They say practice makes perfect. I’m not so sure.
Yeah, this time was smoother. But that’s ‘cause the vet came to the house. And yes, I’ve done this before. But perfect? They say it’s painless, like falling asleep. That’s for the patient. I’m wide awake and it hurts like hell.
Uma was a dog I’d found a home for in what seems another lifetime. Born on Tulum beach, I brought her to my friend as a puppy with her brother. They were adorable. But they’d only take Uma. She lived with them for 2 or 3 years, in this lovely boutique hotel called Playa Selva. It started as camping but the owner married a Swiss woman and she helped him build actual buildings, put in electricity and create a sanctuary for people who wanted to hear the waves and walk the beach while having a bed and a hammock, not only the latter.
Eventually, schools, violence and a search for higher standards led them back to Europe. She convinced me I could improve my standards too - with a job. I managed her hotel for 2 plus years. Part of the job was managing Uma. At least I saw it that way. So when I managed Playa Selva, I gave Uma security, health, comfort and love. But, used to being with a family, she hated being alone. Every night she tunneled out of the nice corral we built her and I’d come to work in the morning to find her cozy home empty.
She’d run to meet me, lean dark body a streak of black against the cream colored sand as she nearly flew over the small rise in the dune to find me making coffee in the communal kitchen. We’d walk the beach, meet the guests and she’d follow me through my day. Until at night once again, we’d try the security thing. I’d sit with her for awhile as my own dogs waited at home and I’d ask her to wait for me ‘til morning. She found it impossible.
One morning as I hugged her good morning, a screaming man came over the dune, blocked my office door holding a spear fishing harpoon over his head and screamed, “I’m going to kill you and your dog if she ever comes to my hotel again.” Uma hid behind me, a petulant and obviously guilty child. Surprising myself, I stood, told him he’d do no such thing and demanded he leave the property. More surprising, he obeyed, similarly petulant and guilty.
I knew Uma was a bully and picked fights with small dogs or dogs as pretty as she but not as strong. His was a lovely Dalmation and I was sure Uma beat her up. I patted her head and her brown eyes told me, “not that badly.”
She had a boyfriend called Jimmy who’d come and play about every day around 5 pm. They’d play like crazy. Between bouts, she’d run to me breathless, covered in his slimy saliva and sweat as if to say, “This is the best,” before she ran back for a chest butt.
One time guests at the neighbor’s camp site who’s owner had never married a Swiss woman, were grilling chicken for a party. Stoned and playing drums as they turned the prize birds over, Uma decided to take one and run. She came through the property as I was meeting a new guest, bird in mouth, with a dreadlocked, skinny guy running after her. Uma was fast. But as she stopped to enjoy her feast, the hippie caught her, ripped the bird from her mouth and ran back to throw it back on the grill.
This was her kleptomaniac phase. The next time it was provolone cheese from another resident of the camp. He swore Uma had stolen it. I defended her and told him to search. He never found it. A week later, I dug it up, transplanting a beach lily. Life went on and for a while, we routinely found buried treasures.
Then everything changed. The beach became “nicer”. People wanted the properties, often without paying. Visitors wanted more. So did the owners. Suddenly cool guests, clean rooms and clean water weren’t enough. The former chill vibe became daily calls asking for more and more. I was renting my own places, teaching yoga all over the beach, missing my own dogs, my cats and my life. Something had to go.
It was Playa Selva. “I’m leaving and I’m taking your dog,” made it three dogs at my house. When I moved in with Alex – a relationship “that never should have happened” or perhaps it was meant to be - there were four dogs. Uma had a gang.
But, we were in town, a huge adjustment. Small consolation was an immense garden and down the road was the jungle where now it’s a maze of oversized condos and luxury hotels. For six years I made it work. And when I left Alex, the hardest thing to leave was Uma and my other rescue, Deco. By that time we were two. I had escorted the other three as they moved to the other side. Like I said, I’ve been practicing. And that’s not to mention the ones before I moved to Mexico.
I tried taking them when I moved out. But small spaces aren’t their best. So I made a deal. They’d stay in Alex’s amazing garden with room to run and dig and chase birds and I’d visit. It seemed fair. Until his relationship didn’t like me coming and going. They took my key and my dogs. The cruelty never stopped stinging. I hadn’t seen Uma for over a year when Alex needed help and asked me to feed them. “It’s only once a day now,” he instructed, “and here’s how we do it.” Anything to see her again. I spent a wonderfully happy week visiting them every day. Then it stopped. He came back. I wasn’t needed.
A few months later, on the full moon, Uma visited my dreams. The next day I asked Alex, “Can I come visit Uma?” He’d been meaning to tell me she was fading. “She’s old,” he reminded me. “So are we,” I reminded him.
She hobbled out to see me. So skinny, so weak. So fast. But she gave me that dog hug, rubbing her head into my belly as I sat and scratched behind her ears. She still loved me. I so loved her. I told Alex I’d take care of everything. He’d known I would. Yesterday, he let me in again and as Uma got comfortable on the blanket I’d given her a decade ago, I sat next to her. She put her head on my knee. I stroked her quietly as the Doctor put the needles in and Uma left.
They say practice makes perfect. I don’t feel it’s perfect at all.