Traversing the length of the Baja Peninsula, north to south, in mid-September is a decidedly dumb thing to do. It is hot, stinking hot. It is especially dumb in a 21’ RV with three dogs who love to snuggle. After a series of delays, including Hurricane Newton which hit Todos Santos and a deluge that drenched Portland, I was finally able to escape the USofA and head south to my new home. Damn the heat! I was ready to begin my new life in my derelict mango orchard.

The day I arrived I contacted my friend to assemble a crew to clear the property. The first thing they did was clear a space to erect my cool new tent. The tent was 10’ X 14’ and mesh from the waist up. It was great for viewing the stars, but it wasn’t very secure from prying eyes or freak thunderstorms. But those are tales for a different day.

The first night in the tent, my little family and I were happy to be out of the confines of the RV and have a little space to stretch out. OK. I was happy to have space to stretch out, they still wanted to snuggle.

In the darkest hour of the night, my dreams started drifting to werewolves at the gate. No, it was werewolves outside my flimsy tent. No, it was every horny male dog in the entire barrio, trying for a chance at my neighbor’s dog who was in heat. If you have never experienced it, it is terrifying. The dogs were fighting, growling, howling, whimpering, screaming, attacking… It sounded like some dogs wre being raped and murdered, while others were ripping the throats out of their adversaries. The commotion lasted the entire night. My only solace was my own little pack. They seemed to be as fearful as I and had no desire to join the ferocious mob.

Over the past 18 months, my housing situation has grown and changed. The property was fenced. The tent moved to the back 40 and gained a top. The tent was then upgraded to an actual block and mortar home. But every six months, the seething pack of dogs returns. Two months after that, yet another litter of puppies arrives, and the arrival of bitch #2 doubled the frequency of the festivities. Until now that is. Gracias Adiós.

My Mexicana friend convinced my neighbor to get her dogs fixed. I agreed to be chauffeur. I had the flyer for the clinic in hand, but I didn’t want to be “that pinche gringa, sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.” It took two tries, but we got the dogs to the clinic and they were successfully fixed. When I returned to the clinic to retrieve my neighbor and her dogs, she was nowhere to be seen. She had dropped the dogs and bailed. But to her credit, she did drop the dogs.

 

The babies were resting comfortable post surgery, getting more love and attention than they had received in their entire lives. There were so many wonderful volunteers just hanging out with the dogs, combing the fleas out of their fur, and loving them up. It was beautiful. I was loaded up with antibiotics for one of the dogs and flea meds for the other. Apparently, my neighbor won’t be able to administer the meds, so I stupidly volunteered.

The other happy thought for the day ~ Today’s spaying of just these two dogs has averted the birth of 100 or more Todos Santos street dogs.

I dropped the babies back to an empty home. Negra followed me back to my car as I was collecting Blanca. It broke my heart to leave the two doped up dogs, but I couldn’t bring them home because they have a contentious relationship with my pack. I returned home and have been loving on my babies all afternoon, sad about the treatment of Mexican dogs, but ecstatic that I no longer have to endure the ravenous pack of horny werewolves in the night.