Before I continue, I must introduce Riley, of course. She’s about a two feet tall, maybe three feet long, mostly black with four tan painted legs and brushstrokes on her face. But you can’t look at her without noticing her giant, sometimes-floppy ears, and her tiny stubby tail that wags at the hint of your approach. She is about five and a half months old and came into my life quite unexpectedly.
I had known her for a few weeks before the incident, she belonged to the neighbor of my host family and would come out play on occasion. She took to me, being the only one in her world who showed her affection other than a tossed left-over. She was not named Riley then. She and her sister, of a different breed though same litter, would follow me to the river, the sister remaining at the water’s edge, the first bounding after me, sending up sprays of water in her wake. On one particular day, she started to follow me home. Okay, I did stop to encourage her every now and then, of course I was thrilled to have a companion for a couple hours without responsibility – not knowing that she would stay the night on my little patio, or under the stairs, wherever it is she slept.
The next morning I woke early to continue my newly made goal of running a few mornings every week. That was about a month ago. I haven’t felt much like running since then. And here’s why.
The little black dog, so full of energy and the need to be loved, followed me on my run. Up the hill, over the bridge, to my turn-around point… I kept glancing back at her, marveling at the endurance of someone so small. One time, I glanced back and she had squatted to do some business. I smiled and continued on, thinking to myself how wonderful it was to be in such a place, on such a morning, doing right by my body and having a small companion for my soul. The next time I looked to see if she had caught up, the breeze from a white blur cooled the dampness on my face as I turned. And there she was. Laying on her side, feet stretched out in front of her, unmoving.
The half hour I spent on the side of the road with her, after a passerby wrote her off as good as dead and moved her by her four legs to the dirt, passed slowly by until my message reached my project partner who came to my rescue. Though even he, saint among men here in the DR, laughed later at the sight of a girl crying over a dog. But he took me to our local veterinarian. A man who works mostly with the cattle and other livestock. He gave her a couple shots, and one more after he had spoken to one of the Peace Corps doctors famous with volunteers for being the point of support when all animals are concerned.
That entire day I spent next to her, she laying on my yoga mat padded with an old comforter, me there to roll her over every time she started to cry. The blood from her gashed tongue would dirty the water every time she tried to drink. But at least she was drinking. She didn’t eat that day, though what I cleaned up would have testified otherwise. It broke my heart to see her struggle so much to lift her self up just that tiny bit so she could pee. Thank god my apartment is all tile flooring. That night, I moved the yoga mat and comforter to my bedside and slept fitfully, dreading that she wouldn’t make it ‘till morning.
But she did. And the next, and the next. Until I was told I had to go eat, I could leave her and she’d be fine. So I left her in my apartment, snug in her comforter, recently washed by the rain and dried by the sun. And when I got back. There she was still, awaiting my return. A week later, she had learned to hobble on the three legs that still supported her. The one, I thought, was broken, and therefore wrapped up in a bandage from my med kit.
A couple of weeks later, I was called to the capital for an emergency training session on cholera, due to the recent outbreak in our neighboring country. I didn’t know what to do with Riley. The way people take care of their dogs here isn’t exactly the way we do. My neighbors have four dogs. Two are permanently tied to tries. The other two never leave the gated area of their yard. Where Riley came from? Well she had a shack and a chain, too. I tried to teach another neighbor’s son to care for her, since I had seen in him that capacity. But his mother decided to take him to a resort that weekend, last minute. So, Riley came with me. And though I had to pay 100 extra pesos when she threw up on the bus, everything else went smoothly. Not a peep or struggle the whole way.
I took her to the vet where they said they would keep her for the night and they said they would do an x-ray on her leg, but that it looked like there was something else wrong, too. Something not so easily fixable as a broken bone. The next afternoon I pick her up. Good news, bone is no broken. Bad news, it’s nerve damage. Worse news, it might not heal. Good news again, since she’s young, she has more of change that she may get some feeling back in her paw – as of now she has none. It will take months to tell. Bad news again, she is host to three different kinds of parasites including one that causes her to poop blood and an amoeba. Final news, meds included, Riley’s visit to the doctor cost about 4,000 pesos. More than a month’s rent.
Home again we went. As we start our regiment of morning and night time medications, hurricane Tomas rolls in. Four out of six geographical regions of PCVs in the DR were consolidated. We were put on standfast, no leaving our sites. Sit tight. Lucky for us as there are no pets allowed at the hotels where Peace Corps you during consolidation. By this time, Riley had learned that peeing was only acceptable on the newspaper and that other droppings were preferred outside, so I was happy. Happier still when I hosted my own birthday dinner and she behaved like an angel. I’ll let slide the few times she tried to stand on her hind legs to reach the food on the table. Or when it was announced to me that my adventure dog had taken herself for a walk in the rain amidst the hubbub of the clean-up. But she was there, proud that she gone to the bathroom in the right place. And though she had gone without me, without her leash, I was secretly a little proud, too.
I had feared, when I heard that my birthday dinner had gone from 5 people to 10, that I wouldn’t have enough of my fajita dinner to feed everyone. But, when my host mom surprised me with a lasagna and a huge pan of corn bread, it turned out to be a feast. I’m still eating left-overs four days later. Not only was the food satisfying both in quantity and taste, but the company was wonderful as well. The ex-pats of the Miches area sat in a circle, some of the tile floor, some on the hammock, some on plastic chairs, all around a home-made Pictionary board and their own hand-written word cards. Afterwards, we even had cake. A beauty that Darien and Henry had had made special for the occasion. It even included a candle.
Since then, the rain has washed out my theater group auditions and the electricity in the school’s computer lab… which means I’ve pretty much been hanging out in my apartment for the last few days, just me and Riley, takin it easy. I was a bit discouraged at first by my lack of work, my overabundance of sleep. But one thing I’ve learned in my 23 years, well more so in the past few months, is that sometimes you just have to go with the flow. And if that flow is the water rolling down the streets from hurricane Tomas, well – you pick up again once you can cross the river.
