I am sharing the following travel 24 hour diary of our most recent trip to Mexico in an attempt to create a narrative that accurately and honestly conveys the full range of experiences and emotions that this work entails.
Be advised that there are some sad situations ,along with the happy ones, that make up part of this complex, multifaceted narrative.
Saturday, March 23rd:
10:00 AM
I look up. Dozens of animals line the interior hallway of a small school, awaiting spay and neuter. The sound of barking, street traffic, and animated Spanish conversation surround me. Inside an entire team of Mexican volunteers, over 20 in total, are working under the dry heat of the morning, each enthusiastically carrying out their particular task – surgeon, anesthetist, receptionist, recovery assistant, whatever is needed.
Rewind 11 years and you would find a similar, albeit smaller, scene at our first spay/neuter clinic ever in Juarez, Mexico. This clinic, over a decade later, is the present day evolution of that very first effort. As a dusty gush of desert wind rushes against the large group of animals awaiting surgery, I feel my heart rise as I watch the work of so many dedicated animal advocates.
The clinics are different now. They are completely staffed by locals and no longer with U.S. volunteers. There are computers for intake and printed forms instead of hand written ones. Slightly different anesthetic protocols. A different cast of local volunteers with different faces and backgrounds, but with the same fierce dedication and passion as all the ones we’ve partnered with before.
My focus settles on two of the Mexican veterinary surgeons, both of whom have worked with Compassion without Borders since they were students in vet school in Juarez. I feel a swell of pride and I witness the benefits of their skills and continued dedication.
One of these veterinarians is the head surgeon, Juan Jose Martinez. He leads the Mexican side of Compassion without Borders, Compasion Sin Fronteras. He has single handedly trained the other four surgeons in the room . I remember when we sent him to Houston many years ago to train at a high volume spay/neuter clinic there. At that time he was a recent graduate. Here we are a decade later and the reach and impact that initial training has had is literally playing out before my eyes.
1:00 PM:
I look down. Dozens of small dogs jump at my ankles and compete for my attention. The smell of feces and damp cement fills my nose as I shift my weight carefully, entering the pen at animal control, stepping gingerly so as not to step on any of the dogs that scramble underfoot . A group of tiny 6 week old pups approach, climbing awkwardly all over my shoes and squeezing between the other dogs. They clamor about with a simple innocence so pure I find my breath becoming more rapid as my chest tightens and my eyes beginning to moisten.
I take a deep breath and try to maintain focus and not allow my mind to process the reality of the situation. I am there, at this animal control center in Mexico, to pick a few lucky dogs for our international rescue. I have room for five, maybe six at this point, and will leave the vast majority of these animals behind, with the certain fate of euthanasia. The pups will not be coming. I push them aside carefully as my heart splits wide open and I continue making my selection.
4 :00 PM:
I look to the side. The sun drenched, harsh desert landscape zips by the window. I am a passenger in the van we recently raised funds to purchase for Compasion Sin Fronteras. My nerves are raw as we head toward our destination – an outlying, rural neighborhood where the police have called to tell us there has been a poisoning of the dogs in the area. Many have already died, but there are more that are suffering and in need of assistance – most likely euthanasia.
My stomach tightens as I square my shoulders and ready myself for the task at hand. I nervously reach for a bottle of warm coca cola and check that I have all the medications I need. The soda sticks to the roof of my dry mouth as I check and recheck the bottle of euthanasia solution and then place it backs in its place.
Hunger, exhaustion, heat and a fierce, unchecked desert wind combine to create an emotional vulnerability I try hard to hold at bay.
I find myself shaking the hand of a kind-eyed rancher who tells me that his dogs are amongst the poisoned. He was able to make one vomit and that dog is moderately improved he explains, pointing out a small, thin black dog who staggers by weakly, but steadily. She had been hit by a car several years ago and he took her in, the wobbly gait is the norm for her. He feels she has improved greatly.
But not so for one of his other dogs, Oso. A large black and white dog who is stretched out on the dirt floor underneath a bench. He is only able to move his eyes , which he does with agonizing despair. The rest of him is motionless. He has been vomiting blood. He is breathing rapidly. He is dying slowly at my feet. His companion, an old female Rottweiler, stands guard over him.
The rancher is grateful that we can provide euthanasia for Oso and so I stroke the dog’s head softly as Moncho kneels next to me and with all the love I have, I take his life. The Rottweiler immediately approaches after he is gone and stands above Oso, taking in the situation, and then looks up at me. I feel a pain in my stomach as I turn and avert my gaze.
We move on to another modest home in the area where two dogs had already died and a third had been struggling throughout the day. She is able to stand, has improved some since the morning we are told, so we explain how to mix up some old charcoal and ashes and mix them with water to syringe feed her to try to bind and inactivate any poison still in her stomach. He is given a number of a local volunteer who he is to call with an update the next morning.
As we leave he points out another dog who is watching nervously from a distance. He explains that dog has been trying to come around for some time, but the other dogs have run him off. He speculates that this dog had been unable to get any of the food that was poisoned due to his low status in the pack.
The dog moves in closer now, the vulnerability that has saved his life dissipating as he moves in, taking the place of one of the dogs lost.
11:00 PM
I look around. I am at a large table, gathered with all the volunteers from the day. Empty plates from a delicious homemade mole dinner sprawl across the table, adjacent to empty soda and tequila bottles. The camaraderie of the group and our shared exhaustion is tangible as laughter flows easily and steadily.
The conversation turns tense as an animal cruelty situation in a nearby town is discussed in the hopes that Compassion without Borders will be able to help. Moncho becomes infuriated by the reports of what is happening and is angry for the rest of the night. He will lose sleep over it and end up waking up at 4 a.m. the next morning still in a rage about the suffering, despite nearly no rest for the past three days.
We will act on the situation as soon as we return by contacting a powerful politician in the area.
I feel saddened by the stories they are telling and with the floodgates of grief having opened, I am brought back to the animal control center from earlier in the day. I am think of those puppies and how I had to literally shove them back as I tried to squeeze out of the door of the pen on my way out. One particular puppy, a small black male with a stark white blaze on his chest, looked me right in the eyes as I ushered him back into the pen, sealing his fate as I closed the latch behind me.
Just as the emotional wave of reliving that moment washes over me, one of the volunteers hands me a pint sized scruffy terrier that we will be rescuing for our next international rescue. Coco. He settles into my lap immediately ,with a shy kiss to my right hand. I am instantly soothed by this sweet scruffy soul who turns to look at me at just the right moment, replacing my sorrow and despair with the promise and hope of a life saved.
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