None of the properties exactly fit the bill, but a few were close, and we made offers, hoping that with a little creativity we could make it work. The agent was friends with some of the owners and assured us that they were animal lovers—a few of the properties had previously kept horses, and we thought we could convert the old stables to kennels—but the deals kept falling apart with no explanation. “The owner changed his mind,” the agent said.
On top of that, Sandra and Angel weren’t that thrilled with the idea when we presented it to them. I think they were concerned about attracting attention to themselves from the people who hated the work we were doing with the dogs at the beach—they were always asking me to keep quiet, like so many others had. And to be fair, they would have been left alone caring full time for the dogs in the middle of the jungle. It wasn’t that appealing an offer.
So even if we found the perfect location, we couldn’t have a shelter without caretakers.
One afternoon, Martha called from Florida to weigh in. She hadn’t been around much lately, but Melanie and Nancy had been keeping her in the loop.
“Maybe you and Pam could live at the shelter.”
“We have a contract on our house, Martha, we can’t just pick up and move. And before you say anything, I don’t see any of you volunteering to relocate either.”
While the shelter effort stalled, things continued to go downhill at the beach. In March I came upon a bunch of guys dragging a horse behind a pickup truck. I was still some distance away when I saw the horse fall down and try frantically to get up, kicking the pickup a few times in the process. It appeared the men inside were not amused. They got out with baseball bats and proceeded to beat her until she stopped struggling, tied her feet together with rope, and resumed dragging her. When they saw me, one of the men got out and cut her loose. The truck took off.
I got out and walked slowly over to her. She was still alive, but barely. Her skin had come off from where she’d made contact with the road. She tried to raise her head to sniff me. I petted her face and talked gently to her until she died. And then I fell apart.
A horse was too big for me to move or bury. I thought about burning her right there, but in the end left her corpse to rot, knowing that its stench might keep the thugs who killed my dogs away. But when the corpse was still there after several days, I couldn’t sit by anymore. It was time for another visit to the mayor’s office.
I spoke to the receptionist at the front desk and asked to see the mayor.
“He is not here.”
I explained the reason for my visit.
“I can send someone down to the beach to speak with you later today.”
They wouldn’t talk to me here, but they’d go out of their way to come to the beach? That didn’t make any sense. Until it did.
The mayor’s assistant, Jose Abril, showed up with a couple of other guys later that day. He was a smart dresser and spoke great English. I was hopeful he’d be sympathetic.
But it quickly became obvious that he was just pretending to care. As he prattled on with small talk, I had a feeling he’d made the trip to put a pacifier in my mouth. I was having trouble being polite.
“I appreciate you coming all the way out here, but what I really want is for the mayor to do something about the constant slaughter of my dogs. And these other mutilated animals are turning up now—the manatees, the horse. He’s got to find out who’s behind all of this.”
Jose took a step toward me and put a hand on my shoulder. His smile disappeared. “Steve, you seem like a nice guy. But you need to stop coming to the beach and talking to the media. Do I make myself clear?”
In the calmest voice I could muster, I said, “Jose, take your hand off my shoulder unless you want to lose it.”
He removed his hand, but he wasn’t backing down. “You’re making a mistake. I don’t think you understand me.”
His two cronies stepped forward.
I put my hand on my hip and pulled open the Velcro flap that held the Taser to my belt. “Back the fuck up. You may think you’re intimidating, but you’re not.”
Jose maintained eye contact with me but put his hand up. The men stopped.
“Look, Steve, I’m about your only friend here,” he said.
I laughed, which seemed to surprise him.
“You have managed to piss off a lot of people in powerful positions. If you don’t stop, they’ll shut you up.”
“Jose, did you just threaten me?”
“Walk away, Steve, and don’t look back. Don’t talk to people. Just enjoy the island and all of its beauty.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, laughing at the outrageousness of what he’d just said.
Even though my brain was begging me to be reasonable, I couldn’t shut up. “Jose, again I ask, are you threatening me?”
“Steve, I think we’re on the same page here,” he said, skirting the question. I guess he thought I would simply comply with his request.
“You guys must feel so tough. But you’re all a bunch of pussies. Three against one? Oh boy!”
Feeling threatened, I reached for my Taser again, but the thought of rotting in a Puerto Rican jail for frying the mayor’s assistant stopped me. I turned and walked away before I changed my mind.
Moments later, sitting in my truck, trying to fit the key in the ignition, I realized how badly I was shaking. My instincts told me this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
I stewed over Jose Abril’s threats for several days. I wanted to get the media involved; someone needed to tell the world what had happened to the horse. I tried to reach Susan Saltaro at Univision, without success. Other media outlets told me they already knew who I was, and that I wasn’t news. Finally, I managed to contact someone at Channel 4 news in San Juan, who agreed to send a reporter to the beach the following morning.
The woman who showed up was dressed to the nines—six-inch heels and a miniskirt that left little to the imagination. She was beautiful. I’m sure she had a loyal viewership. But she spoke nearly no English, and she was clearly uncomfortable with fifty or more dogs sniffing at her legs and jamming their noses up her skirt. She and the cameraman were both disturbed by the sight of the decomposing horse, its legs still tied. It was brutal, but I wanted them to see that I wasn’t making up the story.
Fortunately, the cameraman spoke pretty good English and offered to be our interpreter. In the end, the interview went pretty well. I told her, with his help, about the horse, and the story aired that evening.
The following morning, more than a dozen dogs were missing. I grabbed my weapons from the truck and raced along the path. There they were: garbage bags.
A few days later, Martha called. “Hey, Steve. Sandra told me about the horse, so I called the mayor’s office. I need you to go meet with a guy named Jose.”
“Hell, no!”
“Can I ask why?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Steve, the mayor is really angry with you for going to the media. He’s insisting you apologize.”
“He can kiss my ass, Martha.”
“You should have gone to him first, Steve. Let him handle it.”
“Hey, Martha? When you talked to Jose, did he happen to tell you that we already met about the horse?”
She said nothing.
“I didn’t think so. I asked for their help. Jose threatened me, Martha. I called the media because he did nothing to help. I had to bury a dozen of my dogs the day after the story ran.”
“I’m sorry, Steve. I know it’s hard. But you need to look at the big picture—”
“How many dogs have you buried, Martha?”
She started to cry. I didn’t care.
“Forget the mayor and his apology.”
That evening when I got home, I e-mailed Martha photos I’d taken of the horse and the mutilated dogs in garbage bags.
In the morning, I swung by the mayor’s
office. The receptionist at the front desk looked nervous when I walked in. She recognized me. Before I said anything, she said, “His Honor isn’t in the office today. Would you like to leave a message?”
I saw Jose in the back hallway, close enough to hear what I was saying.
“Yes, actually, I would. Please tell the mayor, ‘Fuck you. You don’t scare me.’”
I turned and walked away. My knees nearly buckled from fear. I wondered if I’d be arrested for threatening a public official.
Martha called that afternoon in tears. She’d looked at the photos I’d sent.
“I had no idea, Steve.” It was hard to make out what she was saying between sobs. “Melanie and I are really worried you’re going to turn up missing one of these days.”
“I am too, Martha.”
“But we have an idea that might help. The next time you find dead dogs, take more pictures like the ones you sent me, and get tissue samples. We’ll hire a forensic specialist to find out how the dogs died.”
“It’s obvious how the dogs died, Martha. Their heads were cut off.”
One morning I came across one of the young mothers wandering around looking lost. For several weeks, I’d seen her with her litter where she kept them hidden safely in the jungle. My first thought was that someone had found her pups and taken them.
The little mother followed me around whimpering. Even when I held her in my arms, she wouldn’t stop. Her teats were engorged with milk. She needed her puppies to nurse. It was going to be extremely painful for her until her milk dried up.
I called Sandra to see if she knew anything about the missing pups. There was no answer, so I left her a message. A couple of days passed without a word. I called again and left another message.
I finally ran into Sandra at the beach.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back,” she said.
When I asked her about the puppies, she looked away sheepishly.
“Sandra?”
“I was worried about them, so I called Martha about them last week. I was afraid they wouldn’t make it.”
“Did you take the puppies to send to Martha?”
“She said she would keep them until they were ready to be adopted.”
“They were three weeks old, Sandra, too young to be separated from their mother. She was taking care of them.”
Sandra was quiet.
“Where are they now?”
“I think Martha flew them to Florida a couple of days ago.”
I turned away to retrieve the food from the back of the truck. The little mother dog was at my feet still whimpering. I picked her up and she nuzzled my neck.
I wanted to call Martha and chew her out for acting without thinking things through. Her heart was in the right place, but she didn’t ask the right questions. Sandra would say anything to get the dogs off the beach.
After settling the dogs down with their morning meal, I broke down and dialed Martha’s office number. As expected, the secretary answered.
“Who may I say is calling?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Sandra Cintron,” I said.
“I’ll transfer you immediately.”
While I was on hold, I wondered what the secretary must have thought about my deep voice.
“Hey, Sandra!” Martha said when she came on the line. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Martha. Thanks for asking.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, Steve. What’s up?” The bubbly tone that had been there a minute ago had disappeared. In truth, I think we were all getting a little sick of each other.
“I know how hard you’re working to help the dogs, and I really appreciate it.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“The puppies you had Sandra send you last week? Do you know how old they were?”
“I was worried they wouldn’t make it, Steve. I had to do something.”
“They were in a safe area,” I said. “They had a great mother taking care of them.”
“I can find homes for puppies easier than I can for adult dogs. You know that is true.”
“But they were too young, Martha! And the mum is under ten pounds—she’d be an easy placement.”
“I didn’t know she was so small.”
“She’s in a lot of pain, Martha. She needed to nurse those pups.”
Martha started to cry.
“I didn’t call to upset you. I just want you to understand that I know these dogs better than anyone, than you, than Melanie, than Nancy. You are all awesome, but please talk to me before you take the dogs. I’ll tell you the truth—those puppies should have gone with their mother. It shouldn’t have happened like this. It can’t happen again.”
“Fair enough,” she said.
“Thanks for listening, Martha. Call me if you need me.”
Soon after that, Pam and I were invited to a party at Nancy Guilford’s house in San Juan. I wasn’t terribly keen on going at first, but then I thought it might be a good opportunity to spend time with the others in a more relaxed setting, away from the horrors at the beach. Pam and I both thought it would be good to unwind and have a laugh for a change.
We were greeted at the door with open arms, handed mojitos, and invited in to join the party. I didn’t know most of the people there, but Nancy took us around to introduce us to the other guests. Apparently Nancy and Melanie had told people what Pam and I were doing in Yabucoa.
We got to talking to a couple of older ladies named Patty and Eleanor who asked lots of questions. “If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call us.”
Thinking I must have missed something, I asked, “How do you know Nancy?”
They chuckled. “We used to do rescue like you. We were the original founders of the oldest dog rescue group on the island. Now we’re too old, but we still do what we can.”
“It’s an honor to meet you!” I said, truly relieved to meet like-minded people. “Thank you for pioneering the way.” I gave them both a hug.
They looked at Pam and said, “Honey, he’s a keeper!”
Pam looked at me and smiled. “Yes, he is.”
As the night wore on and the drinks flowed, Nancy got a little maudlin about the dogs. On her computer, she pulled up some of the photos I’d taken and started to cry. “I would have saved them!” Everyone was looking at her, slack-jawed.
I leaned over to Pam and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.” I noticed that a few other people had the same idea and were edging toward the door.
Before we could make our escape, a young woman grabbed my arm. “Excuse me? Can I come see Dead Dog Beach with you sometime?”
She caught me a little off guard. “Sure, whenever. I’m there every day.”
One of the older ladies came over with a smile on her face. “Steve, this is Anna. She’s come from Boston and she’s staying with me for a few days. She’s been wanting to do some rescue work since she got here. I think you’re just the guy to show her what it’s all about.”
I was pretty flattered, considering the source of the recommendation. Patty gave me her home number and said to call her. We made arrangements for me to pick Anna up in the morning.
I said to Anna, “I hope you’re an early riser!”
The following morning, I arrived at Patty’s house to find Anna in sweats.
I laughed. “You might want to wear lighter clothing.”
She changed into something more suitable for the climate and we were on our way. During the drive, I told her about all the dogs and some of my experiences over the past eighteen months.
“Oh my gawd! You’re amazing!” She sounded like Fran Drescher. I’m sure she thought she’d embarrassed me from the look on my face. “No, really, what you’re doing with the dogs is amazing.” Yep, she sounded just like a Boston version of Fran Drescher.
The dogs were there to greet us, just like I’d promised. Anna started
in with the same high-pitched baby voice that everyone who visited the beach the first time seemed to use with the dogs. I had to put the brakes on that right away.
“Can you please talk normally to them?” I hated to embarrass her, but I didn’t want the dogs getting overexcited and jumping all over her.
“Why? They’re dogs, not humans.”
“Trust me, you’ll get more from the experience if you follow my lead.”
I walked around with her, introducing her to the dogs and describing the layout of the beach. She started to relax, and the more she did, the more the dogs warmed up to her.
I noticed that the young mother whose pups Sandra had taken prematurely wasn’t around. I knew she was depressed and starting to isolate herself from the pack. This wasn’t good.
I took Anna to the spot in the jungle where the dog had made her den, and sure enough there she was, her little face peeking out of the foliage as we walked up. Anna melted on the spot. When I called to her, the little dog trotted over, her head down and her tail between her legs. I picked her up and chanted my little mantra to her: “Shush . . . shush . . . shush . . . shush . . . it’s okay . . . it’s okay . . . it’s okay.” In no time, she was a puddle in my arms. Anna had tears rolling down her face. I placed the little dog in Anna’s arms. I could tell it was a happily-ever-after moment. It was like they were made for each other.
“I can’t believe they took her puppies!” Anna said. As she held that little dog, her fury over the injustice grew. “What the hell were those people thinking?”
I realized at that moment that I wouldn’t want to cross this chick. She was pretty tough. I’d rather have her as a wingman than an enemy.
We finished doing rounds with the dogs around noon. Anna was anxious to get back to San Juan to have the little dog checked out by a vet. It looked like Anna was taking someone back with her to Boston.
I couldn’t have been happier.
The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach Page 18