Sabrita

No, no, no, no, no – was my first thought when I looked at her and realized what I had to do.

I mean, one look – peeling scabs for skin, crusted eyes, corrugated stuck-out spine, bug-infested fur, flinching at my every half-move – and anyone sensible would’ve turned on their heel and left.

Let me back up a bit.

The first time I saw her I was on my way home, full plastic grocery bags swinging on both arms. The sun was bright and hot in the sky. I just happened to glance to my left, down a small incline to the parking lot alongside, and there she was.

A scraggly little thing, she seemed to grin at me, nonetheless. I gave her a chip from the Sabritas bag (Mexican chips similar to Lays) I’d already opened. She gobbled it down. I gave her another. She ate that too.

Huh, I thought.

Then, I continued on.

A few days later, as I approached the same grocery store, the thought came to me, as subtle as a whisper: Wonder if she’s still here.

On my way in, there was no sign of her.

On my way out, though, as I was walking under the store’s overhang that led to the parking lot, there she was.

Closer up than before, I could see just how bad she was. She was a huddle of skin and bones that trembled as I crouched. Jerked as I took out the package of hot dogs, as if afraid of being struck.

Up-close now, I could see she looked even worse than I’d first realized. The only real comparison my mind could make was to ‘Tinkerbell’, a former winner of the ugliest dog competition from a decade or so back.

Only this dog was suffering, badly.

Whether she’d gone without food the last few days, or her malnutrition had finally caught up with her, I’m not sure. What was obvious, however, was that she was near death.

Too weak to even eat the piece of hot dog I’d pulled off for her, I ripped it to a piece the size of half-a-fingernail, which she gingerly nibbled. Piece by piece, I fed her the hot dog.

At one point, a Mexican woman came up to her with some food, trying to coax her in Spanish. She sniffed it, even licked one experimentally, but left it at that. She was too weak to even try eating it.

Over the next few minutes, as I fed her the hot dogs, and chips – which I also had to break into minuscule pieces, I could feel the thought worming in me – tempting and insidious.

I’m no dog expert, but it didn’t take a dog expert to see the writing on the wall: If I leave her here, she’s going to die.

The skin on her face and belly was cracked with filth, her eyes half-open with grit. You could count the bones on her spine. I can’t remember if I noticed them, the bugs that had visibly and invisibly settled into her fur and skin – although I sure would later.

But what got me the most was how she’d react when I’d make any sort of sudden movement, any advancement. She’d cower. Tremble.

Like she was sure of being struck.

I fed her four or so hot dogs, a bunch of chips. Then, it was time to go.

Only I couldn’t. I stood there, looking at her, thinking of my friend who loved animals, who never would’ve left a helpless dog like this alone.

But what could I do?

I had an entire itinerary planned out, and this was just one stop of many. I’d been a cat owner and lover most of my life. I didn’t know a thing about dogs.

I wasn’t in a financial or even mental position to deal with the care nursing this dog back to health would require.

I stood there, looking at her, as she looked at me, and the thought came back, as certain as a heart beat: If I leave her here, she’ll die.

-But I can’t take her.

But I couldn’t leave her, either.

So, I settled on a sort of compromise: If she’ll follow me home, then we’ll see.

So, ripping off a piece of hot dog, I took a few steps away, then held it out.

She rose, she followed.

In the beating-hot sun, it was about a 20-minute walk back to the Airbnb apartment I was renting. She followed me the whole way, ripped-up hot dog piece by ripped-up hot dog piece, with a quick stop for a drink from a dirty puddle.

With one exception: one glimpse of a bigger, heartier retriever and she turned on her heel and trotted back the way she came.

The solution was obvious: I picked her up.

We made one pit stop to rest, where I let the little dog wander off a bit to lay in the sun on a lonely village street. That’s where the picture was taken. In it, she looks very unwell, but at the time, it looked like she was sunning herself after a good walk.

Back at my place, what to do wasn’t so obvious.

I fed her about four more hot dogs, piece by piece, and gave her some water and a blanket, which she curled up in, exhausted.

I called up my parents and my boyfriend. They said the same thing: "Put her back where you found her."

It was good advice. Sensible.

Even this trip had been ill-advised, still up to my neck in student debt and an unsteady job. It had been spurred by nothing more substantial than a ‘feeling’, an instinct. One that makes sense only now, in hindsight.

But when she came out of her blanket swath to give herself a shake and rub her head into my knees, I knew. I made a little promise to her then: I won’t give you up, not if you don’t want to be. I promise.

Later that night, I washed her several times. Big and small flakes of what looked like dirt kept falling off her belly into the sink. She wasn’t pleased with me after that, retreating to her blankets with a withering look.

She was, of course, not potty-trained, so I spent the next day feeding her, cleaning up her messes, washing her, and trying to figure out what to do.

Finally, I came up with a compromise of sorts.

As much as I felt like keeping her was the right thing to do, who was I to say that she’d prefer a life of captivity to the freedom she knew before? I’d fed her enough to get her back on her feet, what happened next should be up to her.

So, later that day, the day before I was to leave to another Mexican city, I took her back to the parking lot I’d found her in and let her go.

At first, she sniffed around, then, with a last look at me, she wandered off.

Oh, I thought, disappointed yet a bit relieved, I guess that’s it, then. She’s made her choice.

I walked off a little, turned back. And there she was: trotting after me.

And that was the real it. We were a pair now.

I snuck her into the grocery store in my backpack, and set to work. Luckily, this grocery store was a kind of village Walmart, so they had a doggy carrier, food, a leash, a brush. I bought them all.

At the cash register, she popped her head out of my bag, but I was paying already so it didn’t matter.

The next few days weren’t easy. The most reputable vets were a few days away in Mexico City. In the meantime, Sabrita – as I’d come to call her, based on the chip I first fed her – and I travelled together.

In Xilitla, while I marvelled at Las Posas, Sabrita forsook the blankets I offered her for a plastic bag to curl up in – guess she was more used to that. I washed her several times a day, which she wasn’t pleased with. I bought her pee pads, which she used maybe a quarter of the time.

The toll of cleaning up after her was starting to wear on me.

In Santiago de Querétaro, in another Airbnb, we bonded further. After brushing her, Sabrita began delightedly rubbing her head on my knees. Up to this point, she’d been too weak to make any sort of sound.

That night, though, I heard snuffling at the door of the apartment I was staying at. Sabrita’s head bobbed up, and, shrill as a whistle, she let out a single yap.

I jumped and laughed, and patted her. My guard dog, she was turning out to be.

All was not easy-going, though.

After standing at the bedside, clearly wanting to go up, the second I put Sabrita on the bed – she peed!

She didn’t seem to care much for the pee pads.

By the time we arrived in Mexico City, it was a relief. The clinic I took her to came top-rated – and much-needed. Although Sabrita seemed to be stronger, she was still far from well. Too skinny and constantly shaking, with those scabs all over her, something more serious than just malnutrition seemed to be up.

The nurse was kind with a sweet voice and Sabrita immediately took to her. The nurse also almost immediately knew what was wrong with her – scabies and fleas. The treatment was extensive, pills and medicinal baths, but she knew a vet friend who could do the job – and board Sabrita – for a good price.

I met the man, a soft-spoken, older vet with years of experience, and agreed.

It was with a heavy heart that I left Sabrita for my travels. But all the tickets had been booked, the Airbnbs ordered. I was already changing a good portion of my trip, buying extra plane tickets and forgoing others, in order to visit her. And they promised to keep in touch via WhatsApp.

I knew I was leaving her in good hands.

The next weeks passed in a blur – I went to Costa Rica and enjoyed the beautiful rainforests, receiving updates every few days of Sabrita’s improving health, with some pictures too.

My first visit back a few weeks later, in between Costa Rice and Peru, I was amazed at the happy, healthy dog I found.

While still underweight, Sabrita was bug-free and her fur was even beginning to grow back. She had the beginnings of beige eyebrows and snout – the fur there had been so destroyed by the scabies, that I hadn’t even realized she’d been partially beige at all!

Even better, she was in good spirits: one look at me, and she was dancing around her cage, tail wagging.

Turned out, the vet had another dog, who Sabrita played with and modeled herself after – he was even walking the pair together! Who knew you had to teach a dog how to go for a walk?

Sabrita and I spent a night together, before I was back off on my travels to Peru and the Salkantay Trek.

When I returned, a few weeks later, for our final visit before going home, Sabrita’s transformation was nearly complete. Nearly all her fur had grown back, and she was happy and playful. She’d gotten many of her vaccines, and was ready to accompany me back to Canada.

Although, in a way, our journey together was just beginning when we arrived back in Ottawa.

Sabrita wasn’t potty-trained and that took months to master. It was a big change for me too: before, sometimes when inspiration struck, I’d write for hours upon hours. But now, I had a little furry friend relying on me to take her on walks.

At first, I resented it. Now, I’ve come to love it.

Anyone who meets Sabrita remarks on what a joy she is. She loves people. For a kind voice, she’ll run up, tail wagging, same as she does with her friends.

From what I've seen and read online, Sabrita appears to be a 'chinpin', a chihuahua pinscher mix.

She’s been estimated at four years old, but she loves to play with other dogs, will jump around like a little crazy ninja when she finds a good play buddy. She loves to play with humans too, will give a mighty little howl at my boyfriend to get him going. A stick, a string, a sock, a pen, Sabrita will play with just about anything.

She loves digging, be it sand or dirt or even an unlucky flower bed. When she’s really happy she’ll do a little happy dance in a circle.

She loves cuddling in bed too, which is great in winter, not so great in the summer when I’m hot already!

Her nickname is Kuku. It’s well-earned, especially when she gets so excited that she falls off the couch.

She still hasn’t totally shed her wild ways: when she eats, she often carries her dog food, pellet by pellet, to a nearby carpet for safety. Outside, I’ve caught her trying to rub herself in dead animals – what I can only guess is a survival mechanism from before.

She’s my best friend in the world.

She’s the happiest little thing I know. All it takes is the door opening, a few steps outside to see that it’s sunny and she’s off at a happy trot, tail wagging, delighted with just about everything. She’s a big sniffer too – it can take us twenty minutes to cover just one city block if she finds enough to sniff!

I like to call her a lady because of how she’s always crossing or folding her paws, whether she’s picked up or just lounging by herself. Usually, all it takes is a blanket plopped over her head for her to lay down and get relaxing.

One time, she growled at a dire wolf on the TV screen when I was watching Game of Thrones. Another time, it was a big frog statue in my parents’ backyard that made her cautious and growling.

I’ve had quite a few people tell me, when I give them the gist of Sabrita’s and my story, how lucky she is to have had me do what I do.

Yet, day in day out, I can’t help but feel like I’m the real lucky one.

That such a wild twist of circumstances led me to her - a trip I threw together at the last minute, a stop in a small forested Mexican town I hadn’t heard of until a random Google search, another trip to a grocery store that I probably didn’t need - that I can hardly believe it when I think about it.

Sabrita reminds me of a truth so oft-repeated it’s almost obnoxious: that it’s the simple things that make us happy.

That sometimes when I’m feeling down, it’s because I haven’t been outside. I’ve forgotten the sweet warmth of a spring sun. Or how fun it is to run for no good reason on a cool night.

I’ve done a lot of cool, fun things, been lucky in a lot of other ways, but not like this. With Sabrita, it’s more palpable. A difference I can touch and see. A life.

At a time, when I felt powerless, like what I did made little difference or impact, this has been the change.

Maybe it’s not saving the world, maybe it’s not life-changing for anyone but this little dog, but for me, that’s enough. For her, it certainly is.

And if there’s anything I can say to you, it’s that I hope you can be half so lucky as me.