The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach (10 page)

My passion and concern for the dogs had set me apart from the rest of my species, it seemed, and I felt as alone and abandoned as the dogs. It wasn't enough to make me want to stop, but it was making me feel increasingly isolated, especially in those early hours of the morning when solutions are hardest to find. I was starting to feel more at home with the dogs on the beach than anywhere else. It was where I always wanted to be, but it wasn't mine, I didn't own it, and it was dangerous.

The following morning, I parked my truck near the metal storage containers by the boathouse. Kyle was the first one to greet me. “Hey, buddy, did you sleep okay?” I said as I knelt down to rub his ears and give him the affection he craved: the affection I'd come to realize that
I
craved as well.

However, the rest of the pack hadn't shown up yet. Usually, within moments of my arrival, I was surrounded by wagging tails and grinning faces nudging my legs and hands, but this morning was different. The dogs were slow to leave the safety of the jungle. Something was wrong. Maybe it was due to the storm the night before.

I filled the food bowls as the pack, which at this point numbered sixty-eight by my count, arrived hesitantly. They munched away on their breakfast but kept a close eye on me. Kera, a Jack Russell terrier, had recently given birth to a litter of five puppies, so I began loading up the two five-gallon pails I carried with supplies for them, as well as any other newcomers I might find along the way.

As I turned to walk across the parking lot toward a makeshift den Kera had made for her pups under a conveyer belt alongside the boathouse, the dogs abandoned their food and followed me closely. They knew my routine and rarely left the bowls until they'd finished eating. Now I was certain something was wrong.

I was about ten yards from the boathouse when I heard the first dogs growl. I followed their gaze to the open doorway on my right. Squinting into the sun, it was impossible to make anything out in that dark space. Slowly, my eyes began to adjust.

Uh-oh
.

The silhouettes of two men facing my direction came into view. This couldn't be good. Ten different scenarios flooded my brain at the same time. I knew one thing for certain: They didn't usually hurt the dogs when I was around. At least not in plain sight. They had to be here for another reason.

I was aware of the dogs moving around me, but I didn't dare take my eyes off the men. They moved a few steps forward. One of them shouted something in Spanish and gestured for me to come over.

“No, gracias,” I called out, waving as if to say good-bye.

They signaled again for me to come over, and took a few more steps in my direction. Behind them, more men appeared from the shadows. They wore sweat-stained wifebeater tank tops, and shirts pulled up over their heads and behind their necks.

I couldn't breathe. My heart was pounding in my ears and neck. Then I saw a reflection of light at their side. It confirmed what I dreaded the most: machetes.

“Aw, shit,” I said to myself.

I'd been frozen in one spot, still holding the heavy buckets. I slowly bent my knees and lowered the buckets to the ground, while trying to judge the distance back to the truck without turning my head. I had left my machete and billy club inside. Pam was right: my judgment was starting to get cloudy.

As soon as my hands were free, the men took a few more steps out of the shadows. I felt my dogs lean into the threat. I hadn't realized until then that they'd moved ahead of me.
My
pack wasn't going to let this happen. I could feel an almost electric charge surging through them as they took up positions to fight. The other dogs flanked me, their mouths curled into snarls.

I debated my next move. I slowly drew the keys to the truck from my front pocket. It took incredible concentration to move my left foot, then my right as I began inching toward the vehicle. The dogs continued to stand guard. Any rivalry between the alpha dogs was set aside. They were teaming together, standing shoulder to shoulder, creating a boundary between me and the men. They never once glanced back at me looking for guidance. It was clear that they were taking control of the situation.

Everything seemed still and tense—the jungle, the attackers, the dogs, the ocean, time. The only thing moving was the air, which vibrated with deep, menacing growls.

I continued making small sidesteps toward the truck, keeping my eyes on the men as I went. The dogs followed my lead, taking small steps with me. They were in full battle mode, ready to fight at any cost. I never took my eyes off the gang of men, looking for a signal or a sudden movement that indicated I should start running.

The dogs and I had only gained a short distance when the tension exploded, and the men made their move, breaking into a run toward me. I ran for the truck. The next few seconds seemed to pass in slow motion. I could hear my breathing, my shoes slapping against the gravel. A confused rush of sounds and images flooded my mind—shouting, barking, growling.

Then I heard a single sharp yelp and looked back to see Kyle fall in a heap on the ground. Instead of running away from the attackers, he and the other alphas ran toward the men to cut them off. Kyle was the fastest of the males. He must have gotten there first. He took a massive hit with a machete across his shoulder and deep into his rib cage. I saw him struggle to get up, but he couldn't. The sounds of his yelps of pain mixed with the hollow thuds of metal pipes hitting flesh and bone. I could do nothing to help him.

I reached the truck, the rest of my escorts still surrounding me. Not one dog had abandoned me. They'd either defended or attacked.

Tears and sweat stained my shirt as I fumbled with my keys to start the vehicle, then laid on the horn. The moment the dogs heard the honk and the sound of the engine, they vanished into the jungle.

The men stopped and looked in my direction. I looked through the windshield at the carnage. My eyes stung with sweat and tears.

Dogs lay dead in the gravel ten yards away. Two of them were still moving, but dying fast.

I gripped the wheel and stared at the butchers. I felt more rage than I knew what to do with. These savages had just killed my dogs, whose trust and love I'd worked so hard to earn. I couldn't let them get away with this.

I put the truck in gear. If I gunned it now, I could mow them down before they reached the boathouse. I could end this.

I shook my head clear and watched the men disappear back into the shadows from which they came.

“Cowards!”

It was quiet now except for the sound of the engine and the cold air-conditioning blowing through the vents. I gripped the wheel to stop my hands from shaking. I wondered whether to stay or go. If I got out of the truck and the men came back, then my dogs had died in vain. They gave their lives to save mine, and my head was spinning trying to make sense of what the hell just happened.

I drove the long road from the beach back to civilization. I wasn't afraid anymore, just angry and more hurt than I could have ever imagined.

Out of sheer desperation, I went to the police station. Did I really expect anything would be different this time? Isn't that how they describe insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?

I hoped that this time, when there was a human being threatened instead of a dog, I'd get a different reaction. I was sure that killing island visitors was much worse for tourism than killing stray dogs on the beach. However, the policeman at the counter only shrugged his shoulders.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Your job! Or is that too much to ask?”

“Maybe you don't belong here. You should go home before someone gets hurt.”

The combination of the smart-ass grin he wore and the sarcastic tone in his voice made it obvious I was getting nowhere, so I left the station before I said something I'd likely regret. After my pointless visit to the police, I called Pam to tell her what happened.

“Please don't go back, hon,” she pleaded. “Enough is enough! I don't want to lose you. Not to this.”

I called my brother Barry, who said the same thing.

After talking to them both, I sat in my truck in the middle of town. I felt confused and slightly disoriented. My enemies, whoever they were, they weren't just threatening me anymore. They were actually taking action against me. Was the right to abuse animals so important that they would have killed me?

Finally, I had to go back to the beach, to my friends. Real friends don't run away; they support each other. I had only witnessed Kyle being wounded, but as I had driven away there were others on the ground. Maybe they were still alive. Maybe I could save them. At the very least, I wanted to bury my friends before nightfall. I owed them that.

Despite Pam and my brother's warnings, I couldn't get there fast enough.

Back at the beach, I walked over to the dogs. Kyle was hacked clean through. Two others were also gone.

I dug graves for them. And then, one by one, I carried these heroes to their final resting place. The dogs, including a couple that had been injured in the fight, filtered out of the jungle and fell in behind me as if to pay their respects. My dogs had chosen to die so I could live. They could have run, but they stayed to protect me. They died as dogs, not as discarded trash, destroyed by some pathetic drunk or a sick thug looking for entertainment. This had to be better. I needed it to be better.

My body went through the motions of burying them, but my brain shut down until the last grain of sand filled the final grave. When it was done, I collapsed, two words running through my head:
Now what?

The body being buried could have just as easily been mine.

I
tried the police one more time after the attack at the boathouse.

“I tell you already. Don't go there no more,” the cop said.

“I'm burying two or three dogs a day, man. You've got to do something! Please!”

“It is illegal, what you are doing. You cannot bury any animal on the island without proper authorization. We could have you arrested.”

They were going to arrest
me
? What was wrong with this place?

I felt like I was losing another piece of myself every time I buried another dog. If I didn't do something drastic, nothing would ever change for them. In the meantime, Pam and I were fighting more and more the further down this spiral I traveled. She was watching the man she loved drown in a cause that was likely going to kill him.

I also put her job at risk after a run-in with one of the security guards at her office one evening when I went to pick her up. They usually allowed me to drive inside the gates to spare her walking across the dark parking lot alone, but one night a new guard wouldn't let me in and I lost it. The guard reported me to the company for threatening him, and Pam was called in to speak to HR and her boss.

That night, she was furious. “It's like you can't control yourself anymore,” she said over dinner.

“The guy was an asshole, Pam. He's lucky I didn't kick his ass.”

“This is my job, Steve! You were out of line.”

“All you care about is that damn job!”

“That job is our bread and butter, Steve! What do you think pays for all that dog food? For our house?”

She was completely right. The old me would have handled the situation differently.

I hung my head. “I'm sorry, Pammie. I don't know what's happening to me. I'm losing it. I can feel myself slipping further and further away.”

She reached across the table for my hand. Her eyes filled with tears. “Steve,” she said, her voice quiet now, “my biggest fear is that I'm going to get a call at my office one day telling me you're dead.”

While she had accepted years earlier that she'd likely lose me to a climbing or flying accident, she never imagined it could be a homicide instead.

To save me, to save us, Pam decided to call in reinforcements. She still had contacts at a shelter in California where she'd volunteered years earlier, but they told her that they couldn't take dogs from Puerto Rico because of local rabies laws. After a little Internet research, she found a group called Save a Sato in San Juan. Save a Sato was founded in the midnineties by two women who had basically done what I was doing now—fed strays on the streets of San Juan. They teamed up and started a small animal shelter that had partnerships with a network of no-kill shelters in the States. Pam sent them an e-mail asking for advice or help.

She heard back from Betsy Freedman, Save a Sato's outreach coordinator, who was based in Boston. “Talk to Isabel Ramirez,” she suggested. Isabel was a director at Save a Sato in San Juan. Pam and I felt hopeful for the first time in months.

Sadly, that hope didn't last long.

“I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do for you,” Isabel told Pam when they spoke on the phone. “We've got our hands full here.”

Clearly we were on our own.

Meanwhile, the situation was getting worse on the beach. A few times I saw what appeared to be locals, just regular guys hanging out with their families at the beach for the day, throwing food to the dogs. The dogs would grab the meat and run. Within minutes the dogs would be staggering like drunks until they fell down convulsing and died. A few times I was able to get the scraps before the dogs took them. I could see the beads of rat poison concealed inside the food.

Most weekends there were so many families that the dogs were always at risk of injury or worse. People would get angry when the dogs approached their barbecue pits and would shoo them away. Sometimes, at the end of the day, I'd find one or two dogs with half-eaten hot dogs in their mouths. The poison was so fast acting that they'd hit the ground dead before they could take a second bite.

During the week, it was the guys driving the refinery trucks I worried about. A couple of times I witnessed men jumping out of the trucks and pouring antifreeze into puddles of rainwater or the water dishes I'd set out for the dogs.