Savior Complex

Yea, maybe. If you're a dog.

Maybe it’s because I never hear English unless I’m listening to a podcast, but I’m tuned into dog frequencies now more than ever. I always knew the different barks of Miss Brady (now 15) from living in the woods. Is it danger? A cat? Someone after the chickens? Someone on the driveway? Play time scamper over logs in pursuit of chipmunk?

This pack has similar ebbs and flows of noises and yodels. Twice this week I’ve gotten the wolf pack howl in unison. That has come to mean another dog is in trouble. Life or death. On Monday it preceded the last screech of one of stray Calico’s puppies after getting run over. And today it was an alert that there was a fight. A big one. Skip the cute little Shepherd that I cannot believe is out there alone still (?!) was getting ripped up by Donuts (not his real name) a giant white pitbull on the corner. Not sure who owns him. He gets around for sure. An intact male who has spread his big headed seed onto many of these terrier working dog females.

Skip was just trotting behind the trash truck because that’s a good place to be. He was a block over and I heard an unbearable racket that I kept hoping was something I didn’t have to tend to. Make it stop. I’m still in my slippers!

I had just run out to catch the trash guys to hand them a bag with a frozen puppy in it

because I didn’t want to leave the deceased on the road or let someone else eat it or freak that mama dog out further. The sand/soil is too shallow and hard to bury anything here and let’s face it. With ten dogs it’s getting redug. I’ve tried that before with some Parvo pups. I don’t need to see that twice.

As with most things, no one comes to the rescue. Also it was very early. A lot of places have early risers in Mexico. This isn’t one. But no one is likely going to do much except throw a rock. It’s not the first time I’ve run out in my jammies with a broom to take care of business. Pedro was out front but without back up of Dusty and Mattie, the cattle dog he’s not going in the ring. Also that’s not his corner. I saw Calico and her 3 remaining puppies sitting on the sidewalk so they were okay.

Skip got under a thorn bush to protect himself and that big Donuts had blood everywhere and he skulked off. I carry a piece of wood with the broom it makes a loud crack. I know it’s worthless but I’m just trying to break up a dog fight, not be Xena. And you know, they’re not my dogs. But no one’s dogs feel like mine somehow. Not to have and to hold but to save and protect, I guess. I beat on the wood and the other dogs run. She feedeth but she taketh away too. The gringa! Here she comes!

I used to do this Savior thing with people but I don’t bother with that anymore. If someone asks, maybe. Maybe! But these street dogs with ticks hanging off their ears like grapes with their ribs showing? Hard to ignore. Am I forcing myself on them? No. I walk by plenty that I don’t always feed or talk to. But when one is getting bullied and shredded for no good reason? I try to help.

It’s not just the Pitbulls, but you don’t get many second chances with them. There are terriers I’ve seen out there who go to the death no matter what too. Street dog culture is very Wild Kingdom. It’s ugly. And it wears on me some days in the 914 days I’ve been here. But who’s counting.

I got Skip to a safe place (under the carne asada cart) a few blocks away and got my meds bag and cleaned him up and gave antibiotics. Adrenaline fueled but limping. I’ll check back later and give an injection of an analgesic. I heard someone at the tienda ask if he was run over and someone else said No, dog fight and the tamale guy said, that chick is crazy for dogs. Look at her!

I liked it better when my Spanish was worse. Now I can hear what they say and it’s rarely interesting or nice. But I don’t care. I’m only here for the dogs. And your tamales are average, sir.

Savior Complex is defined by doing the most to the detriment of your own well being. White Knight Syndrome. No one can fix this but ME-itis. And to be fair I’m in more of a no one WILL fix this-itis and I’m a reluctant Knight for sure. I know how it sucks you in. I knew the minute I put out that first bucket of water that I was opening the door to the Underground Dog Network. After my car wreck the guy who dropped me off said, Michele, no one has ever helped dogs in this town, maybe it’s your destiny.

I laughed and groaned because this place is rough and there is no food and the houses are built from pallet wood and it’s ugly and hot and dry and I’ll say it again, there is NO FOOD. Okay there’s a few crappy tiendas selling milk, eggs, shitty GMO produce and aisles and aisles of chips and snacks and bad cookies. But real food? No. No cafes, no restaurants, no grab and go, no farm stands, no mercados. Like ghetto roadside shopping that you do at a gas station near Kansas when you just get a bag of corn nuts and say, gawd I’m glad I don’t live here!

Except now I do live “here”. I’m sitting on the trigger of just tell me where and when and send a van and we’re out and I promise to never help anything or anyone ever again Lord, just let me have a bathtub, access to organic dairy and fresh produce and maybe some pizza? Or a hummus wrap. Fresh air and I’ll ignore all the starving mangey dogs I promise. An address for delivery and I promise not to trap myself with good deeds ever again. Any cheese besides queso fresco, Lord, and I’ll never wrap another wound or spend all my money on spays and kibble at the one store that sells kibble and jacks the price. Amen.

I had a nutty neighbor called Bucky when I lived in Clarkston, GA and he used to say

Honey no good deed goes unpunished. Just take care of your own shit.

But I knew he was kidding as he volunteered and donated time and food all over metro Atlanta, but he DID take care of himself. He had nice dinners and would indulge in his hobby of fixing up old BMW motorcycles. He filled his cup.

I can’t NOT help these dogs and I’ve learned to pick my battles (sorta) because if you blink, you could have 132 dogs in the courtyard without even trying. It’s hard enough to find a place to live with the “six” I have. (it’s really 10 but double digits is beyond what a landlord can handle) the thing I miss most is having someone to talk to.

Besides pizza. Another dog lover who wasn’t a martyr would be swell. Or just someone who didn’t say, Oh please. Just leave them! Which is just bananas.

I don’t think I’m changing the world, or this town or that I’m special but it does feel better than not being of service. And dogs feel like family. Even when I was little and had actual human family I preferred dogs and now that I don’t have family the dogs are even more relevant but I’m topped out at 10. I need more shelters and vacant lots and another annex or more people in this dustbowl to step up for sure. If I was dropped in a town with starving people or llamas for that matter I’d be helping them I guess. But that’s not what’s here. And I have a hard time figuring out people and have no knowledge of llamas.

I’ve been too long at the party I know. Will I know how to fill my cup anymore? I brought a few select items to the one secret laundromat in town and I felt like Queen for a Day. Sheets and towels tumbled in a dryer? I’ll never take that for granted again.

I want to be the lady who sends her drivers to pick up dogs that satellite fosters collect in these gross towns and then they shuttle them back to her beautiful sanctuary where they all live in the hills above the town with all the services and a vet and artisan cheese and good meats. And an easy friend…and maybe pizza.

For more info on the rescue and dogs go to linktr.ee/lolasdogrescue