The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach (4 page)

I finally recounted the day's events to Pam as we were getting supper ready. I told her I couldn't believe how sweet the dogs were, considering how badly beaten they appeared to be. Talking to Pam about it was like seeing it all through a different set of eyes and helped me process everything I'd seen. I flipped through mental images of the different dogs. The sadness felt like a hole in my chest.

“Be careful out there,” she said. “You don't know the island.”

“I'll be extra vigilant. Don't worry.”

As if that made any difference. Of course she'd worry.

I was awakened during the night by another heavy storm. The pounding rain and cacophonous thunder were like nothing I'd ever experienced. I thought of the dogs at the beach and how terrified they must be. I didn't sleep much after that. I knew from my experience in wilderness survival that when you don't feel well, even when the air temperature is warm, you still feel cold and miserable. Most of those dogs had little to no hair and were suffering from severe malnutrition, so they must be in excruciating misery. I hoped they had at least found shelter in the abandoned boathouse on the beach.

When the alarm went off in the morning, I was exhausted, but I sprang to my feet in anticipation of what I needed to do that day. As Pam got ready for work, I loaded the truck with the food, water, and medical supplies I'd picked up the night before. I planned to head straight back to the beach after I dropped her off at work.

As I left Pam at the gated entrance to her workplace, she said, “Watch your back, okay?”

Aside from all the warnings Pam's coworkers had already given us about being careful outside Palmas del Mar, Pam had been talking with one of the local women at her office about what I'd found at the beach. The woman had immediately expressed concern for my safety and suggested that Pam persuade me to steer clear of that area. I didn't really understand why, but in time it would become all too clear.

“I'll check in every few hours, I promise,” I told Pam, even though I'd noticed the day before that I didn't get much of a cell phone signal at the beach.

I flew down the highway toward the coast, anxious to see how the dogs had fared during the night. I had butterflies in my stomach as I drove the final long stretch of jungle road to the beach. I hoped I wouldn't be burying Blue Eye or any of the others today.

A
s I parked on the edge of the sand, I spotted a few dogs stretching and yawning. They looked tired but happy to see me as I got out of the truck. As I would learn over the coming weeks, the dogs had learned to hide in the sand or along the perimeter of the jungle. You only saw them if they wanted you to. I looked around for the dogs I'd been with the day before.

Blue Eye lay curled up in a ball in the sand. I wondered if my fears of finding him dead had come to pass. “Hey, Blue Eye!” I called out to him. I didn't expect him to know his name—I just wanted to get his attention. He raised his head and staggered to his feet. I rushed over so he didn't have so far to travel.

He wagged his bony, hairless tail and pranced around with excitement as best he could. He couldn't bend his legs properly. He had no muscle mass to control his limbs, so he looked like a stick-figure drawing wobbling around. It was painful to watch him expend so much energy just to greet me.

I slowly made my way back to the truck to get the supplies out of the back. I organized the bowls so that each dog had his own dish of dry food mixed with canned soft food. All the dogs sat patiently waiting for their breakfast.

There were a few new faces. A large male I had seen the day before was standing off to the side, quietly observing. He was covered in battle scars across his face and body; some of them looked like they had been inflicted by humans. This old guy hadn't let me pet him yet, but I figured he'd come around when he felt more comfortable. I had a feeling he was a good dog. Despite his wounds, he was in far better condition than many of the others. His stoic nature was likely what had kept him alive. The other dogs watched him as he watched me, following his lead. I suspected he was most likely the leader of this pack of strays.

I set the feeding bowls down and watched how the dogs behaved. Some were so excited by the prospect of food that they spun in circles. Others sat patiently, fanning the sand and gravel with their tails, waiting for my okay. The puppies couldn't contain themselves and dove right in, wolfing down the food and water, stepping and sitting in the bowls, spilling food all over the place. There was no sign of a mother.

Blue Eye and some of the weaker dogs ate more respectfully and slowly. They felt no need to rush. As I had the day before, I put my hand on their heads and then slowly moved it toward their bowls; they'd lift their heads for a moment and try to lick my hand and face, then return to munching. They showed no signs of aggression toward me whatsoever.

The temptation of the food, water, and attention was becoming too much for the big leader, but still he kept his distance. I walked away from the bowls and pretended to do something in the back of the vehicle. I watched through the side window of the truck as he took the opportunity to approach the feeding area. As he walked forward, the others respectfully parted and made way for him. He went from bowl to bowl, tasting from each. As he ate, the more experienced dogs backed off and waited for him to finish. Some of the young males attempted to challenge him, going for the food before he gave the signal that it was okay. The large dog bared his teeth and growled, but it ended immediately. Order was reestablished. The only wounds were to the younger dogs' pride. They would have to eat last.

The feeding ritual went on day after day through the next week. I knew I had to gain the trust of the alpha dog in order to be fully accepted by the pack. Slowly but surely, he began to warm up. He still wouldn't let me near enough to pet him, but I knew that if I was patient and waited, I would have a friend for life. I loved the challenge of seeing how far I could push them without scaring them off. I've always felt that in order to get past one's fears and heal, one needs to confront the very thing that caused the fears to begin with. I remembered having similar feelings about the challenge of working with orphaned children in Southeast Asia. I knew I had my work cut out for me, but I loved it.

F
or five nights straight, Pam listened to my stories about the dogs.

“Will you come with me this weekend?” I asked Friday evening when I picked her up from work.

“Absolutely. I'd like to put faces to all these dogs you keep talking about.”

“It's not pretty, you know that, right?”

As we drove down the isolated road toward the beach the following morning, I prepared her as best I could for what she was going to see.

“But watch what they do when we get there,” I said afterward, to give her something positive to look forward to. I wanted her to understand why I'd gotten so attached.

As soon as they heard my truck, the dogs, some of which had established their own little routine of waiting for me at the entrance to the beach each morning, came running (and tottering, limping, and dragging—whatever they could manage). They followed alongside until I came to a stop. I gave a little whistle (which I modeled after the coquis' cry) to summon the dogs that hadn't heard the truck. As Pam and I got out, they were all around us, excited to see me and curious about this new person I'd brought for them to sniff.

For Pam, it was love at first sight. It appeared the feeling was mutual.

Years earlier, when we lived in California, Pam had volunteered at a local shelter. She wasn't afraid of dogs of any size. But it didn't take long for reality to sink in. Within moments of our arrival, tears were rolling down her face. Even after everything I'd told her, she hadn't imagined what bad shape the dogs were in.

“I just want to hold them,” she said crying. It was killing her that she couldn't, but the wounds on some of them made it too painful for them to be touched. It was also likely that many of them had never known the loving hand of a kind human. Yet they seemed to sense her pain and tried to comfort her, wagging their tails and nuzzling her arms and legs with their noses. The dogs' selflessness in looking after a human—a stranger—confirmed why I needed to do everything I could to ease their suffering.

We spent the morning sitting with them in the sand as they fell asleep. Their physical condition hadn't improved, but their spirits seemed brighter than when I'd found them at the beginning of the week. Even the sickest ones in the group had a new sparkle in their eyes.

“It's so obvious it's not about the food, Steve,” Pam said. “They just want our attention.”

She was right. Even with everything these dogs had clearly been through, human kindness was still their greatest reward.

And then the real miracle happened. The big leader came up behind Pam and nudged her arm, asking for a pet. After watching me interact with his pack all week, he was finally ready to get some affection. After Pam had stroked him a bit, he let me caress his face.

By early afternoon, this isolated beach started to come to life with other humans. When I came during the week, the beach was a ghost town. The only people I'd seen were the occasional fisherman or someone in an official-looking car from the local municipality driving by slowly and staring at me with the dogs. But now a dozen families were there setting up for a picnic. As the crowd and noise escalated, the dogs became upset and started to pace.

Before I knew what was happening, a couple of guys on motorcycles were racing around, narrowly missing the dogs and us. Pam and I stood up to gather our things and pack the truck. Just off to the side, we heard a hollow thud followed by yelping and the sound of someone laughing. As I turned to look, I saw a dog running away from a guy throwing rocks. Without thinking, I ran between the guy and the dog.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, throwing my hands up in the air.

He laughed for a moment until he realized I wasn't joking.

“Get back here!” I heard Pam yell. But I wasn't going to back down. The rock thrower and I stared each other down for a minute until he started to look uncomfortable and walked away.

As I turned to walk back to the truck, I was a little surprised to see the pack leader and some of the stronger, healthier dogs at my side. I had been so focused on the guy throwing rocks that I hadn't seen them. They hadn't made a sound.

I knelt down to give them a pat. “Thank you for standing by me,” I told them. It was clear that they were as intent on protecting me as I was them. As I looked into the big leader's eyes, I remembered a large stuffed animal my grandparents had given me when I was a young boy. Leo the Lion had been my protector when I was afraid to be alone after my dad died. The big leader had found his name: Leo, King of the Beach.

Pam and I left with tears streaming down our cheeks. As we pulled away, I noticed in the rearview mirror that the dogs weren't following the truck like they had before. Instead, they disappeared into the dense jungle, as if they knew it wasn't safe for them on the beach once I left.

When we returned the next morning, there were a few new dogs on the beach, watching us from a distance. They never worked up the courage to approach us, but I figured they would in time. What was more unusual was that some of the familiar dogs didn't show up when I brought out breakfast.

“Stay here, I'm going to have a look around,” I told Pam. As the pack ate, she kept them company while I headed down the beach looking for the stragglers. The search, however, was a bust. I just assumed they had found food elsewhere that day. I'd have to look again tomorrow.

Just like on Saturday, the beach got busy by early afternoon—cars and motorcycles zipping around, loud music pounding, people drinking and screaming. Some beachgoers chased the dogs away to make room for their hammocks. As we started to pack the supplies into the truck, the dogs sensed it was time to take shelter and retreated to the jungle as we headed out.

I couldn't put my finger on it, but I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach as we drove home that afternoon.

M
onday morning, there was no sign of the weekend revelers. I was alone with the pack again. However, the missing dogs from Sunday didn't show up for the morning feeding again. So afterward, I went in search of them by foot.

I started walking down the single-track road to the left of the beach entrance, trailed by a few of the dogs. It was a narrow, overgrown road that led deeper into the jungle. I'd often seen dogs emerging from there when I arrived each morning. It was peppered with rain-filled potholes and crowded with dense jungle growth. As I made my way along, pushing branches and vines to the side, the dogs followed. I soon picked up the sweet-putrid smell of death wafting in on the sea breeze from my right.

As I moved closer to the stench, I was stopped by a tall, vine-covered chain-link fence. On the other side, I saw the weed-riddled parking lot of the abandoned boathouse that had been left to the elements and the dogs. I'd seen the boathouse's enormous metal corrugated walls and roof from the main beach before, but I'd never ventured close enough to go in. The smell of decay was so strong I could taste it in the back of my throat. I slid my sweat-soaked shirt up over my nose to quiet my gag reflex. It helped, but only a little. Looking through the diamond mesh of the fence, I saw three of my dogs lying motionless on the ground. They looked as though they'd been beaten with a baseball bat. I could see rocks embedded in their broken bodies, and other large rocks scattered nearby.

They must have been trying to escape under the fence to get away from whoever had been chasing them. One of the young females had managed to get only halfway under the fence before she was killed. Her body blocked the escape route for the two dogs that lay dead behind her.