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| Photo by Jeff Allen |
The gray has begun its slow, inevitable creep across her
muzzle as she approaches nine years old, but the gray brings me comfort. It means she has lived long past her
execution date, the day I heard the awful scream that brought her into my life. None of it was planned or expected.
I was on a trip with
my Dad, who was researching a motorcycle travel story in a Harley-Davidson side-car
rig for a magazine. We were on our way back home after spending
several days driving up and down the baja peninsula, he on the motorcycle and I
in a trailing van with a photographer and a writer. Until that point, I had always been a dog
lover, but a chain of events brought a little puppy we came to name Bella, into
my life and left an indelible impression on me and changed the way I understand
and experience all dogs.
We first noticed her
as we were sitting around the hotel Pinta hotel in San Ignacio, Mexico. The two
nights we spent there were the most at any location during the week. The hotel looked like an old mission, but
with clean sheets, hot running water and a passable restaurant. The main courtyard had a large pool, giving
the place the feel of an oasis in the hot dry Baja desert.
As all feral dogs in
Baja, she looked like a mix of several breeds.
The most obvious characteristics were that of a German Shepherd and
Doberman. Her hair was short, but had
the same black and tan markings of a Shephard.
Her feet had the high toes of a Doberman with the same posture and deep
chest. Sometimes when she panted, her
forehead wrinkled, making her look like a Sharpei, or a Bull Terrier. Here ears were perhaps the most prominent
feature, floppy and two sizes two big.
She was with her
mother and brother, and all lived under the front porch. It was obvious they were still nursing, not
more than 6-8 weeks old. Bella and her
brother were lively and rambunctious, the mother very reserved and a bit
haggard. The tourists, including our group, took advantage of the opportunity
to feed them table scraps, to steal an intimate moment to give them a little
affection, and for a moment, imagine another life for these dogs. Surely this
small pack belonged to someone associated with the hotel, so the fleeting
moment passed and we went about our business.
Early on our last
morning there, packing to leave, we heard a horrible scream that even now rings
crystal clear in my mind. My first
thought was that one of the dogs had been hit by a car. Her mother was pacing nervously, knowing her
baby was in danger. As we approached the
sound, we found that Bella had been tied in a potato sack and tossed into the
back of a rusty old pickup. Her first ride was going to be her last. My dad and I walked purposefully to the truck
and the driver to try and make sense of the situation.
It was obvious that
the driver had been given instructions to toss this innocent life in the river.
Quickly the conversation turned threatening, and the shouting started.
Though I was livid at
the time, I realize now it was a practical solution for controlling the
overwhelming feral dog population among people with few means. It was surprising her mother had lived long
enough to have puppies. We were told the males are typically spared, though we
have no way of knowing what happened to her brother.
The result of the
exchange between we and the pickup driver was that I owned a new puppy. At the
time I had no idea of the implications, but I was adamant that this little
girl wouldn’t die today.
Before we packed her
in the van, my dad got on his knee, held
Bella’s face to her mother’s and whispered, “Say goodbye to your baby, she’s
going to America and a better life”.
Perhaps it’s foolish, or anthropomorphic, but in my mind her mother
understood the exchange and, though sad, gave us her blessing.
The first few hours of
our little traveler with us in the van she sat in a in a bucket. She smelled like fish and vomited out the effluvium
of a fish carcass, a taco wrapper, chewing gum wrapper, and a mouse skull. I cleaned her up that first night in the
hotel shower and wrapped her in the comforter on the bed. She clearly felt content, safe, and warm
because she barely stirred all night.
The next day we stopped
in Maneadero and got her vaccinations taken care of, preparing for the border
crossing. Finding a veterinarian on the
main street was easy, but describing what I wanted was very intimidating
because I had to explain in Spanish Bella’s story and what I was doing. Fortunately, I had learned enough Spanish to
make this conversation possible, although it was slow going.
The staff in the office was very helpful and
the Veterinarian was understanding and appreciated what we were doing. He saw us immediately and we were out within
an hour vaccination papers in hand. Our stowaway was legal with her first set
of papers.
Approaching the
border we tried enclosing her in the motorcycle side car luggage compartment.
No way, and she let us hear her scream again.
We believed there was a real chance she could be confiscated and we
might never see her again. I was surprised
I could feel such panic over a dog I had known for less than 36 hours. The deep bond was already intact.
After considering
many complicated schemes, we decided a small hiding place under the seat and a
“nothing to declare” were the best option to get her to America.
With my dad driving,
I sat in the back seat, with Bella gently pushed back behind my legs on the
floor and covered with leathers and photography equipment. I was praying she
wouldn’t make a sound, and not squirm out and initiate a conversation of her
own with the guards. In that moment I
knew what it felt like to be a drug dealer, a smuggler, a criminal. I was terrified and electrified at the same
time. A new life was at stake, a beating
heart that needed me to be calm so she could experience life in a truly magical
place called America.
The guard approached
the window and took a painfully slow look around the interior of the van. When was Bella going to appear? Did she just cry? I tried to give him my
lazy, bored and tired Yankee look, but I knew he could read the guilt on my
face and would ask me to step out of the vehicle. After several agonizing
seconds he pulled his head out of the van and inquired about my dad’s travel
humidor full of cigars. “Cubano,” he asked smiling. “Nope, not from Cuba”, me Dad replied. “
Dominican Republic.” With that, the
guard waved us through. I resisted the
impulse to shout out in triumph for Bella, for us, and for getting away with
it. I had a new puppy…but now what?
Before driving back
home, I had to make a stop at my dad’s house in Costa Mesa, California to pick
up my truck before heading home to Sacramento. His career and mine brought us both to
California from Denver, Colorado, where I spent my childhood. The motorcycle industry lured my Dad to
Southern California, while the Air Force brought me to Sacramento.
We stayed for a
while at my Dad’s place and while there, Bella briefly met Maggie, my childhood
Irish Setter who was now twelve. All of our dogs growing up were Irish Setters.
I had forgotten how tall she was. Her
legs were very long, bringing her shoulders
to my waist. Her hair was still
brilliant red in most places, though her face was nearly all gray. She moved much slower and calculated now, but
I could still see the athlete’s grace and power in her body. She gently nudged
me and cried when she first saw me.
Although it had been several years, she remembered me. The loyalty never
wavers.
The two dogs played
a bit, but Maggie soon tired of the new puppy and quickly put her in her place.
The short meeting between the two
insured “the chain” remained intact.
Maggie is gone now, but every dog since my childhood has had contact
with the next, from Sara to Kelly to Maggie to Bella currently.
While driving the eigh
hours home, I tried to figure a way to introduce our new package of boundless
energy to my wife, Nikki, who had no idea what was coming. Growing up, Nikki was never able to have dogs
despite the fact she desperately wanted one.
A month after we were married we picked up our Cocker Spaniel named
Maty, who immediately became the focus of all our attention.
Shortly thereafter,
we got her her a companion and found our second love, Mariah, an extremely
talkative Samoyed. Life was a bit frantic
at first, but we settled into our routine and Maty and Mariah quickly became
strong packmates. Although Nikki and I
had talked about adding a third dog from time to time, we had never quite come
to an agreement. I hoped we could agree
now.
Desperate husbands
have a way of introducing dicey surprises, and I’m no exception. I figured
since it was February, Bella would become a little Valentine. And she’s the
greatest Valentine’s gift I have ever given.
After hastily
parking the car in the garage, I walked into the house and handed my wife a
card. It briefly explained Bella’s
situation and told her to go to the truck to see the “package” (she later told
me she thought I had adopted a Mexican child).
Nikki met Bella with the same excitement and trepidation I
experienced. Here was a cute, needy new
puppy that had to be integrated into our established two dog household, and my
wife’s heart melted.
With a few
scheduling adjustments, the transition into the house was fairly easy at first,
though it certainly had its rough spots later on as Bella attempted to become
the alpha female. Her survival insinct was very strong. This never sat will
with Maty who was definitely the toughest of the three.
Over several years,
they had some nasty confrontations and Bella still has the scars around her
face to prove it. But now that Maty is
gone, the household has settled into a certain calm, Mariah and Bella each
understanding their role and social status. Age has a way of doing that,
whether human or canine. When I look at
Bella and my wife now, I can see a deeper appreciation between them, a genuine
closeness that has developed over time.
Reflecting on the
experience of adopting Bella, I’m convinced her behavior is a lifelong thank
you to humans. She is extremely sweet,
loving, and gentle. There is a bond
between her and I that I’ve not experienced with other dogs. She tells me daily
with her expressive eyes that she knows how lucky she is. When I
look at Bella, I can’t help but think of the thousands of dogs that face the
same fate she did so many years ago. The
number of dogs is so overwhelming, but there are a few organizations dedicated
to helping dogs like her, and it gives me hope.
If you are looking for a new family dog, take some time to research and consider
one of these orphans. You won’t regret your choice. Every day you will know you
made a difference.
I often think of
Bella’s Family and wonder whether they made it or not. Usually the thoughts come when I’m letting
Bella run in a nearby field. Her
euphoria brings me an inner peace, because I know exactly what her fate was nine
years ago. Sometimes when she’s running
she’ll stop abruptly and look back at me, smiling. When that happens, I let the moment burn into
my mind. I look around, take it in, and
remind myself that we gave her more time, the most precious gift of all.
Bella won’t be with
us forever and I’m okay with that. Because we both know, she and I, that far
away in a dusty Mexican town, among the hundreds of stray dogs, that I took a
chance and saved her life. It reaffirms
that her life meant something, and it reminds me that I did something noble
when it was inconvenient.
When she’s asleep,
or when she’s at play, I can look at her and know that it mattered to that one.
That’s enough.
