The Rescue at Dead Dog Beach by Stephen McGarva

Author:Stephen McGarva
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

A round this time, I got an e-mail from a woman named Melanie Shapiro in San Juan. Months earlier, Betsy Freedman, the Save a Sato representative in Boston, had promised me, “Help is on the way.” As it turned out, Melanie was that help.

Melanie worked with a group that rescued stray cats in Old San Juan. But she also had contacts at a privately run rescue shelter near San Juan, and she wanted to take some of my dogs there. However, as I learned in our initial exchange, Melanie lived over an hour away and didn’t have a car, so I wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to be able to help me at my beach. And given my experience with Martha, I was doubly wary of another outsider’s intentions, however good they might be.

But as always, the dogs came first, and I couldn’t turn Melanie away without giving her a chance. When I spoke with her on the phone a few days later, we made a plan for her to come and see my dogs for herself.

One morning at the end of the week, I drove to San Jan to pick her up. She’d given me an address, and told me to wait in the car for her. I arrived on time, and waited. And waited. I didn’t really want to bug her, but after forty-five minutes cooling my heels in the truck, I relented and called her cell. No answer.

Then, a few moments after I hung up, she appeared on the balcony of her apartment.

“I’ll be right down! I’m just getting a cup of tea!”

Judging from her obvious bed head, I figured she hadn’t even gotten up yet, at least not until I’d called and woken her up. It wasn’t her fault that I hate when people make me wait, but I’d gotten up extra early and driven ninety minutes through brutal rush hour traffic to get here, and, to make matters worse, I was now really late to feed the dogs. I had a set schedule with them, and I knew they counted on it. I didn’t appreciate wasting my time waiting for a stranger.

Finally, Melanie came down. As she approached the car, I took note that she was wearing shorts and flip-flops, exactly what I had suggested she not wear to the beach. Caring for the dogs was tough, dirty work. And her fair, freckled skin was going to take a beating in the tropical midday sun. But I wasn’t her father, so I didn’t say anything. She lived on the island, so I figured she knew what she was doing.

“I hope you don’t mind, I asked Mary Eldergill to meet us. She’s another rescuer from the south side of the island,” she said on the drive to Yabucoa.

Great, that’s all I needed, another do-gooder getting in the way of what really needed to be done. I guess my skepticism showed on my face.

“Don’t worry, she’s a veteran at this. She’s been rescuing dogs for more than twenty years.

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