It all happened rapidly. I was running for the door of the vet; trying to pry the thick metal door up it's old rickity rollers. I had no idea Sam and Dunia were following so close behind; running with the dog in their arms. The dog flopped fiercely on the ground, at the doorstep of her vet clinic; foam, saliva and drool clinging around it's mouth. Then came more shit. Eventually, we would pause long enough to notice it was down the front of Sam's clothes from transporting the dog off the street and into the clinic. This cocktail of smells lurked in the air for hours after returning home and even after scrubbing our skin raw in the shower.
On the stoop, Dr. Dunia injected the dog over and over; whilst muttering 'es malo, es malo'. She pleaded with the dog to hang on. Within three minutes of opening the doors, we had the dog on the table and Dunia was directing us on how to help her, 'mantenga este brazo, dame cinta, necesito alcohol y algodón' [maintain this arm, give me tape, I need alcohol and cotton], as passerby-ers looked in with horror. The dog's body continued to seize and she struggled to apply an iv. It took all three of us to hold it down and keep it still.
I had abruptly left my friends; mid conversation, in route for a post-dinner dessert in the plaza. A staggering dog had caught everyone's attention. Somehow the majority seemed to ignore the dog. The surrounding people disappeared and my eyes tracked the dog. It plopped itself in front of the restaurant we had been eating dinner at, just minutes ago. My intention of going to the dog was to give it water. Intuition took over and I quickly grabbed my phone and called Dunia, the vet who lives in La Cruz. I had seen her a few hours ago, quickly saying hello as we passed on the street. She heard the urgency in my voice and knew something was wrong. Within seconds, she was running down the street.
When the dog stabilized, Dunia let us know she would be staying the night with him. Her young daughter and son had walked down to the clinic and their mom told them they would be 'camping' tonight. She wasn't sure whose dog it was but recognized it as a street dog who lived around the marina. She let us know that if he survived the worse would be in several days; typical of an animal who ate rat poison, left out in the garbage of a nearby restaurant. We agreed to come by in the morning to discuss paying her for the medical supplies to help the dog.
We walked home along the dark cobblestone streets in silence; attempting to process, what had just occurred. It was only a few hours later in the evening when she sent us a text.
The dog had respiratory distress and had died.
On the stoop, Dr. Dunia injected the dog over and over; whilst muttering 'es malo, es malo'. She pleaded with the dog to hang on. Within three minutes of opening the doors, we had the dog on the table and Dunia was directing us on how to help her, 'mantenga este brazo, dame cinta, necesito alcohol y algodón' [maintain this arm, give me tape, I need alcohol and cotton], as passerby-ers looked in with horror. The dog's body continued to seize and she struggled to apply an iv. It took all three of us to hold it down and keep it still.
I had abruptly left my friends; mid conversation, in route for a post-dinner dessert in the plaza. A staggering dog had caught everyone's attention. Somehow the majority seemed to ignore the dog. The surrounding people disappeared and my eyes tracked the dog. It plopped itself in front of the restaurant we had been eating dinner at, just minutes ago. My intention of going to the dog was to give it water. Intuition took over and I quickly grabbed my phone and called Dunia, the vet who lives in La Cruz. I had seen her a few hours ago, quickly saying hello as we passed on the street. She heard the urgency in my voice and knew something was wrong. Within seconds, she was running down the street.
When the dog stabilized, Dunia let us know she would be staying the night with him. Her young daughter and son had walked down to the clinic and their mom told them they would be 'camping' tonight. She wasn't sure whose dog it was but recognized it as a street dog who lived around the marina. She let us know that if he survived the worse would be in several days; typical of an animal who ate rat poison, left out in the garbage of a nearby restaurant. We agreed to come by in the morning to discuss paying her for the medical supplies to help the dog.
We walked home along the dark cobblestone streets in silence; attempting to process, what had just occurred. It was only a few hours later in the evening when she sent us a text.
The dog had respiratory distress and had died.
