Lucky.
Ears.
Bullet.
Dodger.
Spots.
Coastal Eddy.
How about just Eddy?
Bettina tells them she’ll think it over. She sees by the dog’s face that he’s unhappy here, doesn’t want to be looked at by strangers.
Later she invites him into her office where she starts her story about the Saint Francis animal clinic and shelter in Mexico. “The Story of Shot Dog” by Bettina Blazak. He curls up on a rug and is soon asleep. She pours the last of her bourbon into an old-fashioned rocks glass, adds an ice cube and a splash of water.
One page in, Bettina realizes that she needs more medical details on the operation, and whatever else the vet can tell her about the dog’s condition that night. And she could use some background on what life on the street had been like for him.
She calls the clinic, and, predictably, it’s closed.
But Rodríguez gave her his home number, and Bettina gets his wife, Señora María Lucero Obregón. She is very upset. She says the doctor was taken away by the police for questioning and allegedly released from custody only three hours ago. But Félix has not come home.
“He loves his home,” she says in rapid Spanish. “He is not with our children. He does not have a lover. The police said he walked out of the station, turned right on Cristóbal Colón, which is the direction home. They haven’t seen him since. I walked and drove the streets from the Zona Norte all the way home, for two hours, and there is no sign of him.”
Bettina’s Spanish is college-good, but it’s still hard to get her own tone right with a native speaker. It’s hard to be subtle.
“I’m sure he’s fine, señora,” she says. “Maybe he got lost. Or stopped for a drink.” An awkward pause, then: “I need some more information on my dog.”
“How is he?”
“He’s sad and a little afraid of strangers.”
“Have you named him?”
“Not yet. Señora Lucero, while I have you on the phone, can you answer some questions about the dog?”
“Of course. I am a veterinary doctor myself, and I helped with the procedure. But it’s Félix who has the gift of surgery, not me.”
She goes on to describe the abdominal entry wound of the bullet and its exit through the muscle high on his left thigh. It had broken open his intestine and nicked an artery, and the bleeding would not have stopped without a repair, which her husband did beautifully. The intestine was leaking waste fluids and had to be tightly sutured and drained as well. The muscle damage was substantial for just one bullet, and the doctor speculates that it may have bounced off the street and expanded up and through the dog. Tremendous doses of antibiotics were required.
“Do you know if he was shot for sport?”
“I think it was an accident. That night there was a large shoot-out between rival Tijuana cartels. It is a war between the New Generation Cartel and the Sinaloa Cartel. Everyone in Mexico knows this. It has been going on for many years. The Sinaloans are trying to hold their plaza in our city, and the New Generation is trying to take it. They were made brave when El Chapo was arrested. This battle took place in a furniture factory. Many shots were fired and six men died.”
Bettina’s fingers fly across her keyboard as she makes notes. She can type almost as fast as Dr. Lucero talks, though the translating slows her down as her memory struggles for the words.
“Did you know that the dog is almost perfect on leash, and knows his basic commands by voice? Not only in Spanish but in English as well?”
“No. That is unusual. But we noticed he was obedient off the leash, which is unusual, too, for a street dog.”
“Can you tell me who brought him to the clinic?”
“A boy from downtown, where the gunfighting took place. He knew of our clinic.”
Bettina’s head is spinning with a great new story idea about the boy who took the shot dog to the clinic. Thereby saving the dog’s life.
“Do you know the boy’s name?” she asks the doctor.
“I’m sorry. We were in such a rush to save the dog, we hardly thanked him.”
“Doctor, what is life like for a street dog in Tijuana?”
“Hunger, dehydration, disease, ticks. Violence from men and other dogs, and coyotes. Giving birth in alleys and gutters. No love. No kindness. It’s a terrible life.”
A cold shudder issues down Bettina’s back as she considers the former life of the dog she has rescued. He’s looking at her doubtfully. She hasn’t realized until now what a miracle she’s performed for the dog. What a miracle the boy who carried him to the clinic has performed. Most of all, what a miracle that doctors Drs. Félix Rodríguez and María Lucero have performed.
She gets a sudden inspiration and takes a deep breath. “Señora, I want to name the dog Felix. For the man who saved him.”
“Félix is a good name. It means ‘lucky’ and ‘happy.’ My husband, Félix, and the shot dog are both those things.”
Bettina thanks María Lucero and tells her that her husband will be home soon. “I’m going to call the Tijuana Police right now and get to the bottom of this.” She hears the worry in her own voice.
The desk sergeant says that Rodríguez voluntarily came in for an interview about possible irregularities at his veterinary clinic.
“What irregularities?”
“Oh, I cannot answer this. But it was routine. He talked to our detectives and left the station at approximately four in the afternoon.”
“Were you on duty?”
“I was right here at this desk. I watched him go.”
“Which way did he turn on Cristóbal Colón?” Bettina asks.
A pause: “A la izquierda.”
To the left, notes Bettina.
“Are you sure?”
“Surely, yes.”
“Thank you for your time.”
The cops can’t even get their directions right, thinks Bettina, reading through her notes on the monitor. Do they not agree on what they saw, or are they hiding something? There’s something ominous in the doctor not coming home.
Later that night, Bettina almost finishes the story. She’ll write that last graf in the office tomorrow morning. She’s a fast writer, tries to be clear and accurate rather than stylish or poetic. She thinks her editor at Coastal Eddy will love it, and be glad she let Bettina wander so far from Laguna for the story. The pictures and video she took with her smartphone are good.
Then she edits and over-voices her video, “Felix: The Rescue of a Mexican Street Dog.” Her viewers will learn some of Felix’s misery on the street and get a real feel for his cold, lonely Clínica Veterinaria San Francisco de Asís days. They’ll be delighted that his name is now Felix, not simply, gruesomely, Shot Dog. There’s a lot more to him than just getting shot, Bettina thinks.
She edits and retouches the video so Tijuana looks cold and forbidding, and the poor dog looks miserable. Not hard to do. But her viewers will also see that Dr. Rodríguez is a good soul, and how lucky the dog is to have survived possible cartel violence. She makes sure they know that Felix was one of twelve million dogs living on the streets and beaches of Mexico. She loves it when her stories point out a problem that people can do something about. In the video, Bettina thinks that she looks composed, capable, and borderline pretty. She’s never done a story this personal. It’s a little weird to be reporting on yourself.
She sends the story and video to her Coastal Eddy editor, Jean Rose.
And later sits cross-legged on the bedroom floor in her robe and slippers, with Felix lying against one thigh. She strokes his face and neck and ears. Rubs her thumb gently inside the warm triangular flaps, feels the raised bump of what must be an old wound. A street fighter’s scar, thinks Bettina.