The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach (24 page)

“I am too, Martha.”

“But we have an idea that might help. The next time you find dead dogs, take more pictures like the ones you sent me, and get tissue samples. We'll hire a forensic specialist to find out how the dogs died.”

“It's obvious how the dogs died, Martha. Their heads were cut off.”

One morning I came across one of the young mothers wandering around looking lost. For several weeks, I'd seen her with her litter where she kept them hidden safely in the jungle. My first thought was that someone had found her pups and taken them.

The little mother followed me around whimpering. Even when I held her in my arms, she wouldn't stop. Her teats were engorged with milk. She needed her puppies to nurse. It was going to be extremely painful for her until her milk dried up.

I called Sandra to see if she knew anything about the missing pups. There was no answer, so I left her a message. A couple of days passed without a word. I called again and left another message.

I finally ran into Sandra at the beach.

“I'm so sorry I didn't call you back,” she said.

When I asked her about the puppies, she looked away sheepishly.

“Sandra?”

“I was worried about them, so I called Martha about them last week. I was afraid they wouldn't make it.”

“Did you take the puppies to send to Martha?”

“She said she would keep them until they were ready to be adopted.”

“They were three weeks old, Sandra, too young to be separated from their mother. She was taking care of them.”

Sandra was quiet.

“Where are they now?”

“I think Martha flew them to Florida a couple of days ago.”

I turned away to retrieve the food from the back of the truck. The little mother dog was at my feet still whimpering. I picked her up and she nuzzled my neck.

I wanted to call Martha and chew her out for acting without thinking things through. Her heart was in the right place, but she didn't ask the right questions. Sandra would say anything to get the dogs off the beach.

After settling the dogs down with their morning meal, I broke down and dialed Martha's office number. As expected, the secretary answered.

“Who may I say is calling?”

I hesitated for a moment. “Sandra Cintron,” I said.

“I'll transfer you immediately.”

While I was on hold, I wondered what the secretary must have thought about my deep voice.

“Hey, Sandra!” Martha said when she came on the line. “How are you?”

“I'm good, Martha. Thanks for asking.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Steve. What's up?” The bubbly tone that had been there a minute ago had disappeared. In truth, I think we were all getting a little sick of each other.

“I know how hard you're working to help the dogs, and I really appreciate it.”

“I'm doing the best I can.”

“The puppies you had Sandra send you last week? Do you know how old they were?”

“I was worried they wouldn't make it, Steve. I had to do something.”

“They were in a safe area,” I said. “They had a great mother taking care of them.”

“I can find homes for puppies easier than I can for adult dogs. You know that is true.”

“But they were too young, Martha! And the mum is under ten pounds—she'd be an easy placement.”

“I didn't know she was so small.”

“She's in a lot of pain, Martha. She needed to nurse those pups.”

Martha started to cry.

“I didn't call to upset you. I just want you to understand that I know these dogs better than anyone, than you, than Melanie, than Nancy. You are all awesome, but please talk to me before you take the dogs. I'll tell you the truth—those puppies should have gone with their mother. It shouldn't have happened like this. It can't happen again.”

“Fair enough,” she said.

“Thanks for listening, Martha. Call me if you need me.”

Soon after that, Pam and I were invited to a party at Nancy Guilford's house in San Juan. I wasn't terribly keen on going at first, but then I thought it might be a good opportunity to spend time with the others in a more relaxed setting, away from the horrors at the beach. Pam and I both thought it would be good to unwind and have a laugh for a change.

We were greeted at the door with open arms, handed mojitos, and invited in to join the party. I didn't know most of the people there, but Nancy took us around to introduce us to the other guests. Apparently Nancy and Melanie had told people what Pam and I were doing in Yabucoa.

We got to talking to a couple of older ladies named Patty and Eleanor who asked lots of questions. “If you need anything, please don't hesitate to call us.”

Thinking I must have missed something, I asked, “How do you know Nancy?”

They chuckled. “We used to do rescue like you. We were the original founders of the oldest dog rescue group on the island. Now we're too old, but we still do what we can.”

“It's an honor to meet you!” I said, truly relieved to meet like-minded people. “Thank you for pioneering the way.” I gave them both a hug.

They looked at Pam and said, “Honey, he's a keeper!”

Pam looked at me and smiled. “Yes, he is.”

As the night wore on and the drinks flowed, Nancy got a little maudlin about the dogs. On her computer, she pulled up some of the photos I'd taken and started to cry. “I would have saved them!” Everyone was looking at her, slack-jawed.

I leaned over to Pam and whispered, “Let's get out of here.” I noticed that a few other people had the same idea and were edging toward the door.

Before we could make our escape, a young woman grabbed my arm. “Excuse me? Can I come see Dead Dog Beach with you sometime?”

She caught me a little off guard. “Sure, whenever. I'm there every day.”

One of the older ladies came over with a smile on her face. “Steve, this is Anna. She's come from Boston and she's staying with me for a few days. She's been wanting to do some rescue work since she got here. I think you're just the guy to show her what it's all about.”

I was pretty flattered, considering the source of the recommendation. Patty gave me her home number and said to call her. We made arrangements for me to pick Anna up in the morning.

I said to Anna, “I hope you're an early riser!”

The following morning, I arrived at Patty's house to find Anna in sweats.

I laughed. “You might want to wear lighter clothing.”

She changed into something more suitable for the climate and we were on our way. During the drive, I told her about all the dogs and some of my experiences over the past eighteen months.

“Oh my gawd! You're amazing!” She sounded like Fran Drescher. I'm sure she thought she'd embarrassed me from the look on my face. “No, really, what you're doing with the dogs is amazing.” Yep, she sounded just like a Boston version of Fran Drescher.

The dogs were there to greet us, just like I'd promised. Anna started in with the same high-pitched baby voice that everyone who visited the beach the first time seemed to use with the dogs. I had to put the brakes on that right away.

“Can you please talk normally to them?” I hated to embarrass her, but I didn't want the dogs getting overexcited and jumping all over her.

“Why? They're dogs, not humans.”

“Trust me, you'll get more from the experience if you follow my lead.”

I walked around with her, introducing her to the dogs and describing the layout of the beach. She started to relax, and the more she did, the more the dogs warmed up to her.

I noticed that the young mother whose pups Sandra had taken prematurely wasn't around. I knew she was depressed and starting to isolate herself from the pack. This wasn't good.

I took Anna to the spot in the jungle where the dog had made her den, and sure enough there she was, her little face peeking out of the foliage as we walked up. Anna melted on the spot. When I called to her, the little dog trotted over, her head down and her tail between her legs. I picked her up and chanted my little mantra to her: “Shush . . . shush . . . shush . . . shush . . . it's okay . . . it's okay . . . it's okay.” In no time, she was a puddle in my arms. Anna had tears rolling down her face. I placed the little dog in Anna's arms. I could tell it was a happily-ever-after moment. It was like they were made for each other.

“I can't believe they took her puppies!” Anna said. As she held that little dog, her fury over the injustice grew. “What the hell were those people thinking?”

I realized at that moment that I wouldn't want to cross this chick. She was pretty tough. I'd rather have her as a wingman than an enemy.

We finished doing rounds with the dogs around noon. Anna was anxious to get back to San Juan to have the little dog checked out by a vet. It looked like Anna was taking someone back with her to Boston.

I couldn't have been happier.

I
found the second horse, drawn and quartered by pickup trucks, a tiny puppy curled up inside the bloody carcass for warmth. Later I found the rest of the litter nursing on the poisoned corpse of their mother. The puppies were sweet and playful, but it was obvious they weren't healthy.

I got some shampoo from the truck and took the pups to the shallow water along the shore to give them a proper bath. The water was warm, so it wouldn't be too much of a shock to their delicate little systems. They needed to be cleaned up and disinfected. Afterward, I sat in the back of the truck with the hatch open, cuddling them in a towel to warm them up while I made some phone calls. I left messages with Melanie, Nancy, and Martha. For once their fixation on puppies could be a help here. I tried to nurse the little guys from baby bottles filled with artificial mother's milk, but they weren't interested. At least they enjoyed the canned puppy food I put down for them. I made a little nest for them in an empty room in the boathouse, separate from the main puppy room so the other puppies wouldn't get sick.

The following afternoon, Martha called me.

“Sandra found the new puppies this morning,” she told me. “How could you isolate them like that? It's cruel, Steve.”

“Martha, they had to be quarantined. They could have parvo or distemper. We need to get them checked out and treated before putting the other puppies at risk.”

It was too late. Sandra had already put the sick puppies in with the others.

Over the next few days, I noticed that some of the other puppies were starting to show signs of illness. And then one morning, I discovered all the puppies were gone. I called Sandra.

“Angel and I took them to San Juan so they can go to shelters in the States.” This was the first time they hadn't checked with me first in a while.

I was furious, but not because they had taken the dogs without my okay. In any other circumstance, I'd have been thrilled that the dogs were on their way to potential homes. But if the puppies were sick and sent to a shelter in the States, the entire project could be compromised.

That Saturday I took two cases of bleach to disinfect the puppy room. Eight gallons of toxic cleaner and six hours later, Sandra and I had nearly suffocated cleaning the place up.

For days I waited for word about the puppies they had taken, but nothing. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. A week later, I heard through the grapevine that some of the puppies they had sent to a shelter in the Northeast had arrived very sick. They were severely dehydrated from vomiting and diarrhea. They died shortly thereafter. Apparently the same thing happened to another rescuer who had taken some of the puppies in until they got flights off the island. The sick puppies nearly wiped out all the healthy rescue pups she had in her home.

I had buried more than a thousand dogs. I had named each of them, fed and nurtured and cared for every single one. I had given them time, food, medicine, and love. With a lot of hard work, I'd managed to turn them back into healthy dogs. I'd socialized them and taught them tricks so that if they ever had the opportunity to move to a real home, they'd be ready. Instead, they were forever consigned to the burial ground at the beach.

Melanie Shapiro and Nancy Guilford heard from a contact of theirs high up the chain of command in the San Juan Police Department that I was being targeted by just about everyone with a vested interest in cleaning up the beach. They were killing my dogs to intimidate me—hanging, poisoning, decapitating, dismembering, torching—nothing was beyond them. They knew my routines and where I walked on the beach.

Everybody I spoke to suggested I stop going to the beach—neighbors, acquaintances, Pam's coworkers.

And I was finally near the breaking point. For the past few months I had started limiting my wandering around the beach to an area close enough to my truck to make a quick getaway. I had become paranoid about every vehicle that passed or was parked in the near distance. I knew I was being watched. If I approached a vehicle, it quickly sped away. Where once I had left my weapons in my truck, now I carried them with me at all times. I'd practiced reaching for them so many times, I knew exactly how quickly I could access the machete or Taser.

One morning a couple of fishermen and their wives came to talk to me. They'd just seen me carrying a couple of dead dogs across the parking lot to the burial ground.

“We've seen what you do here for a long time now. People here talk about you. They say you are a hated man.”

I had pissed off too many people by going to the media and exposing the problems at the beach. How sad was it that people wanted to kill me because I fed dogs? But I realized it went deeper than that. What I was doing was interfering with their pocketbooks, and making their culture look bad.

But I wasn't ready to stop. Another morning, another day at the beach. I spotted several of my dogs lying on their sides on the gravel in the middle of the parking lot. Occasionally the dogs would sun themselves, but this was different. They didn't move when I drove closer. The rest of the pack filtered out of the jungle slowly, walking in front of the truck so that I had to be careful not to bump them.