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The Dog Days of Summer

Aug 30, 2024

It’s been a month and a day since I got my little Colombian street dog back from the family with whom I left him in May.

I’d been so anxious and nervous about picking him up: what if he didn’t remember me? What if he didn’t care?

I had a dream in which I went to get him, and he kindly yet firmly informed me that he was grateful I got him off the streets, but his home was with the foster family now. I was dismissed. Even though they seemed so great I would have let them keep him if they’d asked, I was heartbroken. I woke up in a sweaty panic – what the fuck am I doing?

I am ill-advisedly rushing back to Colombia.. for a dog.

Reunited!

I arrived at their place, calling a shy ‘hola?’ up to their apartment. Almost immediately this little brown bomber flew down the stairs, tail whipping in a frenzy, body quivering with excitement. He practically knocked me down, covering me in little licks and nips. The daughter declared he was the most ‘loco’ she’d ever seen him. My heart swelled; he hadn’t forgotten.

At first glance, he seemed healthy enough: good weight, extremely active, bright-eyed. But he also had several rough and missing patches of fur.

I left him again to buy things he needed: leash & collar to replace the ones he’d chewed through, anti-parasite tablet, giant rawhide bone. The foster ‘mom’ said he still had some food left, so I didn’t worry about that.

Finally, after the errands were run, and the thank-you gifts accepted (along with the half-million pesos I’d promised upon pick-up – around $125 USD), it was time to go. The daughter asked if she could walk with us for a minute. With her mother’s ok, I gave her the leash, and off we went. At the end of her alley, she said her goodbyes, and Shiva and I continued on. He never looked back.

Image of author and puppy with enormous rawhide bone in hostel room

The Wellness Check that Wasn’t

The next day, I took him to a vet because I was concerned about his coat; I thought he might have mange. To my surprise, the culprit was malnutrition. A surprise, because the woman told me repeatedly they were feeding him nutritious homemade sopas of fresh meat, rice, and vegetables (despite the giant bag of cheap dry kibble they’d given me the last of when we left).

Then the vet told me that his stitches, the SECOND set from the botched sterilization for which I paid a ridiculous amount, were not in fact the dissolving kind, as I’d been told. Suddenly, three men were holding him down on the floor, to keep him still so the vet could remove them. By now they were so deep and inflamed, he had to dig to remove them completely. The pain was so intense, poor Shiva kept smashing his head against the floor, his mouth filling with blood. Meanwhile, I’m crouched on the floor, trying to soothe him while trying to not burst into tears myself. It was fucking horrible.

Finally, the vet took a blood sample. When we returned the next day, the results showed a fairly severe internal parasitic infection. The family hadn’t given him his monthly anti-parasite tablet, which is mandatory here, since May. We left with a mess of prescriptions, including a special shampoo.

I tried to bathe him at the hostel, and he freaked out, screaming and twisting, wild-eyed. He got away from me and bolted, soaking wet, jumping all over the beds, looking for a place to hide. And that’s when I remembered the daughter pretending to throw a bucket of water in his face whenever she felt he was acting too ‘loco.’ Then I realized that he wasn’t really drinking any water either, which is problematic, as water is also mandatory. Especially in extremely hot and humid climates. I literally had to (re)teach him that it is safe to drink water by offering it to him in my cupped hands.

Irony: A Full-Time Traveler with a Dog Who Hates Traveling

As we slowly bounced from Santa Marta to Cartagena to Mompox, trying to get to the Andes where we’d both be happier and healthier, his condition worsened. Not only does he dislike the heat and humidity of the coast, but he’s also afraid of traveling in vehicles. And he gets ‘mareo’ (motion sickness) to boot. So, the going was slow, stressful, and a logistical nightmare, despite the emotional support certificate I’d obtained to theoretically make transit easier. There was no way I was putting him in a kennel with the cargo to die of fear and heat exposure. But riding in the passenger areas wasn’t much better. There was not one ride without prodigious amounts of slobbering, vomiting, trying to jump out of windows and/or run down aisles.

Frankly, my emotional support animal has turned out to be the actual cause of any need I may have for emotional support.

A blissfully oblivious sleeping puppy in the middle of a sheet tornado in the middle of a bed

But Wait.. There’s More!

He was shitting blood the day we left Cartagena for Mompox via a stupidly expensive transport I booked because I was afraid to risk the bus (Mompox is hotter than Cartagena, which is in turn hotter than Santa Marta – we were truly in hell). Right before we left, the vet gave him two shots and recommended against giving him the calming CBD/THC drops he’d hooked us up with for the trip. I didn’t feed him that morning, hoping an empty stomach might prevent vomiting. Unfortunately, he still puked.. SEVEN times in just over four hours, as I devolved more and more into an emotional wreck. I feel like I’m killing this dog in my attempts to help him.

In Mompox, a mobile vet came to the hostel and ended up having to rehydrate him intravenously. He took another blood sample, which showed that Shiva’s platelet count was so low, he was at imminent risk of hemorrhaging. Another raft of meds was prescribed, including 28 days of antibiotics and 10 days of Prednisone.

I was told to start him on the new meds ASAP. But, because some of them would increase his stomach sensitivity, the vet said not to start them until we got someplace we were going to stay for awhile. There was no way we were staying in Mompox, the innermost circle of climate-related hell yet.

The historic church in Santa Cruz de Mompox

Despite being grossly hot, humid, and infested with mosquitoes, Santa Cruz de Mompox is a beautiful pueblo!

‘A’ is for ‘Aguachica’ ..and ‘Awful’

The next two days were agonizing. From Mompox to Aguachica took two rides: first to El Banco with a grumpy driver who picked up a family who all had the flu. When we got to El Banco, the ride he’d arranged for us to Aguachica didn’t pan out. So, he tried to dump us on the side of a road claiming transports were sure to come by. I refused to get out of his truck. Finally he drove us to another spot and he passed us off into a compact car with 4 adult men. That driver was much friendlier, and at one point, started playing 90s alternative rock (presumably for my benefit) complete with videos on the dash while he listened to his own music on the side.

In Aguachica, we stayed in one of the most bizarre hostel situations I’ve ever experienced: we weren’t given a key to the outside. If we wanted to actually exit the building, I had to message the son of the owner to let us out. It felt somewhat like a hostage situation. The next morning, the owner called and said I was invited to go up to the second floor and relax and enjoy the views, and his son would make me breakfast. That all sounded very nice, but I didn’t want breakfast. I wanted to leave. And the son was suffering from a severe hangover. He was busy puking loudly in the hall bathroom and laying in a fetal position on the floor.

I asked about the taxi he’d said he could arrange for us. It turned out to be a neighbor, whose phone number he didn’t have. And also who wasn’t home. So I had to walk randomly around this residential neighborhood looking for a cab myself.

Finally, I caught one dropping off a family coming home from grocery shopping. The driver was an old crank who tried to deny us, because ‘the dog sheds.’ Then he quoted me a rate that was about $1 more than I’d paid to get to there. He was extremely annoyed when I didn’t bat an eye, said ‘fine,” and got in. We needed to get back to the terminal, there were no other options, and an extra dollar is nothing compared to what I’ve paid for special transports. I called his bluff and he had to take us, grumbling the entire ride.

Bucaramanga or Bust

Expreso Brasilia denied us passage because of Shiva’s size, despite my emotional support certificate. Now I’m panicking (as usual): it was Sunday, so there are fewer buses. I was worried we weren’t going to be able to get transport to Bucaramanga, and there was no fucking way we were going back to that crazy hostel. So, I went to Cotaxi, who had a buseta leaving soon.

They also tried to deny me, but by now, I’m over this shit – by law they have to allow my dog on board. So, I argued with them until they finally relented. I was not excited about having to ride in a small bus, because mountain roads are typically super-curvy, pothole-ridden shitshows, and the big buses have to go slower. The driver gave us the whole back row, saying we would have more space. He then announced to the rest of the passengers, ‘we welcome our friend from the United States!’ with a big smirk.

So, anyone who has ever ridden a bus probably knows that the back, especially when it’s not carrying a lot of weight, is always the most… active.

The ride to Bucaramanga was easily the worst, most violent bus ride I’ve ever had in my life. While we were getting tossed around like kernels in an air popper, the driver watched tv, caught up on WhatsApp, and argued with people over the phone. He swerved to avoid road obstacles (not always successfully), careened around hairpin turns, and passed lines of vehicles on blind corners. It was as though he wanted to die. And take us all with him.

Thanks to those weed drops I wished I’d got in on, Shiva only puked once. But when we finally arrived at the terminal, both of us wobbly and traumatized, he sat as far away from me as his leash would allow, and refused to look at me, drink water, do anything at all but stare glassy-eyed into the distance, statue-still, while passers-by looked at me with disdain. It was fucking horrible.. and we still had to take a taxi to the hostel.

Finally, a Reprieve..

We had a generally uneventful stay in Bucaramanga. I couldn’t find any doggie daycares, so I was essentially attached to Shiva by his leash the entire time. Sightseeing was out, then, but after the horrors of traveling from Cartagena I was perfectly fine with a reprieve from vehicles. Bucaramanga is a pretty city, and I wouldn’t mind going back to explore it a bit more. As climate goes, it’s practically icy compared to the Caribbean coast (as are most of the people). But, it’s still too hot and humid for living, and that’s the goal of this adventure: to find a part-time home base in South America.

.. And Great News!

Now, we are in Mesa de Los Santos, 10 days into his latest treatments. Today he was due for another blood test, so I got him an appointment with the nearest vet. At first, we tried to take a tuktuk, which is essentially an enclosed trike (side note: WANT!). It was perfect – he didn’t even start drooling! Well, it was perfect until it broke down, stranding us halfway to our destination. Luckily, another transport happened by, so not only did we make it to his appointment, we were early. And even though it wasn’t nearly as fun as the tuktuk, it was way cheaper. The tuktuks are mostly used by the tourists that flood the Mesa on the weekends to visit the famous Mercado Campesino de Acuarela.

Colombian tuktuk with drivers holding dog on a leash

Antony and Antonio with their tuktuk ‘Escorpion’

This vet could get instant test results, and woohoo!! His platelets are back to well within the normal range. In fact, almost all of his numbers are where they should be, or are at least close. He still has the parasitic blood infection, though, so he has to continue the antibiotics. She told me that she usually prescribes FORTY days of antibiotics because the Mesa is infested with mosquitos. I’m told this has something to do with the extensive use of chicken-shit fertilizer. Apparently, this is a great place to grow pineapples.

Mesa de los Santos

I really like the Mesa. At over 5,000′ it’s much more temperate than Bucaramanga (although still pretty hot in the full sun). The Mercado is fantastic, the people are generally friendly, and there are all kinds of interesting-looking places to explore. Also, it’s extremely safe: there’s only one road in, and it’s a toll road.

Unfortunately, it’s also ruled out as a home base, because fuck mosquitoes – they (and the flies) are brutal and relentless. But, I guess knowing where I don’t want to live is an important part of figuring out where I do. Most importantly, after a horrible month of insane stress, anxiety, and worry, my strong-ass little street dog is FINALLY stable on his road to health and wellness. Now we can continue our journey with fewer worries. It’s been a long, exhausting, extremely trying time, but I don’t regret any of it..

Image of a puppy stretched out next to a tennis ball

I LOVE THIS RIDICULOUS ANIMAL

Filed under: Colombia||share||Shiva
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