Good Man and Woman come down the walk between the facing rows of cages; then Woman stops. Joe does not like women, because they get Dan’s attention and sometimes even his bed. The Team Bed. The women are not part of the Team. The Team is Joe and Dan.
Now Woman plants a shiny, three-legged tree and screws a black thing onto its flat top. Joe is familiar with these. People have them all the time, mostly to talk to. Sometimes they make sudden strong light. People used to point them at him and Aaron, who was the leader of his Team before Dan. People used to point them at him and Teddy, his first Boy. Teddy then Aaron then Dan. His Teams.
Thirty feet downwind of the humans, Joe registers the familiar bleached-white-coat smell of the doctor, the leather of his new athletic shoes, his musky cologne. He smells the woman’s flowery hair, her female sweat and perfume, and the strong, nose-quivering powder that Dan puts into his morning cup. All of these join the ambient river of scents that has flowed past him for thirty-plus days here at the clinic: car exhaust and street-vendor foods, trash and tire burns, diesel smoke, dog pee and feces and disinfectant sluicing down the walkway slot that runs between the cages, the restaurant food that makes his stomach growl, the climbing roses on the rock wall that separates the clinic from the auto repair shop next door. And much, much more.
Woman aims the black thing at Good Man, then stands beside him. Joe can see that the doctor is worried by the black thing, or it might be Woman who worries him. Not very worried, but a little. Dan is never worried or afraid.
Joe hears their words very clearly, and recognizes some of them, but not nearly enough to understand what they are saying. He never stops trying to understand. His ears are good and he listens to humans very closely. He watches their faces closely too. Woman’s voice is calm. They talk the language of Dan, not the language of Good Man:
“Bettina Blazak here, with Dr. Félix Rodríguez of the Clínica Veterinarea San Francisco de Asís in Tijuana, Mexico. Dr. Rodríguez, thank you so much for sharing your time with Coastal Eddy.”
“I am happy to be here, Bettina.”
“Tell us about the clinic.”
“Yes, of course. Mexico loves dogs. We love them so much that twelve million of them run free on our streets and parks and beaches. They have no owners. No one cares for them. Without government sterilization programs, they breed. Many die of starvation and disease and, in my opinion, of sadness. We have a name for them, perros callejeros. ‘Street dogs.’ All these animals here come from our streets. Our purpose is to find for them a home. This is a great challenge because there are so many dogs.”
“What exactly what is a Mexican street dog? What breeds do they comprise?”
“We like to say they are not a pool of genes but an ocean of genes! Terriers and retrievers of all kinds, collies, boxers, and German shepherds. Spaniels, huskies, Dobermans, Lacy dogs and vizslas, basenjis and pit bulls. Greyhounds, of course, because they race here and later are sold as pets, and what do they do when you get them home? They either sleep or run! There are many small and toy breeds especially popular in Mexico — Xolos, Chihuahuas, papillons, miniature dachshunds and poodles. Even the genes of the legendary Korean hunting dog, the Jindo, have been found in dogs here.”
“What’s the first thing you do when someone brings in a street dog?”
“Food and water. A dog starved once is always hungry. Then medication for fleas and ticks, and a thorough medical examination. Vaccinations. Sterilization is performed. Decayed teeth are removed. We bathe them so they are clean for a possible owner and a home.”
“What do your examinations usually reveal?”
“Starvation and dehydration. Parasites, Erlichia, many viruses. Canine influenza. Skin disease is common. Some dogs have been on the street so long that their toenails have grown through their feet because of no trimming.”
“That’s awful.”
Good Man nods his head and makes a sad face. Joe has recognized the words Dog, Beach — because Dan takes him there — Street, Food, and Water, and he thinks that the word home might mean Crate. Other than that, these two humans might be talking about anything. He understands from their voices that Good Man is serious, and Woman is becoming unhappy.
“It must be very expensive to do all this medicine on so many dogs,” says Woman. “How does the Veterinary Clinic of Saint Francis of Assisi survive?”
“We are partially sponsored by a major North American pet company, and we receive a small amount of funding from the state and city. We ask for a donation when we place a dog for adoption.”
“How much?”
“Whatever the person can pay. We recommend twenty dollars, which includes food, the collar they are wearing, a leash, and one toy.”
“How many dogs do you rescue and place for adoption each month?”
“Adoptions are slow in January, February, and March because of the Christmas dogs whose owners have become tired of them. So they take them somewhere and let them go. No one wants another dog then. In September, when the hot weather is leaving, people want dogs. We place many dogs through December. As presents to make the children happy.”
Joe has no idea what Good Man has said, other than Dogs, Dog, Dogs, and Dogs. The man’s tone is not clear.
“How can our readers and viewers in the United States help?”
Good Man smiles and his tone of voice becomes happier. “There are two things they can do — send donations to us or come to Mexico and rescue one of our beautiful dogs. We take care of all the adoption paperwork right here, and send them home with all their shots. And the little things, the food and the toy. Your readers and viewers will receive a healthy, loving, and grateful rescue animal. They are intelligent, humorous, and very good learners.”
“Dr. Rodríguez, can you introduce me to some of your dogs?”
“Yes, of course.”
Woman removes the black thing from the shiny three-legged tree. They go from cage to cage. When Woman kneels down in front of one, a tan muzzle with a black nose appears through the bars and Woman makes high Woman sounds. She points her black thing at the cage.
“Oh, look at this little cutie!”
Again, her words are lost on the dog, but her meaning is very clear. And to Joe — as well as to his ancestors lying by the fires that first lured them into the world of men — meanings are always more important than words.
Now Good Man and Woman stand outside Joe’s cage, looking down at him.
“This is Shot Dog.”
“What a terrible name.”
“It is more a description.”
“How did he get shot?”
“I don’t know. He was shot and a boy brought him in and I performed a dangerous but successful surgery.”
Woman points the black thing at Joe as she talks: “A boy saved his life. A boy and you, Dr. Rodríguez. This dog has been very lucky.”
“Some people shoot the street dogs for sport. Rather than feed or help them.”
“My readers in California will want to know that,” says woman, still pointing the black thing at him. “They’ll be horrified. Could this have been an accident?”
Good Man’s expression softens and so does his voice. “Anything is possible.”
“Has anyone shown interest in adopting him?”
“An older man, but nothing happened.”
“He’s really cute. The way his ears stick out. How long has he been here?”
“More than the thirty days that I told you about.”