Now Things Start To Get Scaly

I cannot seem to get over this very American thing I have of never carrying cash. A lot of places take cards here but never, it seems, the ones I go to. Luckily Donna comped dinner at Café Chavalos last night - all visa, no cordova on me. But this morning when I go to meet her for breakfast Thalia, the woman from San Francisco who runs the vegetarian restaurant on Calle Martirio, breaks it to me as she brings over my café con leche. No cards.

Luckily Donna is running late so I haul ass up to Parque Central and get some cash out of the ATM, change it with the money changers out front, make it back before she even gets there.* As I’m rounding the final corner to go back to the restaurant I hear my name. In a distinctly American accent. I turn around and it’s Nick, one half of the Peace Corps couple, the people who have been running the clinic (on their own time, not the Peace Corps), the past few months. It’s good to see him.

It turns out he’s meeting us for breakfast, too. As we wait for Donna he catches me up on the clinic. Two dogs there now - both street dogs. One female who might be pregnant, one incredibly nice big male who unfortunately beats the snot out of any other dog he gets around. No vet but the ability to do neuters. Nick’s been over there twice a day caring for the two dogs. The bitch had bad mange but is almost over it and is gut wrenchingly sweet. Once she’s clear she’ll go to their house. Another dog, a three-legged one named Tripod, is bunking down with them until it goes to it’s new home later today. I get invited on the field trip to drive it out to Naidame, a little town about 20 kilometers outside of Granada. Field trip. Yay. Sure.

Donna has arrived but is waylaid in the doorway by some people. Donna is always waylaid. It takes her a few minutes to untangle herself before she can come sit with us. It’s like going out to eat with the Pope. I half expect paparazzi to turn up and start taking pictures of her. How this woman has absolutely no ego - which she does, none whatsoever, is beyond me.

Once we order we talk strategy, plans. There’s a hugely pregnant dog in Parque Central in the early stages of sarna that needs to be brought in before it pops. The couple from the bar last night offered to let it bunk in their backyard if I can get it. Donna knows of a puppy out in the barrio, towards the other school that is going down quick. We need to get it.

We talk about the meat market dogs, covered in mange and mean as shit. There’s a short term volunteer coming out who can possible get them invermectin pills in meatballs. The meat market dogs sleep in the same stalls the little kids use as bathrooms.** Whatever little kids aren’t covered in the mange yet are only biding their time.

After breakfast Nick goes to do some errands and I head off with Donna to find the barrio puppy. We drive down to the end of the street, past where the paving ends, onto the rutted dirt road with pigs rooting by the side of it. It’s only a mile from my house but it’s light years away.

Through the houses you can see glimpses of Lake Nicaragua, clean and pretty in contrast to the decay of the barrio.

Across the street from the school Donna stops, there it is, she tells me. I look out the window and see nothing, a pile of garbage next to a ditch in front of a house. I look again and there it is - tan and white and boney, bloody in spots and unmoving. A puppy or what was one. We get out and I get a closer look. I stand over it and it doesn’t stir. It’s gone to meet baby Jesus. There’s no way this thing is alive. No way. Then I see it’s chest move ever so slightly.

Donna goes and talks to the family and I loop a slip lead around it’s neck. It doesn’t move.
Carro, the family says. It was hit by a car. There’s a million little kids all of whom are delighted by the sight of the enormous gringa poking at the sarna dog. They tell Donna to take it. One of the kids makes a clicking noises and the puppy slowly, painfully lifts it’s head.

And then all hell breaks loose. Time for the show, kids.

Here was my critical error: the sliplead. The dog comes to with something around it’s neck and freaks out, immediately alive and whipping around on three legs, baring it’s little puppy teeth at me, snarling. Slip leads work great on American dogs that know what a collar and a leash is. On Nicaraguan dogs it has the same effect as pointing a gun at the them. I’m at a loss here, holding one end of this while the half dead dog goes bonkers.

The kids are giggling their asses off.

Es veterinario, Donna says helpfully. Not exactly true but explaining the difference would be useless and no one cares.

One of the little kids comes up and grabs the puppy, still thrashing around, and dumps it in the back of Donna’s truck. The kid is maybe six. Humbled I climb in the back beside it. When I get the slip lead off of it, it pushes itself against my leg, slumps down in defeat and fatigue. We rattle out of the barrio, the scared puppy pressing itself against me with every rut we hit.

At the clinic we set up a cage for it. I carry it out of the truck and it stays limp in my arms. We get it on the table and I give it some injections - ivermectin for the mange. Antibiotics - well, just because. It’s a good puppy. It squeals a bit when the first needle goes in but makes no attempt to nip. It’s ears are crawling with ticks. The two other dogs living there come over to investigate. Puppy immediately goes after Quixote, the big dog aggressive male. Shockingly Quixote backs down. Three months old, more dead than not, this poor little nine pound thing is still one bad motherfucker.

We lock it up, leave it to rest.

Donna and I go to the Parque Central to look for the pregnant dog. We come up empty but inventory the other park dogs, what can be done for them. Neuter this one, get some ivermectin in that one. There’s another sweet older dog running around, similar to Teddy. We make plans to come back at night and bring it in. If you try to do it during the day people will say they own them, try to get you to pay them for these mangy, sad street dogs.

Later I meet Nick and we take Donna’s truck to drive Tripod and his new owner out to the their house in Naidame. The new owner is another Peace Corps volunteer - a younger girl from Hawaii. She cuddles in the back seat with Tripod while we roll past fincas, little roadside stands, some contruction. ***It’s a pretty drive.

The town is small, dumpy. I feel bad for her. She’s the only one there and you can tell she’s lonely. The dog will be good company for her. We haul ass back to Granada to get Donna her truck before Café Chavalos opens.

After we drop off the truck we go back to the clinic. Puppy has eaten nothing and made a huge mess of his cage. We pull him out, feed the other dogs. Puppy gets pills this time - a capstar to kill the fleas on him, an allergy tablet just in case. He limps on one leg but it doesn’t seem broken. Again he delights in menacing Quixote.

Nick sits with him and manages to get him to eat a bit.

Nestor, the quiador for the school, shows up while we’re there****. He takes to the nasty, smelly, scabby little puppy immediately. He watches it snarl and snap at the big dogs. It needs a name, I tell Nick. Nick consults with Nestor in Spanish. Tyson, Nestor suggests. Like the boxer. So Tyson it is.

After everyone has been fed and cared for we leave, parting ways in front of the school. Toni, Nick’s wife, has been out of town but will be back tomorrow. We make plans to do dinner when she gets back, invite the short term girl who’s supposed to be showing up.

I go home and scrub for a long time. The likelihood of me having gotten something off the dog is below slim but it’s a psychological thing. I always feel itchy after dealing with street dogs. I take my slip lead, a book, some money, head back towards the parque to grab some food and have another go at the pregnant dog.

My new roommate, a nice older british guy, is watching television in the courtyard. So you’re going back to work then, he asks me. Something like that but not quite. Going to eat, too. Have you eaten at all today? he asks. With Donna, breakfast. Well make sure you eat your food - don’t feed it to the dogs.

(Interesting side note two: Aside from café owners in Liberia, other residents that I barely know are also watching out for my caloric intake. Rest assured. Other side note along the same lines: walking everywhere makes me hungry. I kill an enormous hamburger and some ice cream that night)

After I eat I walk around the park, finally spot the pregnant dog. She gets close but seems to sense my intent and takes off, enormous stomach wobbling. I follow her for a while but it’s a lost cause. Plus the streets are full of folks having a Saturday night and I can almost guarantee that the dog is going to flip it when I get her on lead. I generally try to avoid making huge scenes if I can help it. Disappointing but it’s time to pack it in. We brought one in today.

It’s still early enough that I could go out, visit some friend’s bars and restaraunts, socialize a bit. But I know the house is empty - all the other residents are out doing some such things and I can use a little solitude. I wander home to my bed, a book, some music.


*Yes. This is still safe despite my oopsy at the border. I changed the money right next to the bank security guard and got a wicked good rate.
** Gross, yes, but true.
*** Finca: A farm or ranch. Granada is a big city but a lot of Nicaragua is pretty rural.
****Quiador: one part handyman, one part caretaker, one part guard. Pretty much every non Nica family has one and all business have at least a security guard. Nestor, who is about eighteen, has been there since the last time I came.