Misericordia

Misericordia is Spanish for "mercy". I had to look it up.
Fue un acto de misericordia. It was an act of mercy.

I'm sitting here eating mashed potatoes -- my comfort food -- and trying to figure out what to say. Here is the best I can come up with.

Guatemala will break your heart. 

If you are sensitive to the sufferings of people, children, and animals, your heart will swell and break many times over in Guatemala. There will be moments of joy and moments of grief. There will be times you will rage at the skies. There will be times you will repeat over and over to yourself, "I am so blessed."

And you will want to tell everyone. You will start a blog (hee hee!) or a webcast or a podcast or a YouTube channel or just post incessantly on your Facebook feed or Instagram or SnapChat. If you are anything like me, you won't be able to keep quiet.

I am posting some photos of a dog below that may be hard for some people to look at.
I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset anyone.
Or maybe I do mean to. It's like those commercials on television of the starving African children with swollen bellies and flies crawling on their faces. It is meant to shock. It is meant to trigger guilt. It is meant to incite people to donate money to appease that guilt. It is meant to provoke change.

I have to add this picture so that my feed doesn't show a graphic image to readers.

Bert is psychic. He knew something was going to happen today. When we left the house to walk to the market, he was noticeably nervous. He said, "Something always happens when we go out." I reassured him that we were just going to go buy fruits & veggies and then scoot back home for a relaxing afternoon.

Then I saw the dog. He was lying on the sidewalk near the market. People were stepping around him, ignoring him, or perhaps glancing down in disgust and pity then quickly moving on.

The first words out of my mouth when I saw this fella in the distance were, "Uh-oh."

I approached slowly, talking in a calm but cheerful voice. I pulled out my camera to snap some pics, holding it at my side without even looking thru the lens, so I could use my eyes to assess the situation. 

His hip bones and spine were jutting from his flesh. His entire other side was scabs from mange and wounds.

The dog allowed me to approach him, his tail thumping twice on the ground as I gently patted his head. Flies and fleas were crawling all over him. His fur was coarse. He stunk. Blood oozed from crevices in his dry skin.
I knew it wasn't looking good.
I called Selaine, founder and fearless leader of Ayuda Para la Salud de Perros y Gatos. She lived nearby and immediately walked over to see the dog and make a decision.

As I was standing next to the dog waiting, a lovely Mayan woman came by and gave the dog two small muffins. He gobbled them down. She spoke briefly to me in Spanish. Although I didn't understand all she said, I caught the word, pobrecito. (Poor thing.) I said to the lady, "Muchas gracias, seño. Muy amable." (Thank you very much, ma'am. Very kind.") Both of us put our hands to our hearts in the universal gesture of pain and sadness.

Look at that sweet innocent face!

As Selaine approached down the street, I could see the compassion and pity and sadness in her face. Se crouched near the dog to comfort him and examine him. The dog tried to move, his legs unable to coordinate, and he spun in a circle on the sidewalk. Selaine calmed him down and heaved a deep sigh. She picked up her phone and called the veterinarian, Dr. Isael Estrada at Clinica San Martin, who works with AYUDA. A flurry of Spanish and the decision was made. 

I quickly pulled Q10 from my purse and sent Bert to the nearest fried chicken cart. As we waited for a tuc-tuc, we fed the dog hot, delicious fried chicken. His tail wagged as he wolfed it down. I put half of the chicken in a baggie for the next step.

Bert and I coaxed the dog into a tuc-tuc. He stood on wobbly legs, his head poking out the side. This could possibly be his first ever tuc-tuc ride. He handled it like a champ. I decided he should be called Rocky, after the infamous small-town boxer who fought with his entire heart until the very end.

At the vet's office, Bert lifted Rocky out of the tuc-tuc and carried him inside. The vet and assistant were ready for us, faces solemn. 

Bert waited outside. I stayed with Rocky, feeding him the last of the fried chicken. He stood on the steel table, calm, stoic, trusting. The vet inserted the IV. I told Rocky he was a good boy, un buen perro, and he was going to be okay. The vet pushed a needle in. Tears flooded my eyes as Rocky sagged down, the vet and assistant moving him into a lying position. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed. Another needle. More tears.

I stayed with him until the end, repeating over and over, "You're a good boy. Buen perro. It's going to be okay. Good boy." 

Rocky took his last breath and was suffering no more.  

Rest in peace, Rocky. Descansa en paz.

Please donate if you can, and hug your dog today in memory of Rocky.

>>Click here to donate to Ayuda Para la Salud de Perros y Gatos.<<