The Two Amigas

By Terrye Godown

Irmo, SC

It was our last day in the rented beach casa. My husband Bud and I were heading home to the States after a month's odyssey in the Yucatán, Mexico.  I awoke between 6 and 7 a.m. as usual to the sound of the waves and the twirping of the mystery bird perched on the Seagrape tree outside. I fondly called it the "cell phone" bird, because it sounded like a popular mobile ring option.

We had gotten into the habit of going to bed much earlier during our stay there due to the fact that we had no access to TV or computer except for a small local internet café in town called "Super Alex", which became our only connection to the outside world. Among the eclectic supply of goods ranging from hardware to snacks, Alejandro (Alex) had 5 computer stations and one extra hookup for anyone who brought their own laptop. This was where we shared our time in Mexico with our family.

I threw on my pink hooded sweat jacket which doubled as my ‘Mexican bathrobe', zipping it up enough to keep off the chill from the cool morning breezes that invariably swooshed through the casa windows. This morning I would cut up the remainders of pastry and fresh pineapple, papaya and mango we had purchased a couple of days earlier at the local market.  No matter how subtly I tread down the white tiled steps from the bedroom, they always seemed to sense I was awake and out of bed.  I knew because I could hear the playful groans and yelps floating in on the wafts that filtered through the screens, poufing the curtains next to our bed, indicating the first morning tussles had begun. As was our routine I always made the coffee first, then cheerfully opened the door to say "buenos días!" to my two wanton little amigas. Today I would greet for the last time their excited and hungry faces, wagging tails and fervent paws that pummeled the screen door no matter how threatening I tried to sound in order to abate them. 

The dual energy of expectation for another day's breakfast as adopted family members in what they had come to feel was certainly a permanent home, tackled me right through the screen door... this exuberant, newfound lust for hot dogs, biscuits and whatever scraps were doggie-bagged from our prior meals. "Monsters!" I would say to them as I stamped my feet on the steps exhibiting a lame excuse for truly effective canine discipline.  But this particular morning I felt saturated with the dreaded melancholy that was pouring over me, fogging my eyesight as I tried to behave as if this was just another day in forever. I desperately needed the loving licks that would unknowingly offer me some consolation for the decision I had made, so I was poised to withstand the pouncing of sandy paws that would rake down my nightgown when I stepped outside. Immediately the three of us were reveling in what was to be one of the last exchanges of affection there would ever be between us.

The subject matter of my compassionate story is not really so unique at all. It is all too symbolic in the sense that it is hopelessly repeated all over the globe at any given time, albeit each episode manifested in a vast array of different circumstances.  This time it begins and ends in the Yucatán, Mexico, in a small coastal community called Chelem. Here a deep, indelible imprint was left on my 56 year old heart...

I can't remember the exact day they appeared, but it was during the first several days after we arrived and after we'd driven around the first full day to get our bearings. They weren't the first dogs we'd seen by a long shot. You couldn't help but notice the exceptional number of painfully thin, obviously unrestricted ‘malix' (mixed breed) dogs sans any evidence of ownership wandering around as we navigated the sandy, unpaved access roads that connected beachside dwellers with the main road to the center of Chelem.  One boney dog I saw lay soulfully in the shade of a small farmacia in the town square.  He had apparently lost most of his hair, exposing some awful looking pink freckled skin. His hollow eyes seemed fixed and unmoved by passing cars or people; he looked hopeless and very old.  Definitely one of the worst cases I saw. 

I wondered what the average life span of a homeless dog there actually was. Probably not much different than back home, I reasoned; the real difference was that apparently here in Mexico, the culture was accepting of their pathetic presence as part of life, which seemed to explain the overall indifference on the faces of the public that obliviously passed by them.  When I mentioned the number of unhappy wanderers to several Americans we met there, I was told that there was no Animal Control entity or Humane Society to monitor or pick up stray animals there. The issue was recognized but far from a priority to the Mexicans; largely the only concerns came from tourists and ex-pats visiting or living there. My mind's constant attempts to make peace with this reality became a visceral part of each day in the Yucatán.

The two amigas popped into our life quite casually, actually. We had left the two big wooden doors of the gate open indicating a ‘welcome mode' to the local inhabitants. It is traditional to keep gates closed conveying the value of privacy in Mexican culture.  I was retrieving some items from the car and suddenly felt their motions behind me. Theirs were not empty eyes, though; they were happy, hopeful ones. They had no collars, but the unity of their actions seemed like a joint effort of introduction and oddly more typical of domesticated dogs; friendly gestures backed up by wagging tails and wet noses extending to sniff. As I bent and responded with pats, paws pounced abruptly on my legs and their excitement mounted.

Both females, one was black with white hair forming a stripe from the top of her head and spreading down her muzzle, around her neck and chest and ‘socks' on each of her feet. Her belly was loose and distinctly showed the wear and tear of motherhood. The other one was a golden brown color with black brindle stripes in her coat. The more boisterous of the two, she didn't show the slightest reservation before jumping up on me. Her puppyhood was a dead giveaway. Their markings were nothing alike except for body size and shape and that unmistakable lean look of hunger, but there was also an obvious bond between them that seemed to go much deeper than two mere scavenging compadres. I surmised that the brown one might be a pup from the black one's last litter, perhaps a lone survivor.

After the greeters calmed down a bit I slipped inside with the items from the car as my husband was coming out.  He endured a similar greeting with the two amigas, however with much less patience than I.  From that point on they must have discerned that it might be worth hanging around a bit longer. We went out again and later when we arrived back home after a fish dinner at Pepe Luise's Restaurant, they were there ready to welcome us all over again. They seemed certain that persistence would pan out eventually. They were right, of course. I cleaned out a small garbage pail to serve as a water bowl, mixed up some crackers with a couple eggs, divided them into two separate pots and stepped outside with the appetizers. It was boldly clear that New York minutes happen in the Yucatán as well... it was all inhaled in a split second. That was the first of a month's worth of meals to follow and without shadow of doubt to them, the seal of a contract between dog and man.

The next morning we woke up to a bout of loud barking in the driveway below. My husband rolled over and murmured (loudly) "Now look what you did"...  The reality of being awakened each morning in similar fashion poured over me abruptly with the first streaks of dawn. In a soothing voice I reminded him that the guy living across the street was having a new gateway put in and the workers must have shown up early. He shot back "They don't use modern tools dear, they do everything by hand - the project could take weeks!" Yipes. No retort for that one.  At that point I decided to get up and see if there was any way to quell the problem.

Immediately at the sound of my opening the door, two happy, famished faces tried to shove their way inside with tongues pleading to lick me in a canine rendition of "Buenos días, Señora!"  I was hardly halfway out and was already about to be toppled by their excitement. The brown one could jump higher than any dog I'd ever seen. "You must be a kangaroo!" I laughed as their noses poked and their tongues licked my hands, groping hopefully to uncover any morsel.  Breaking away, I inched my way inside again and did a repeat performance of gathering bits and pieces of food from the refrigerator, which were consumed with the same lightning reflexes as the night before. After that ordeal, names popped into my head and I decided to call the black and white one "Socks" and the bouncy pup, "Roo" noting she must be at least part kanga!

As we drove out later on that morning to tour some Mayan ruins near Mérida, I convinced my frustrated husband that feeding them was the right thing to do... as well as the ONLY option for me personally!!  We stopped at the Bodega on the way back that day adding a grande, 70 count package of beef hot dogs and some dog biscuits to our grocery list.  And so it was that hot dogs and Pedigree biscuits became their mainstay, and in turn the two amigas inherently honored their part of our unspoken contract with total vigilance. The presence of the two faithful silhouettes guarding the gateway to our casa meshed into each passing day. They bedded down each night in shallow holes they dug in the shade of the sandy courtyard outside. It was after all, the essence of the canine nature at work, wasn't it?

Two hot dogs per meal, twice a day with biscuits was just the beginning of a dietary evolution for them, though. We ate out often because dining was so economical there. This meant that there was a constant supply of "doggie bagged" goodies to serve as surprise additions to any scraps from meals at home. Chowing down the remains of chicken drumettes barbecued in mojo sauce baked by the Bodega's deli was without a doubt the biggest hit with them, and fortunately for the amigas, we bought them often.  Each night presented another varied smorgasbord of food for the dogs, and each day their appetites were satiated a bit more than the day before. They had hit the jackpot when they took a chance on these particular ‘turistas'. 

This was, in all probability, the first time in their short lives they had ever felt human love or caring.  When we walked on the beach or down the sandy beach road they tagged along, but only so far; there was always that unseen force compelling them back to guard their precious, newfound domain. They had established certain boundaries which, if crossed, might pose immediate threat to their co-existence with us. Hungry competitors were sure to be lurking anywhere and everywhere, intent on stealing our attentions. In spite of things, an endearing relationship between the three of us was developing. My husband was just an innocent bystander, swept up in the wave of my compassion for them. Now, besides the cell phone bird, we woke up on occasion to the sound of insistent warning barks, but mostly to their playful yelps and Sock's halfhearted attempts to discipline Roo for the annoyingly persistent puppy games she would initiate when the first warm sunbeams broke through the cool morning air.

I began to suspect that Socks' growing belly was not the result of their new diet alone. Over the weeks the ‘wear and tear' I mentioned earlier was becoming even more pronounced. It was clearly evident that she was hiding some serious carry-on baggage.  During brief afternoon siestas as they lay in casual repose, Roo appeared to get overly reminiscent of earlier days when food was available on demand. She'd snuggle up and poke her snout into Socks' belly adding a few licks, which quickly turned into more aggressive initiatives of play. Socks would tolerate that for short spurts, but as Roo's puppy games persisted, things would always erupt into another playful wrestling match. Roo needed a playmate of her own age and energy level, but regardless, nothing would push Socks off the pedestal of motherhood patience.

We transported ourselves through another world of adventure each day. Every small village revealed treasures steeped in history, rich with culture, atmosphere and Kodak moments. We were awed by old churches, convents, haciendas, ruins and weathered walls draped with bright bougainvillea, but mostly the Mexican life around us.  Our relationship with the dogs became simpático with each day's experience... they wagged their goodbyes as we pulled out of the driveway and celebrated our homecomings with much bouncing, licking and interaction on my part that eventually culminated in another night's buffet dinner.  Helpless to resist, my spirit was embracing the two little divas.

Gradually with my innovative ‘water bottle training', the dogs learned to refrain from jumping on me and the screen door when I'd come out.  I filled an empty dish detergent bottle with water and squirted them when they'd get too rambunctious.  The force of the stream could easily shoot through the screen, no problema, solving the issue quickly and effectively. Instead, they would sit at the bottom of the steps vibrating with excitement, listening to the sounds of me in the kitchen getting their meal together. Socks would get this funny smile phenomenon going on that would always appear when she was trying to contain herself.  Her top lip would involuntarily pull up above her teeth creating an adorable, hapless smile that would melt even the coldest of hearts. I called it her "Mona Lisa" smile.

Some old habits truly do seem to die hard, though. Roo's daily rummages turned up old shoes, flip flops, rotten coconut shells, plastic bottles and pretty much anything that stuck out like a sore thumb on the beach or the road. She'd pick them up in her mouth, toss them around a bit, then retrieve them for a satisfying chew.  One memorable day as we stood outside the gate talking to a neighbor, I heard the pounding of paws running towards us with her latest find; a large, neatly knotted, green garbage bag was dangling from her jaws.  Socks trailed after her with the look of helpless motherhood on her face. Always reminded of our limited time together, I commemorated these funny moments in pictures whenever I could. Roo's trash ventures always added an extra 5 pesos to our disposal fees every few days.  It was hardly her fault though, the garbage problem in the Yucatán is a clearly evident cultural issue that unfortunately serves as both blessing and curse to homeless animals.

As our remaining days dwindled, I couldn't help thinking about the inevitable day when they would await the return that would never happen. The thought was unbearable, especially since I believed Socks would eventually prepare a place close to our rental house to have her pups. It would be priority to stay near a reliable food source. I had to think of something, we were flying home that coming Friday. Some ex-pats had mentioned the AFAD (Albergue Franciscano del Animal Desprotegido) shelter in Mérida which was supposedly a no-kill shelter, so I asked Jorge, our bilingual realtor at Mayan Realty, if he would call to arrange for us to drop them off the day we had planned to leave Chelem for Mérida, to be close to the airport for our return flight the next morning. Soon it was a done deal.

March 6^th - The early morning cab ride to the airport was uneventful and our flight left promptly on time.  As the ground fell beneath the plane, my heart followed suit. In minutes the Yucatán landscape melted into the earth's surface. My eyes melted too as I settled into the seat allowing the memory of the prior day, to break through my consciousness...  I had fed them early hoping to avoid any car-sickness they might have on our way to the shelter. As I stuffed the last items in my suitcase, Bud went to give some bottles of leftover beer and fresh tomatoes to our friends down the road. I put a shiny blue beaded necklace from the carnival in Mérida on Socks so she'd look pretty, and fashioned a collar for Roo from a colorful woven belt I bought from a Mexican girl. I wanted my love for them to show. 

I was amazed at how trusting and compliant they were when I loaded them into the car. I sat in back with them during the ride to Mérida and together we experienced their first car ride.  Roo lay close to me, her head buried in my lap the whole way. Socks was lured to the window by the rush of air that caressed her fur. As my husband drove, my eyes filled up as I talked to them, petting them calmly.

We couldn't find the shelter. We had passed it 5 times. There was no prominent sign to announce its presence. Bud was agitated because we were supposed to meet Jorge at one o'clock to tie up the paperwork on the casa we bought and it was already about 12:30. We stopped to ask some students for help but the language barrier reared its ugly head again. Finally a man who could speak broken English was able to redirect us. All this confusion of course robbed me of what quality time was left with my two little amigas. We unloaded them and entered the gates into the shelter.

Trying to communicate with the two volunteers there was pretty useless and I had to resort to a lot of emotional hand gestures. All the while the amigas stood, chained to some posts watching me anxiously through the doorway of the office. As I doled out a donation, Bud signaled impatiently pointing to his watch.  I hurried back over to say goodbye and pat my amigas for the last time. Roo sat nervously and Socks was lying quietly next to her; both uninterested in the food they were given... both sets of eyes locked on me. No paws pounced on my legs and there were no licks offered... their small forms blurred by my tears. I couldn't see their expressions but I could definitely feel them. It was like they knew... they just knew.  Snapping one last picture of them standing there I blew a prayerful kiss and headed through the gate to the car.

Endless melancholy enveloped me the rest of our last day in Mérida. I promised myself that I would do all I could to help them find homes, hopefully together!  I would do it with words... telling our story... that of all the lost shadows in Mexico really, as my amigas were just two of a haunting multitude.  I would shove what portion of their lives I shared into one glass slipper of an article and post it anywhere on the internet that might grab the attention of a loving Yucatán prince or princess on a white horse... or just a bike for that matter, ready to swoop them up and take them home to love and live happily ever after.

March 19th:  After writing to the shelter several times after I returned home to the States to get an update on the dogs, and especially to find out if Socks had her pups, I still had not received a response.  I was not too surprised because my emails were written in English translated in an online translation tool which was probably not adequate to communicate an entire letter.  Almost two weeks had passed and I was getting anxious and somewhat worried.  Searching for websites on which to post my article, I tried contacting Yucatan Today and received a speedy reply from Juanita Stein, the editor.  She told me she was also an animal lover who had rescued various cats and dogs herself, and she expressed much empathy for my circumstances. Juanita offered to help me contact the AFAD shelter herself on her lunch hour. After she did so, she sent me the following note:    

Hi Terrye, I spoke to Lidia, the president of AFAD, who I know from an adoption I did a few years ago. She gave me an update...good news and sad news... Socks was placed in the home of a woman who always takes the pregnant ones so they have a more nurturing environment for the birth. They even brought a vet in to assist when Socks was showing signs of getting ready to give birth, so she was in competent and loving hands. But she had a heart condition, and sadly, she died of a sudden heart attack before she was able to give birth, so the puppies also did not survive. I am SO SORRY to have to tell you this. But be comforted that this would have happened whether she was with you, on the street alone, or at the home of this very caring woman. And what better circumstances than to be in a loving home where there was medical attention and a caring new master. And she died very suddenly, without any suffering whatever. 

Roo has new owners! She has been or is being spayed this week, and will go to her new home in a week or so. Lidia said to tell you she is happy and healthy, and doesn't seem to show signs of missing Socks; after all, Socks left for her new home shortly after you brought them to the shelter so Roo has adjusted to being without her. 

You did a great thing...if it hadn't been for you, Socks would have died alone. And Roo would end up pregnant and the whole cycle would go on and on. 

Regards, Juanita 

And so now there are two endings to my story.  It is hard to rejoice and grieve at the same time, but such is life.  The two amigas were part of a the wonderful month we had in Mexico and I will never forget them.  It was after all, the best month in Socks' life, and because Roo has found a home, the best part of hers too! There are treasures everywhere you look in the Yucatán, even in its shadows... 

Editor's note: To read about how you can help stray animals in Yucatán, see our article "Stray Animals." And if you want to contact Terrye about her story, send an email to Yucatan Today. We will forward it to her.