for in their animals; the other dogs seemed to feed off her calm energy. It was clear they all loved her.

But Evelyn wasn't around. There were a few nursing mothers with their pups hiding out nearby, so I loaded up pails of food and water in the back of the truck to bring to their dens on foot. It was really strange that Evelyn wasn't there; I had seen her just that morning.

When I looked around, I could see that the other dogs didn't seem themselves. They always revealed to me when something was wrong if I just listened quietly and followed their lead.

I strolled through the boathouse toward the deserted shipyard on the other side. Some of the dogs seemed to hesitate near the entrance to the old mechanical room. A few of them walked into the room that we had cleaned last month for the neuter clinic. They sniffed the air and whimpered. I backtracked to investigate.

As I rounded the corner, I saw Evelyn lying on the cold concrete floor. The world around me went silent. My heart and thoughts began to race. I startled myself when I heard myself say, “No. Oh, sweetie. No.”

I walked over and knelt at her side. She was dead. I would have to call Pam and tell her I'd be late so I could bury my poor, sweet girl.

And then I did a double take. There was a bed sheet pulled up over her lower body, and she was lying on a fresh beach towel. I wiped away my tears and saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest.
She's alive!
She was unconscious, but she was breathing.

I carefully lifted the sheet. It appeared a car had crushed her hindquarters. I figured her head had to have taken a blow too, enough to knock her out.

I called Sandra to see if she knew what had happened.

“I found her by the side of the road near the entrance to the parking lot.”

“When was this? I was here this morning.”

“I was running late today. Must have been around lunchtime, I guess.”

It must have happened right after I left for San Juan.

“I didn't know what else to do. I called Sonia to help me carry her to the boathouse. I didn't want to leave her out in the open.”

I took a moment to collect myself. I was angry, but not at Sandra: it was this hellhole the dogs had to live in and the people who found pleasure in hurting them that fueled my rage. I knew Sandra would never do anything to harm the dogs. We were both doing everything in our power to help them and faced hard decisions on the beach every day. I knew Sandra didn't have any money for a vet. Not that it even mattered. What kind of life was Evelyn going to have, even if she recovered? Who would take her?

I sat with Evelyn well into the night, my hand resting on her rib cage. It was dark, the only light coming from a patch of moonlight shining through the doorless opening, but I felt safe with my pack at my side. I knew they could feel my pain and the pain of their fallen friend. At that moment life seemed very unfair. These dogs had done nothing to deserve this tortured life. There are shitty people all over the world who have it good, but these dogs? It didn't seem right.

I hoped that Evelyn would peacefully pass away in the night while she was still unconscious. I didn't want her to suffer. I also didn't want to be the guy who had to make the decision to end her life. I often felt that finding these dogs on the beach was like Achates' legacy, that he lived on through the work we did helping other dogs. When times were tough at the beach, I'd find myself asking him for strength.

I needed to go home to Pam. I had stayed at the beach much later than I ever had in the eleven months I'd been on the island. I felt terrible leaving Evelyn alone on the floor, but I had no choice. There was nothing I could do for her. The dogs stretched and yawned and walked me back to the truck.

At home, I peeled off my clothes and took a shower. I let the cool water run over my body. I was tired. Not a normal tired, but the bone-crushing kind of tired that comes with depression. I needed something to take the edge off, to numb me a bit.

Pam brought me a glass of scotch and I talked. She didn't say anything; she just looked very sad for me. She could feel my pain too.

“Why is this bothering me so much? I mean, I get it, I love Evelyn. But I've buried so many dogs. What's so different this time?”

And then it hit me: When I'd buried those other dogs, they had already been dead when I found them. Evelyn was still alive, still suffering, and I was doing nothing to help her. Initially I'd been upset at Sandra for leaving her alone, and now I'd done the same thing. I lay awake all night thinking about what to do.

First thing in the morning, I dropped Pam at a coworker's house to get a ride to work. I had to get to the beach.

The dogs greeted me as usual. I quickly and somewhat carelessly laid their food out for them, then made my way to where I'd left Evelyn the night before.

She was still breathing. Shallowly, but breathing. She was such a good girl, such a fighter to have survived nearly starving to death and whatever abuse she'd experienced living on the street. Now this.

I walked to an area of the beach that had cell reception and called Martha. After all the favors I'd done for her, it was time to call in a chit. When, as usual, my calls went to her voice mail, I tried calling a couple of vets myself, but I could never get past the receptionist.