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March 30, 2007
All for the love of Conchita
A stray dog wins the hearts of Canadians on a mitzvah mission.
JENNY WRIGHT
We first encountered the mucky, off-white dog hanging around outside
a well-lit government building on a Cuban side street. She was timid
and, on our first encounter, ran away. But when she realized I had
no intention of abusing her, she gradually came closer and allowed
me to stroke her.
The friendship was sealed when she flipped onto her back and permitted
a tickle on her tummy. A tummy, I was to learn later, filled with
pups. My friends Nini and Motti reminded me that it was getting
late and we needed to leave. The dog was soaking up some well-needed
affection. I pulled away reluctantly. My eyes welled with tears
as I sensed that her deep brown eyes were fixated on us as we kept
on walking.
We had planned this trip several months earlier. The Santiago synagogue
seemed like an excellent choice as a place to volunteer our time.
We had come equipped with medical supplies, Hebrew books for teaching,
a guitar and tape deck for music gatherings. We were prepared to
offer as many skills as we could – but we weren't prepared
for the enormous number of stray pets left to roam the streets.
It became a nightly routine to visit her and we came laden with
our breakfast leftovers. She recognized us and would come running
to greet us with her tail wagging enthusiastically. She would discard
the bread and gobble the egg and cheese.
We learned from the guards in the government building that her name
was Conchita. She was an assortment of breeds. The most dominant
by far was Australian collie, mixed with some black Dalmatian spots.
Her eyes were warm enough to soften the heart of the toughest gang
member.
By the second week in Santiago, we discovered the shops and overpriced
supermarket and I became a regular shopper, purchasing hot dogs
for the soon-to-be mother and any other dog who crossed our paths.
Like thousands of street dogs, it was clear that Conchita was unfed
and undernourished. She would try very gently to grab an entire
hot dog without giving me the chance to break it up. She gulped
it down whole, often with no chewing.
I repeatedly requested that the guards bring her some water, which
she lapped up noisily.
Conchita was sweet-natured and easily trainable and I had the impression
that it may have broken a local Cuban's heart to release her onto
the hot and smoky streets of Santiago.
Various guards came and went from their shifts and all seemed amused
that I would feed a luxury item to a dog. Our time here was coming
to an end and Conchita was the only unfinished business I needed
to deal with. There were thousands more dogs and cats, all desperate,
and steadily starving to death. Conchita was just another animal
scrounger in most locals' eyes, whose pups would most likely be
destroyed by the government, if not by nature.
However, if I could save one life, Conchita deserved it, and I'd
personally feel a small victory like I'd felt so many times in the
past. Dog rescues were not new to me. I was determined.
I tossed and turned in the night. It was only two nights away from
our departure and the options were limited.
I had a rough plan.
As morning services were winding down, I went to the kitchen where
several of the congregation members were chatting and preparing
lunch. Using broken Spanish and some charades, I put out my request.
I would sponsor someone who could take Conchita and her puppies.
I would pay $10 a month. This was equivalent to half a month's salary
or perhaps 25 packets of hot dogs.
A loud burst of voices took over the entire kitchen and everyone
began to debate loudly in Spanish.
I liked to believe that we had won the community's heart and trust.
Surely, they would be willing to assist with my plea for help.
We passed around the digital camera with Conchita's photo. Some
bowed out, saying they would love to take her but they had a child,
a baby or a cat. One member of the congregation said he recognized
her and that he was sure she had an owner.
Nothing happened and it appeared that Conchita's fate had been determined.
Lunch was served.
An hour later, while the congregation members were thanking us warmly
for our help, the congregation president, Eugenia, tapped me on
the shoulder and said, "I have a home for your dog. She is
a very old woman but has a large, clean home. Her daughter is my
work colleague. She is very poor, and this can serve as a salary,
too."
It sounded satisfactory, although I wondered whether the "old
lady" would outlive the puppies. I knew Eugenia to be a trustworthy
and caring person and that, with her supervision, I could continue
paying the sponsorship indefinitely.
At 5 p.m., the synagogue van would be picking us up for an event
and this would be the opportunity to deliver Conchita to her new
home. Daylight would be somewhat tricky, I thought to myself. No
leash, no collar, no car to whoosh her away in. However, I decided
not to share my uneasiness with my friends as we headed in the direction
of the government office. It was exciting. My heart was racing.
Most of the weekend crowds were local Cubans and anything we did
that was out of the ordinary could cause unwanted attention.
We reached the familiar street corner and I spotted her a block
away. Whistling softly, we called her name. She came running instantly,
oblivious to traffic. Feeding hot dogs to her with one hand, and
gently guiding her down the street with the other, we lured her
out of the guard's sight and towards a nearby park bench. I lifted
her up carefully. She was heavy but submitted so willingly, I wondered
if she sensed we were there to help her. She had tried to follow
several times before and a gentle "no" had been sufficient
for her to return towards the building. Now she was with me and
I instinctively knew I would have difficulty releasing her.
It was hard work carrying a pregnant mutt through narrow streets
in 35 degree temperatures. Her trusting nature made the long walk
back to our casa (private home) easier. She did not flinch once.
Sweat was pouring off my face. People stared at us. Children wanted
to pet her.
At one point Motti, offered to take over, but I was afraid that
something would go wrong. I clutched her tightly. My arms were beginning
to ache. All the gym workouts back home were finally paying off.
Bringing her inside our casa was akin to sneaking a boyfriend into
the house after hours. Motti went ahead and beckoned that the coast
was clear and I carried her up a flight of stairs to the bedroom
where we both flopped down. She happily followed us around the room
and bathroom and I sponged her dirty fur.
She drank two cups of water and lay down on the cool tiled floor,
covering her eyes with her paws. It was probably fortunate that
there was only an hour left until the van's arrival. Had it been
much longer, I would have been devising a plot to bring her back
to Canada. We heard the van's horn and Motti distracted our host
as Nini and I carefully carried Conchita to the van.
She sat on my lap, almost lifeless, as Eugenia directed the driver
to her new home.
It was certainly a poor family. A large, sparsely furnished living
room was dominated by a prized possession, the television. Three
young adults were seated on plastic lounge chairs, preoccupied with
the set. Olga looked ancient. Her middle-aged son gave a toothless
smile. They were also in possession of a black Chihuahua, which
they handed to me to hold. They wished to show me her weight and
the fact that she was heavy and well fed.
I gave the family $40, which Eugenia explained would last for two
or three months.
Conchita tried to run and the son held her up on her hind legs.
I tried not to look at her as I choked back tears. I did not want
to leave. When we reached the van, I looked up to see the son on
the balcony with Conchita. The tears flowed – I could not hold
them back any more. Conchita had a new lease on life. A bowl of
water, some food, a playmate and shade for those scorching hot days.
Hasta la pronto, Conchita. Our paths will cross again.
Jenny Wright lives in Vancouver. Along with several
friends, she spent several weeks volunteering her time to the Jewish
community in Santiago, Cuba, earlier this year. Wright is hoping
to raise funds to bring Conchita to Canada.
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