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I look up from the sick dog lying on the stainless steel table and read Gandhi's words once again. Fortunately Dr. Blanco included the verses in Spanish so I can practice my newly acquired second language while I wait patiently for the veterinarian to enter the exam room. "La grandeza du una nacion," the greatness of a nation; "progreso moral," moral progress; and "la protection de hombre contra la crueldad del hombre," the protection by man from the cruelty of man.
The words are literally burned into a wooden plaque hanging on a hospital wall here in La Paz, capital of Baja California Sur. The fresh breeze coming off the Sea of Cortez seldom finds its way across the vibrant city to my favorite vet's office, but when it does, it provides a blessed relief from the stifling heat and humidity. I note no such luck today and snap open my ever-present silk fan. Brilliant amber and gold flowers painted on deep green silk flicker with each snap of the wrist, the colors in sharp contrast to the weary yellow walls.
My attention drifts from the plaque on the wall to the animal in my care. He is too sick to be much of a handling problem. Despite my best efforts I was unable to provide adequate medical care at my casita in Todos Santos. The next logical step called for me to bundle the critter into my gutted Toyota mini-van and make the 45-mile trip from the Peninsula's Pacific Coast northeast to the Sea of Cortez. Such trips all-too-often resulted in the ultimate form of "help" found at the end of a lethal injection.
I rub the street dog's sparse and scabby scruff and whisper into his tattered ear the comforting "good dog" chant. I imagine his coat, if it ever does comes back in full, may be true black (the hair of street dogs often appears reddish black due to severe sunburn). Long minutes pass in the sweltering heat and my eyes eventually wander over the broken linoleum flooring to the glass-fronted medicine cabinets. Unlike a typical veterinary office in the U.S., bottles and boxes full of readily available medicines are stacked in plain sight. Full-color, before-and-after photos of seriously injured - and then mended - dogs line the back of the cabinet. Clients can also study various diagrams that trace the life cycle of the numerous parasites that thrive along this Tropic of Cancer.
The cabinet gives me another chance to practice my Spanish, in some ways an easier lesson than the one found in the wooden plaque overhead. Spanish, the official language of Mexico, is a Romance language descended from Latin. When it comes to a medical term, the Latin is somewhat more apparent and, as a result, the word more recognizable even to a native English speaker. The bottles of medicinas contain either tabletas or capsulinas or perhaps come in a liquida form. The medicine itself can also sound familiar - ciprofloxacina, doxycyclina, amoxicilina - all trustworthy friends to those working for the welfare of animals. The numerous parasites are a different story. Why a flea becomes a pulga, a worm a gusano, and a tick a garrapata is beyond me, much like my ability to trill the double "r" found in the latter.
And although the layout of the hospital is similar to most northern counterpoints, the lack of strict sanitation is routinely marked by floors flecked with blood and corners crammed with dirt and dog hair. So, too, is the barking of the healthy, robust rottweilers the doctor keeps in the back kennel for blood transfusion purposes. I had on more than one occasion been grateful to those rotties for saving the life of some sick, malnourished street dog.
"Buenos dias, Dr. Blanco, como estas?" I warmly greet the handsome, clean-shaven man of nearly 50 who had many times over earned my trust and respect. Because the training of a full veterinarian in Mexico is basically on par with that of a veterinary technician in the U.S., we gringos seek out vets with more years of experience. Dr. Blanco's compassion and bedside manner are an added bonus.
Between my broken Spanish and the good doctor's equally challenged English, I manage to convey all that I had done - or had attempted to do - to alleviate the animal's suffering. I also try to convey my thoughts on what might be a possible course of action, always deferring to the wisdom of "El Doctor." Today I am in luck and leave with a box of antibiotics, a jar of anti-fungal cream, and a promising plan of action. A blessed reprieve has been granted this animal.
*****
How had I come to be here in a foreign land attempting to speak a foreign language and care for animals I would otherwise be completely unaware? Only a few summers ago I had been living the comfortable California dream in my sprawling ranch-style home in the foothills of the Sierras, a stone's throw from where gold was discovered. Although I now live just 1,500 miles to the south, my lavender garden, hyacinth-filled pond and acre of spreading oaks seem a world apart.
This journey from an upscale neighborhood in California to a vet's office in La Paz remains hard for me to understand and even harder to explain. I know that for me the change of heart hinged upon a paradigm shift, a transformation in my personal view point that went from thinking of our world as a place full of animals and people to thinking of our world as a place full of living things, all of whom worthy of our love, respect and protection. Such an epiphany, one that encompasses both heart and mind and is key to the passion behind animal rescue, makes it difficult to explain to others who haven't experienced such a change. As one long-time rescuer once put it: "You either speak Russian or you don't."
But why help animals and not people? My response to that often-asked question is simply: It doesn't matter whom or what we help, as long as we help some one or some thing. If every person extends a helping hand to another living creature, the world will be a far better place.
And why Mexico and not the U.S.? Because, although there continues to be cruelty toward and neglect of animals in our nation, we have over the years developed enough systems to make inroads into the problem. Since the end of the Civil War in the 1860s there has been a marked increase in kindness toward animals and acknowledgment of their worth as companion animals. Although the Humane Society of the United States was founded nearly a century later in 1954, the year I was born, local efforts had already been established. I am certain that the people of Mexico, currently faced with widespread poverty and rudimentary educational systems, will eventually adopt similar attitudes once their basic needs are met.
My husband Alan and I experienced this shift in perception regarding animals, and the ensuring need for animal welfare, at about the same time. We first became involved in the rescue of Shar-pei dogs a few years back, not out of particular love of the breed but because these dogs seem to suffer mightily from "rushed breeding" since their introduction to North America in the 1970s. Neglect of the ensuing costly, life-threatening health problems results in a large number of miserable shar-peis. In terms of medical care needs and cost, they rank up there with the English Bulldog.
Our first puppy was a case-in-point. We adopted Gus, a purebred Shar-pei, from a reputable breeder after much web-based research. This wrinkly, lovable, fawn-colored pup came with just about every Shar-pei malady imaginable. He had chronic ear infections, on-going skin irritations, a sensitive stomach and two stick-straight hind legs that eventually required knee surgery.
Gus was also a poster puppy for entropion, a condition where excess skin surrounding the eye causes the eyelids to roll in and the eyelashes to scratch the surface of the cornea. If left unchecked, this constant irritation eventually ulcerates the cornea and can lead to blindness. Gus required three surgeries to correct his case.
While we were willing and thankfully able to meet all of Gus's medical needs, it was a genetic disease unique to the Shar-pei breed that finally claimed our little guy. Familial Shar-pei Fever, or FSF as it is known among owners and specialists, is a hereditary inflammatory disorder. Many dogs develop kidney failure but Gus never lived out that particular death sentence. He came down with a bout of FSF on Christmas Eve of 2001 and died of heart failure three days later while being treated at the nearby Veterinary Hospital at the University of California, Davis. He wasn't yet two years old and his maintenance and medical costs had crossed the $10,000 mark.
So we swore our next dog would be a rescue dog, not one ordered from a breeder. We contacted California Shar-pei Rescue in Redding, Calif., and submitted our application for one of its many rescued animals. Like most rescue organizations, CSPR relies upon donations and volunteer efforts to provide medical care and a home for dogs waiting to be adopted (Anna and Rich Payne, founders of CSPR, routinely care for 30 to 40 dogs on their 10-acre parcel east of Redding). Prospective adopters fill out an application and undergo a home study before they are considered good candidates. Alan and I passed the test.
We were given our first rescue dog Sasha, a black Shar-pei who had suffered several broken bones and loads of road rash as a result of a car accident. Her previous owners had been unwilling or unable to pay for the needed veterinary services and CSPR stepped in, paid the bills and brought Sasha into the operation. Although she is now partially blind from cataracts and has lost much of her hearing, Sasha remains my "go-with" dog and constant companion after all these years.
We slowly became more involved in the rescue operation. Alan redesigned their website and added more advanced features such as online applications. I became a driver, removing all but the two front seats in my mini-van in an effort to hold more dog crates (I could eventually squeeze in six). My personalized license plate, a birthday gift from Alan, read "PEI RSQ," and my van suffered more doggy "accidents" and other bodily fluid disasters than anyone could imagine. I even had to pay for some serious car detailing after escorting a litter of Shar-pei puppies confiscated from a backyard breeder in Southern California to the Northern California refuge 400 miles away.
For two years I traveled from one end of the state to the other, picking up previously condemned dogs from various shelters and delivering them to the main rescue operation for evaluation and, hopefully, placement. The 40,000 miles or so I drove on behalf of rescue efforts also included home visits to prospective adopters and sometimes even delivery of a new family member. My saddest moments included evaluating a mixed breed at a shelter as to his or her true shar-pei-ness, or gauging the temperament and thereby "place-ability" of a particular dog. More than once I drove off knowing that my impression, if negative, could be a death sentence for the dog in question.
We also began to foster dogs, often those in need of specialized medical care but with a promising future ahead. If they failed to get better we sometimes squeezed the newly christened "sanctuary dog" into our growing family (more than once we crept over the legal limit). We became something of specialists in skin-related problems and had many bald dogs living with us, all wrapped in sweaters during chilly foothill weather. We also cared for blind or low-vision dogs, proclaiming that "Blind Dogs See with Their Hearts" on the camper shell window of our old Toyota truck.
We could have very well stayed entrenched in animal rescue in California but sometime during the fall of 2004, Alan and I were presented with a business opportunity in Baja California. Alan's technical background made him a natural to provide solar energy to gringos living off-the-grid in Mexico. Also, his interest in satellite communications would prove popular among ex-pats missing their email and satellite TV.
After a brief visit to Baja California in November, recounted in the first chapter titled "Diego," Alan and I put our house on the market, packed up our remaining belongings and moved to Todos Santos, a relatively sleepy little artist colony facing the Pacific Ocean. For me the move meant I could pursue my dream of working full-time for the welfare of animals in a country that sorely needed my services. I planned to leave behind writing or website development projects in the U.S. and fund my half of our Mexican venture from the sale of my jewelry. This meant letting go of my five-year anniversary gift from Alan: a one-carat, emerald-cut diamond framed on either side by half-carat diamonds in the same cut, all set in platinum. It remains one of the most beautiful rings I have ever seen but I never doubted that the few thousand dollars it brought would go far to relieve much suffering in one particular developing country down South.
Money from the sale of my jewelry proved woefully insufficient and my "dream" of working full-time for the welfare of animals eventually encountered a serious run-in with reality. What I thought might be a lifetime of service ended after three short years and I eventually returned to the Sierra foothills with a broken heart, a fragile mind and a drinking habit no longer under my control.
*****
I bid Dr. Blanco, "Adios, y que tenga un buen dia," the Mexican equivalent of "have a good day." With the help of his ayudante Jose, I load the now-exhausted dog into the back of my van. The blinding August sun comes out from behind a bone-thin cloud and I am grateful for the shaded parking area the doctor has provided for his clients. I slowly pull the van into the busy street filled with flirting, jaywalking teenagers, dressed in starched white shirts and requisite plaid skirts or blue pants. The high school across from the doctor's office has just let out and the drive through La Paz out to the caraterra leading home becomes even more of a challenge than usual.
I stop midway at my favorite tienda in San Pedro for an icy Pacifico beer (these miniscule neighborhood markets are often ranked by how cold they serve their beer, Pacifico being the favorite of most locals, ex-pats and nationals alike; this particular tienda received high marks). Drinking and driving is illegal in Mexico but for some reason folks encounter little or no hassle from the policia. And besides, I seem to need an ever-increasing amount regardless of the hour to keep up my ever-flagging spirits.
I heave a sigh of relief as I climb back into my air-conditioned van and tip back the glistening, amber-colored bottle. As with so many trips before, I welcome the cold burn that promises relief both from the heat and the weariness of the day. A quick visual check finds the dog behind me sprawled out on several well-worn, although clean and brightly colored pieces of fleece. Thankfully, he is oblivious to my concerns or his surroundings of the moment. "Looks like both St. Francis and Gahndi are watching over you today," I murmur to my shaggy, somewhat smelly friend. My promise of protection was made good more day.
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Cara, named for the highway she was found wandering along, grew into a beautiful German Shepherd mix. She was so dehydrated from living in the desert that she choked on the dry dog food we initially tried to feed her. She was placed with an American citizen living on the Baja and has become his devoted companion and watch dog.
Three very lucky kittens I took North on a visit to my hometown. Two were adopted and the third, Lucy, peeking out at the top, wound up staying with my mother in Santa Maria. They're pictured here at the cat house of the El Refugio de Animales in Pescadero.
Noche lived at the soccer stadium in the middle of town. He suffered a broken hip and a terrible case of mange. But he fully recovered from surgery and grew all of his hair back. We discovered he was a cocker spaniel mix! Noche was adopted by a Mexican family and even enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in the house.
Perlita, or "little pearl," a puppy found very ill and sleeping underneath a picnic table. She made a full recovery and was placed with a Mexican family.
We eventually had 19 cats and kittens living with us, including Nube and Pinta pictured here. They were part of a litter found in a filing cabinet at a local warehouse. We still have nine of our original "fosters."
Sammy, a very fierce and loyal streetdog, became our most devoted animal. We repaired his broken foot and treated him for two different deadly diseases. Sammy showed us what it meant to be a survivor against all odds.
An endless beach was only minutes from our home and we'd take our dogs whenever we could. Here Lulu is enjoying a game of "chase" followed by Sandy. Lulu came to us as a puppy while Sandy was found roaming the fields and suffering from severe mange. Nearly all of our rescue dogs got along extremely well except for alpha males such as Sammy.
It is possible to hold three cats at one time. .... Billy, Curly and Q were as sweet as any Mexican cats could come greeted me warmly every morning before the sun came up.
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