Twelve years ago, when I moved into my casita in the campo, I was the only one out here except for a few wild dogs, discarded by owners because they were either no longer cute puppies, grew bigger than expected and ate too much, or needed veterinary care that was too expensive. It was all milpas then, corn fields intermingled with squash and beans, the traditional indigenous diet of Mexico. I remember hearing the raucous caw of crows, the high-pitched screams of coyotes at dusk, the rustling of dried corn leaves in winter, the proliferation of orange-flowered wild marigolds ready for plucking during Day of the Dead, and blood-red poinsettias, native to this area, shooting out from the tops of long stalks at Christmas. Earth has her cycles, and I am part of it here.
The campo is the agricultural fields beyond the Rio Grande, the small stream that borders the village on the north side. It used to be the outskirts of the village, but no more. As the population grew and more migrants returned home after years of working abroad and sending money home to build, new houses began to proliferate in the campo.
In the summer rainy season, water gushes down from the reservoir on the foothills, built eighty years ago. It is the source of life here. I still see the grandmothers in their faded gray, black, and wine-red plaid wrap-around handwoven skirts worn thin from more than fifty years of washing. The skirts are secured at the waist with loomed red belts dyed with cochineal, decorated with fringes and tassels. Sometimes, I see the the abuelas washing laundry in this stream, kneeling and bending to rinse, drying their laundry on the bushes lining the stream. Here, donkeys and horses drink their fill, too. Here, the wild dogs wallow in the mud to clean themselves, taking refreshment, as well.
This morning, the birds are singing. In the distance, I hear the cocks crowing and dogs barking. It is past breakfast time. Two days ago, as I walked, two hiking sticks in hand to guide me over uneven terrain, I circled the periphery of the two-acre property I live on. It was late in the day, and I could feel the chill beginning to set in. It will be cold tonight, I thought.
As I circled, I decided to make a detour behind my casita. I noticed a small, black, furry lump huddled in the corner of the concrete platform that holds the water cistern I use for the plants. It was a whimpering puppy. I scooped it up, and its small body was shaking uncontrollably. What could I do but rescue it, bring it inside, make it warm, feed it? What I would do beyond that was never in my consciousness.
You may remember that about a year-and-a-half ago, I wrote about the black dog named Zopilote that I tried to rescue and who escaped. I wanted to capture, adopt, and neuter her before she could have babies. I was not successful. This time, I wasn’t going to let that happen again. When I returned here in early January, my family told me Zopi was dead, either poisoned or killed with a gun. Life for dogs in the campo is harsh.
When I looked at this puppy, I knew she was part of Zopilote’s lineage, with long legs, wide black eyes, a well-shaped pointed nose, and black fur with white paw markings. She was beautiful. My friend, Arnulfo, identified her as a she. But I didn’t name her, not knowing if I would keep her. I didn’t want to bond. She curled up on my lap, turned her head to look at me with doleful eyes and I was hooked. I wrote to Merry Foss who runs Teo Tails, a sterilization clinic here. What do I feed her? I asked. Impatient, I looked online. No cow milk. That’s good. All I have is almond milk; I warmed it up to wrist temperature, just like you do for a baby. I used a small spoon to bring the liquid to her mouth, and she began to lap. I tipped the cup and she slurped it all up.
That night, she wailed. I put in earplugs and wrapped the blankets over my head. Finally, I fell asleep. Eventually, she did, too, settling into a corner in the living room, her nose tight against the corner where the north and east walls meet, where I found her in the morning. Her cries were baby-like, yearning for her mother. I put her on my lap to soothe her.
Merry said, take her to the veterinary clinic she works with in Tlacolula. So, I did. The vet said, this baby was sick with intestinal inflammation, mucous, and fleas. She was pegged at two months old, and undernourished. After administering the exam and then dosing with proper medicine, the vet opened a small pouch of food, and I hand fed the puppy. I left with her tucked into a shopping bag after paying the equivalent $50 USD bill, and medicine, syringes, and puppy food, along with a list of instructions in hand.
At home, we settled into the hammock. It was a spectacular afternoon. Clear blue skies, 78-degree weather, puffy clouds floating over the 11,000-foot high mountains. We were shielded from the sun by a guaje tree, red pods ripe with dangling overhead, an ancient source of sustenance. Guaje is an acacia tree native to southern Mexico that produces long, flat pods filled with crisp tender green seeds. These seeds have a very pleasant, mild garlic flavor. They look, feel, and taste similar to pumpkin seeds. The tree’s fringed leaves left mottled shadows below. It was like swinging under a canopy. A yellow songbird perched on one of the branches. The puppy, still unnamed, was splayed on my belly dozing intermittently between deep sighs.
She got up, stretched, and began panting. Her legs were unsteady on the hammock. She peered over the edge, pushed her head through the netting, walked across my outstretched body, and seemed restless. I thought she needed to pee. So, I swung my legs around, stood up, and put her on the ground. She steadied herself and in seconds, she took off for the corn fields and disappeared.
I’m angry at myself for not knowing better. I believed this puppy had bonded with me and would stay close. I had dreams of her trailing me, little black tail wagging. I imagined training her to fetch, to obey on command, to wear a collar and be led by a leash. I would get her spayed at five months old and she would become my companion for the rest of my days here. The other two campo dogs, Butch and Tia, came to me fully formed. Butch was about six when he appeared. Tia was yearling. That was eight years ago. Butch now has trouble walking and Tia has slowed down considerably. A new puppy felt right.
I loved the feeling of having this small animal nestled on me. I loved touching her fur, rubbing her little nose, scratching her head, and stroking her. I thought This is just what I need. In an instant of misjudgment, she was gone. I doubt she will return. The call of the pack is powerful. This is about ancient instincts. I have to accept and let go. Another lesson learned.
