Dulce

My new schedule here in Mexico City is quite regimented. I get up early, get ready for school, meet our friend, Juan, on a nearby corner, stop at a cafe for a large "Americano" coffee, work work work in class and get a pesero back to my area. When I get off the pesero, I generally go to the "Green Corner", an organic restaurant, for lunch. I do the day's homework assignment at the restaurant. After that, I go and get food for the evening, walk the rest of the way home, and do laundry, dishes and begin cooking dinner. Then, the rains come. On Monday, I had to do an errand for Ken at a photo shop on the way home. The street my restaurant, supermarket, and the photo shop are all on is called "Miquel Angel de Quevedo" and it is always busy. It is a six to eight lane highway, with a big divider in the middle.

As I walked toward the photo shop I saw something that stopped me cold. Lying on the sidewalk was a dog who I just knew was dead. He was on his side, completely still.

For eighteen years, before we came to Mexico, my work as a prosecutor and Family Court Judge involved hearing the most horrifying stories imaginable from, or about, abused and neglected children. Slowly, as one unbelievable crime followed another, I lost my ability to cry. I used to feel I couldn't...not in front of the children who were victims. I never wanted them to think that what had happened to them was so bad that even an adult would cry. I took the approach that...hey...you were hurt...you are strong...you're a great little kid...all will be fine. As an attorney and judge, it wasn't my job to be a therapist. I will not tell you any of these stories. Frankly, you don't want to know them. They would stay in your minds and hearts the way they do in mine.

Here in Mexico, in general, children are honored, cherished, hugged, kissed, and doted upon. However, there are also thousands and thousands of desperately poor children here. Not "poor" the way we in the United States think of it. "Poor" as in having no shoes, nothing to eat, never going to school, selling candy on the subway or in the street. "Poor" as in juggling with fire at busy intersections at night just hoping someone will toss a peso from a car.

I see these children all over. They always remind me of the little victims I worked with in Schenectady. But I don't cry. The Mexican people must come up with a way to address the needs of these children. Just as in the United States people need to understand that there are thousands of Caylee Anthony's, and that preventing child abuse and murder is important in all cases.

So, last Monday when I saw the dog on the sidewalk I was prepared for anything except tears. But that lonely, dirty dog touched me in a way that nothing had in a very long time. Of course, I immediately thought of our own two rescue beagles...the ones who have changed our lives for the better. This old dog just hadn't been rescued.

By the time I got to the photo shop I was crying as I hadn't in a very long time. The photographer was sympathetic. I explained that naturally I knew that crying over a dog might seem crazy when children all over the world were hungry and dying, but that this dog affected me in a way that struck very deep. I found myself telling her about the years of not crying...

Suddenly, she cried out, "It's a miracle!" I looked, and there was the dog, up on its feet. I went to check on it, and found "it" was a "he". He had some pit in him. He had scars, like our Emily. His eyes were infected. He had no collar, and was very thin. He was too frightened to come very close me. In my back pack was some leftover pizza from lunch and some water. I put the plastic clamshell leftover container on the ground and filled the empty half with water. He only sniffed at the food, but loved the water. I wondered if he would follow me...and mostly, I followed him. At one point, he seemed to be less frightened, so I reached out to pet him. I stroked his head slowly and gently....and eventually his sad,lonely eyes closed. I wondered when he had last been lovingly touched. He was calm and quiet.

He didn't follow me long. I was thinking of trying to get a cab, but also wondered if he would be too frightened to get in. The next day, of course, I looked for him and found him again, in the same stretch of that enormous road. I bought some plastic bowls, water, and dog food in a pouch. Before I fed him, I petted him again. I told him that even though it was a girl's name, I was calling him "Dulce", which means "sweet" in Spanish. He would not eat in front of me (well, Emily still won't either and we have had her for years). I checked later, and all of the water and most of the food was gone.

I bought more dog food and also some dog biscuits. I looked carefully for him Wednesday, Thursday and today, but couldn't find him. This is rainy season in Mexico City, so each night it pours and gets very cold. I think of Dulce out in the weather, hungry, cold...and it overwhelms me.

Should I have forced him into a cab? I wish he was here in our little house right now. I wish he was learning to be less frightened. I wish I had a dog here because I miss Molly and Emily so much.

So I will keep walking down Quevedo every afternoon, with my bowls, water, dog food and dog biscuits. I may never see Dulce again, but I know I will see another sweet, lonely dog who needs someone like me as much as I need someone like him.