Kringle

In the wild and dangerous streets of Tijuana, a small puppy was born. He was brindle, mostly brown and had short hair and dark, happy eyes. The little boy was happy and played in the sun with the other street dogs there. Although being a street dog in Mexico wasn’t easy by any account, the little boy found bits of food to eat and felt happy to be alive and play with his other pup friends as they ran and ran and ran and sometimes wrestled or played tug of war. He loved laying in the sun and closing his eyes. He thought nothing else could feel so nice. Occasionally, a kind human would stop to share a morsel with the tiny pup and offer a few pets, something the boy loved more than anything. The unfortunate reality, though, was that evil people exist in the world. Some of them didn’t care about his life at all, and the poor pup learned this the hard way one night as the shadows were beginning to descend on the streets.

The small boy was just settling in for the night in a dark corner of an alley when he smelled the best smell he had ever smelled, and his tummy grumbled. He hadn’t eaten in a while and couldn’t ignore the savory wafts that drifted past his muzzle. He stood up and stretched toward the aroma, carefully following his nose to the scent until he’d found it. A warm fire lit the area and a plate of meat and tortillas sat unattended on a chair nearby. He looked around and saw no one. As he focused in on the food and took a bite of the delicious savory goodness, it happened. The kick was a surprise, and the boy was shocked by the pain of it. He flew, tumbling, to the ground and heard yelling and cursing and hateful things. He immediately tried to run away but another kick caught his side and threw him in the air toward the fire. Pain and burning tore through his face and neck and he screamed as he tried to run from the fire. A hand caught him, and he fought, biting, and pawing at the person he couldn’t see. His nails caught on clothing and he heard a rip. His teeth found flesh and he bit as hard as he could. The hand threw him, and he ran as fast as he could until he found the safety of the dark and solitude and quiet. He hurt and burned and wished he hadn’t followed his belly to the food. He resisted the urge to cry in pain, afraid that the bad human would find him. Night fell and the boy didn’t sleep.

Time passed and one morning, a passerby saw the boy in the street and gasped at the poor burned dog that appeared to still be breathing. He tenderly and carefully wrapped the dog in his shirt and carried him to the rescue at the top of the hill, toward the commotion of barking dogs. The staff was saddened at the sight of the small boy, so young, in such a bad condition, but thanked the kind-hearted man for bringing the pup to them to save. The boy was so dehydrated, the vet couldn’t’ find a vein to start an IV, so he received his fluids through a catheter. His ears had to be amputated due to infection that threatened his tiny body. The kind vet gave the boy antibiotics and pain medications. The boy was kept on a thermal mattress to help regulate his body temperature. His burns were treated with ointment and he was bandaged. As he was treated, the staff noted that he had come in with something stuck on his claw. It appeared to be a ripped off pocket of a jacket, containing a small black book. The boy fought through the first night and the staff at the rescue felt a small glimmer of hope for his survival.

Tracy had always loved dogs. Dogs had always been her friends and kindred spirits and she saw the goodness in them, even the ones who sometimes behaved badly, for she could see the past trauma that caused them to lash out and not trust humans. For a long time, Tracy had helped every dog she could. She’d started Saving Huey Foundation, and spent her days on her ranch, caring for the sick ones and helping the ones who had been mistreated find hope and happiness again. When she heard about the small boy who’d been rescued in Tijuana, Tracy’s heart told her what to do. She made arrangements to bring the boy to the US for additional medical treatment. He would go as soon as he was stable enough to make the trip. She also decided that the boy needed a name. “Kringle,” she whispered.

Kringle’s rescue handed the small boy over to Tracy, and together they made the drive to the US to the California Vet Specialists. The poor boy made little crying sounds on the way and Tracy nearly broke down. His body smelled of burns, blood, and infection. His ears were gone, and just open holes remained where his ears should be. When Tracy left Kringle at CVS, she prayed that he would be given a second chance, so she could take him to the ranch to finish his healing. When she cleaned out the car back at the ranch, so noticed the pocket and black book that were laying in the box from the rescue. As she flipped through the pages of the book, she was horrified to find that the book contained records of bets placed on dog fights right in her own back yard, Moreno Valley.

Tracy despised dog fighting, probably more than any other human alive. Her most beloved dog and best friend, Huey, who had passed on a few years before, had been rescued from dog fighting and bore both physical and emotional scars. Though his physical wounds had healed, he had terrible dreams that caused him to cry and shake and she shuddered to think of what he was having to relive. Ever since the passing of her beloved Huey, Tracy had exhaustedly done everything in her power to take a stand against dog fighting, teaching the community about the signs to watch for and rescuing other dogs who had been victims of the most horrific of all animal abuses. Through her work in the community, Tracy had become close friends with Captain Villegas at the Riverside Sherriff’s Department. Tracy picked up her phone, hands shaking, to call her friend about what she’d found.

Kringle woke up and stretched. He had come to the ranch with Tracy yesterday. He’d spent a long time at the specialist having treatments on his skin and even having a skin transplant. The nurses at CVS had made him special costumes to help him remember how brave he was, which always helps when you’re trying to heal. He’d been a dinosaur, a Santa, a Rastafarian Kringle and his personal favorite, a Super Kringle, complete with a red cape. He looked around and felt complete peace. Miss Tracy had let him sleep in her bed with her and her husband. He planned to give her lots of kisses when she woke up to thank her for helping him when he was hurt and needed help. He could tell that she was good – not just the kind of good like the kind strangers in Tijuana that would give him scraps of food and pets, but the best kind of good. He could see that Miss Tracy loved all of her dogs, no matter what they looked like or whether or not they could see or hear or even potty outside. Miss Tracy had talked to him all the way from the CVS building back to the ranch as he relaxed in the car, waiting to see where he was going. Miss Tracy told him that he was Super Kringle because he had single-handedly brought down a dog fighting ring when he fought back and ripped off the pocket of the bad man that had hurt him. Miss Tracy told him that, because of his help, she’d won an award that would pay for so many things that the ranch needed to help other dogs. Miss Tracy gave him lots of pets and cuddles and good food and told him how good he was and how brave. Kringle felt like he had actually won the prize, though, because she told him that he would always, no matter what, have a place to call home at the ranch. The sun shone through the window and felt like home, a feeling Kringle wanted to never forget. The small boy sighed and curled into a ball next to Miss Tracy, his best pal and friend for life. Nothing else could have made him feel more happy to be alive.