A Dog From Spain

A Dog From Spain

Belinda Duval

Copyright © 2011 by Belinda Duval. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

First Electronic Edition: September 2012

Smashwords Edition

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A note on this book.

A dog from Spain contains many stills made during the filming of the tv ‘dogumentaries’ on behalf of the Peoples Animal Welfare Society.

These photos were not originally made for publication, and so their quality can be poor.

However, since they represent the true atmosphere of the live filming of stray dogs, the

author and producer of this material feels they should be included in the book.

Short clips made from life material shot in Spain, directly connected with this true story of ‘a dog from Spain’,as you are reading it, can be seen on the youtube links found on numerous pages.

Half the proceeds of ‘A dog from Spain’ will go to PAWS and HASS, the animal rescue societies that are mentioned in this story.

www.adogfromspain.com

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7-0pkdFoBg&feature=youtu.be

I would like to express my feelings of deep admiration and respect to all volunteers in their dedicated fight against animal cruelty.

What often began with the rescue of just one stray dog grew for many into a lifelong ‘hobby’ helping hundreds of homeless animals in every possible way.

To me, these people are the bravest and dearest in the world.

I cherish all the laughter and tears we shared.

CONTENTS

A DOG FROM SPAIN

IN THE BEGINNING

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

PAWS: The Strange, Cruel But Touching History Of an Animal Rescue Centre In Spain

PERROS ABANDONADOS - DAY ONE

SAN JUAN DE AZNALFARACHE

WANDERING TIME SLOT

CAR TIRE ANNIE

MADONNA SMILES

HASS: Helping All Spanish Shelters

EIGHT HUNDRED DOGS AND ONE BITE

CALENDAR DOGS

BEHAVIOR THERAPY

THE DOG DINER

SAN JUAN DE AZNALFARACHE - 2006

AMSTERDAM DOGS

NORTH MEETS SOUTH

A NEW ROAD

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A DOG FROM SPAIN

On top of the hill in the blazing sun, a young black dog had her nose pointed southward where the lavender fields stretch to the Sierra Morena. She knew the rabbit had run in that direction because she had seen the rest of the pack run that way. With eyes like a hawk, looking this way and that, she had followed the rest of the dogs. The hunters followed behind her, walking slowly through the dry river bed with their rifles on their back. They were talking and laughing until one of them stopped and pointed to the dog on the crest of the hill.

Hey, look, that new one lost the others already! You call that a hunting dog? Another man took his rifle off his back and aimed at the dog.

They had not shot a single rabbit all morning and naturally those stupid dogs were to blame.

I’ll teach her a lesson!

Lazy bitch! The bullet hit nothing but hot air. The dog was running down the hill, having spotted the rabbit. It was down there, in the distance, on the other side of the motorway…

Holland, January 2006.

You cannot save them all…someone said. All the animals that have to be put down because no one wants to have them. Horses going to the butchers because no one wants to ride them, cats and dogs wandering the streets because no one wants to give them a home. How many are we talking about? Hundreds? Thousands? The whole town, the whole country, all of Europe? And I would want to save them all and put them in my house, feed them, care for them and love them ? All those dogs, horses and cats, peeing, pooping, biting and mating. Maybe I would be trampled by them, and have to be saved by the UKRO. Perhaps followed around by a camera crew of Animal Rescue Live. Or maybe they will not even find me, just a chunk of my leg with a shoe on it, half eaten and on my tombstone they will carve: SHE WANTED TO SAVE THEM ALL.

You cannot save them all, the voice repeated. I looked at my computer and the dog stared back at me. Well…this was not what you would call a dog, really. It was only half of one, since it was bandaged from the waist down. A white bandage, looking a bit like Jesus’ loin cloth. Large, frog like eyes looked questioningly at me out of a very thin, long face.

Below was written, in pigeon English: Who help? Broken dog need operation. Right, a badly injured dog in urgent need of an operation, I got it. It was very broken, and not very handsome either. No cute little puppy with a melting look, but more like a grasshopper with a pointy nose and stick like long legs. One could quite easily say ‘no’ to a dog like that.

Since the internet deposits the entire world at your feet, like a cat putting a dead bird or a half-eaten mouse on your door mat, you have to say ‘no ‘ more often than you want to. Put on your computer, and the minute you’re online shout ‘NO’! Ten times a day at least, or you will find yourself stuck with a hard core SPAM subscription, a nasty virus or a bucket load of Viagra or you will have to forward this email to at least ten other people, if you want to strike gold. Who wouldn’t want to be a millionaire by the end of the day. It’s deeper than the sewer, the internet. It’s the garbage freeway, with a thick stream of unwanted sludge, speckled with clods of neon letters drifting by intermittently, and only once in a while you see something worthwhile like the face of an old friend in a crowd. Or, the face of an emaciated dog in need of surgery.

This email with this photo had been posted at random, shot into space from some murky little room from God knows where. A push on the button into the electronic milky way and probably via various satellites landing in Los Angeles, London, Tokyo, and here in Holland in my lap in fact. But this was not to be taken personally.

And so I did not. I have always said that since I cannot save them all, I shall restrict myself to the ones that actually come before me. Literally, not electronically. My index finger moved to ‘delete’. The dog was gone.

Fine. I would not go into that world, if I were you, I told myself, just to make sure I understood. It was like filling a bucket full of holes, this rescue of stray dogs. I had done it for years when I was married and had a job, a husband, a good income, when the children were small and life was easy. But now here I was, a single mother with a computer. Soon, I would be homeless myself, No, I could not afford to save any more dogs…I had a few of them already, but did not want to admit how many.

NINE DOGS! You have NINE DOGS? And do they all sleep in your bed? I don’t know why, but that is the second question, always. Lately I replied that they did indeed all sleep in my bed every night, and the horses too, so now I had my own carton box behind the sofa and that suited me nicely.

No matter what I’d say, it is too many dogs for one household and they were foreign dogs too. They must be riddled with flees and infectious diseases, be traumatized and savage. People would look at me like I had just confessed to having a unusual venereal infection. Especially at all the glamor parties I had to attend. From the early days when I had been a young movie actress, I had always felt awkward and silly at these star studded nights. Once my husband and me were invited by her majesty the Queen to a musical soiree, and instead of talking to the royals we ended up chatting with the stable master in the palace kitchen. Now that, to my mind, had been a great party. Turned out her Highness had more dogs than me. But you will find that at theatres and concert halls there are very few kitchens with royal stable masters to flee to. So there I would end up squeezed between glittery sheaths and shiny tuxedos, feeling like a goose at a penguin colony, blurting out all nine were dewormed and vaccinated. By the time we’d get to this point, the dog as a topic of conversation, had lost its interest. I was regarded as the slightly boring wife of a famous singer, and under his protection I was allowed to have my odd hobbies. Not so when we split and

I was a woman on her own. My reputation in the gutter press had gone from a young promising movie star, to author, to lyricist of a famous singer to ‘that mad ex-wife with all those dogs’, and now nothing I could do could save me. You can’t save them all.

I went for a walk with all nine, as I did every morning. First they would be happy and excited, yapping in the back of my old jeep like a class of school children on their annual outing. Then they would jump out head over heels and run, barking madly into the woods. On a sandy clearing in the middle of the rainy forest, all nine sat in a circle with me in the middle. Time to check them out.

Tiny Gigi was standing on her hind legs trying to look bigger. Fat Artico was watching his bum to see if any more farts were coming, Lito, my alpha dog had his eyes fixed on my pocket with the doggy treats. One-eyed Choco was bickering with Annie, as usual. Annie’s son Taylor, habitually squeaking like the wheels of a supermarket trolley, had flopped down on to the sand. Madonna with her broken leg was staring at the bushes wanting to prove she could still catch that rabbit hiding there. Chica, having once been used as a punch ball on a playground in Spain, was nervously checking the bushes in case those rotten kids were back, and dirty Bunny was eating a turd. This was my family. And the reason they were sitting so nicely around me, like the Von Trapp kids in the Sound of Music, had nothing to do with me being a brilliant dog trainer but only with the treats I would give them. Simple blackmail. They are almost human. Who wants another sweet?

I took this opportunity to discuss something important. Listen, you lot, I said, as they watched me with their ears erect. What? There is a dog in need. A broken dog, so to speak…I saw it on the internet this morning… They could not care less. Taylor started digging a hole in the sand. Artico discovered a flea and Madonna was trying to sneak off, very quietly. And that dog …I continued quickly, loves….treats! I showed them a hand full of tasty biscuits.

What did you say?! I had their attention again. They were watching me intensely. "Now do you feel I should share these lovely yummy treats with this poor dog? Do we have room for one more? What do you

say? To me, to me! Chica barked, staring at my hand. Oh come on, bitch, just hand them out! Gigi snapped. You can throw them at me, I’ll catch anything!" Lito proudly said.

A couple of people passing by were deeply impressed with the total concentration of my pack. She does keep those dogs under control, doesn’t she! Yes, that’s the Doggy Walk professionals for you, they are great trainers. I handed out the treats and we resumed our walk. It was their favorite time of the day, running through the woods. All nine accepted each other and every time I came home from Spain with another stray, whether it was a bitch or a macho male, no problem.

Was that answering my question? Did we have enough to eat? Was there room in our house, in our lives? Oh no, it did not make sense. Not now! Not in the middle of a divorce, with no idea what the future would hold. Who would take on a new dog at such a time? As I walked on, the rain dripped of the leaves into my neck and I was watched the dogs happily chase one another, mouths wide with big smiles. They were flying over the sand while I was sinking deep down into it. If only I was my own dog, I would not be so weighed down with worry. Where shall we all live? How shall I make a living? What will happen to us all?

No, a dog can live in the here and now, but we, people, cannot, We