That’s Why I Was Freezing Last Night

I woke up at one point last night, thinking “hmm, it’s a bit chilly, even though I’m under the covers.”

I should have known someone had stolen the top blanket.

Comfy, Charlie?

When I asked him about this act of theft, this was his only reply.

Way Off the Beaten Path: The Coast of Michoacan, Mexico

House rental in Caleta de Campos, Michoacan

After our trip to Patzcuaro last weekend, we headed southwest to the Pacific Ocean. Sandwiched between the resort areas of Puerto Vallarta and Acapulco, the long, craggy coast of Michoacan is largely undeveloped. It was, so far, one of the most sparsely populated areas I’ve visited in Mexico, especially along the coastline. It is one of the many stretches of Highway 200.

There are a few really good surf spots here,  such as Nexpa, but otherwise the area gets few tourists passing through. Most guidebooks don’t even mention it — even though it consists of more than a hundred miles of beaches. Of course, this piqued my interest – what would it be like?

Turns out, when traveling with a Shih-tzu in a small rental car, this meant good things and bad things.

The beach at Nexpa, a popular "left" point break.

We were able to find a great surfer’s house to rent for a couple of nights in Caleta de Campos, a town big enough to have roasted chicken and cold beer, but not much else (the town, in all honesty, was horridly ugly but had incredible views of the ocean).

If there was one person I wished I could have traded places with during my trip, it was this girl.

Who needs whales when you have a rock with a blowhole? (OK, OK, I need whales...they arrive in the winter, so I always seem to miss them.)

The sun rises behind the lighthouse, Caleta de Campos.

Charlie and I try to cool off, but it was difficult.

The drive was espectactular (but often stomach-churning) and about as remote as it gets. Suddenly a pristine beach would come into view, and you’re several hundred feet above it, watching the waves roll in, and not sure if there’s any real path to the beach from the tiny, two-lane highway that has so little traffic. In the back of your mind, you’re thinking: my car could be robbed while I’m frolicking in the Pacific, unknowingly becoming the lead actress in an American Express Traveler’s Checks commercial. The area is still quite well-known as a drug smuggler’s paradise, mostly due to its remoteness, which is why this paranoid thought kept popping up: Would the smugglers turn Charlie into a mule?

We didn't really see a clear path down to this beach; there may not have been one.

Just a typical view from the road as you drive along Highway 200.

But, as with everywhere in Michoacan, the people were generally friendly. We’re also eternally grateful to two of the state’s residents, who got us out of a really bad scrape. Yep, turistas’ nightmare: We managed to get our car stuck in the shimmering white sand (we were aiming to park in a tiny spot of shade for just a few minutes so we could leave Charlie in the car, if needed, while we walked on a beach). We had a few initial moments of panic when we realized we had driven about 4km from the Highway 200, and hadn’t seen anyone in mucho tiempo.

After assessing that yes, we were indeed f’ing stuck in the sand, we grabbed some metal roofing sheets left on the beach and stuck them under the tires. Then watched them sink under the spinning tires. All while Charlie sat, head tilted, inside, perplexed.

Once this failed to work, my panic manifested as such: I threw all our valuables in the trunk, put Charlie in the front seat so he could be shaded, and forced us to spray down with sunscreen, in case we had to walk miles and miles to civilization. Of course, that was all incredibly unnecessary (whew, whew, sweat-wiping-away wheeeeeeew), as there were a few small houses off the tiny beach road, and two men chatting in the street — one was sitting in a truck, hallelujah!

As we walked up, he waved good-bye to his amigo and started to drive off, causing us to start running, screaming “Senor! senor!”  Once we reached the two men — looking I’m sure like the two goofiest gueros to ever drive through Michoacan — we mustered our best “please, for the love of Maria, help us!…” en espanol as we panted.

Problem solved. They unstuck us, and I even chatted up one of the men about how beautiful the beach was, how badly I had wanted to see it, how Chilangos suck compare to Michoacanos, etc. Of course, once unstuck, we were in no mood to sightsee and we immediately got in the car and hauled ass north to the highway, and to the lovely beach city of Manzanillo, where we stayed two nights before heading home.

Best irony of the moment? It was Playa La Llorona — crying woman’s beach. What we missed. (And you may wonder: Why is it called this? Well, as it turns out, not because of some scary ghost story involving a dead crying woman rising out of the espuma, or a  pale turista lamenting her sand-sunk Dodge Attitude and sunburnt skin, but the cute noise the sand makes.)

Had we not had Charlie in tow with us, (and had we rented a 4×4) we perhaps would have stayed at least one night in one of the uber-rustic cabanas between Caleta de Campos and Manzanillo (perhaps here in Maruata, which I’m now kicking myself for not stopping and visiting), where I imagine we would have felt like the only souls on the planet, under very bright stars. But it would have been incredibly humid, mosquito-prone and we’d pine for cold beer — so we’d only stay for one night.

Manzanillo, where there are hotels, and air conditioning.

Overall, do I recommed this drive? Yes, but be prepared to fill up at every Pemex station you see — there aren’t many. Be prepared to stay in “one-star” lodging. Be prepared to see an extraordinary amount of poverty (wooden shacks, at best, for most people here).  Bring food and snacks for spontanous beach stops, especially if you’re traveling in the off-season when most places are closed. And  for the love of Maria, stay out of the loose sand.

(More on the hidden beaches of Michoacan, en espanol.)

When Charlie Has Fun, Everyone Has Fun

This past weekend we stayed in lovely Malinalco, Mexico, with our in-laws and their friends, renting a house, hanging out in hammocks, eating fresh Mexican produce, playing dominoes and visiting the town (we recommend Las Placeres restaurant).

Charlie came along, too, and he worked on getting in touch with his inner wolf.

He spent a significant portion of the weekend hidden in the garden.

"Are you calling my name, again? Can't you see that I'm just fine???"

Of course, though, he can't resist the attention of his humans.

Can You Help Him Find Love?

Even with the maldito typo, this one stopped me in my tracks. “Omg so cute,” I said out loud while walking my even cuter version.

“I’m looking for a girlfriend.”

Spotted today in Parque Mexico, a park known for its purebred dog populations, including Shih-Tzus. I haven’t yet met a shit-zu.

Iguanas Everywhere, Just the Way I Like It

In spite of the presence of billions of Canadian tourists, the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico still has lots of live lizards. (Let’s not mention the iguana roadkill I kept spotting last week, nor the several times we had to stop in the middle of the road to let an iguana pass, much to the annoyance of other drivers…)

"Does my butt look big?" This iguana was crawling over the Mayan ruins in Tulum. He could easily eat my dog as an appetizer.

This one has obviously been to Handsome Iguana Modeling School.

This spry little one spent a lot of time trying to scare my sister-in-law. He frequently appeared out of nowhere, claws at the ready.

Another lizard species we spotted often was the gecko. This 6-incher hung around while we drank beers on the patio. Brendan still likes to tell the story of when he first moved to Corpus Christi, Texas. Being a native Minnesotan, he didn't know what these creatures were, and when spotting one in his apartment, smashed it to bits. Since geckos eat mosquites and are otherwise harmless, we South Texans revere our geckos. Although he now admits they are "benevolent creatures," his story is still horrifying.

Fat butt iguana and gecko photos courtesy of Suz Walsh.

New Insect Found Living on Fridge

…of the chapulin variety. He’s from Oaxaca and I’ve named him Chappy…Chappy the Chapulin. I’m hoping he’ll scare off all the other bugs (somehow we have none, even though we live in the heart of the world’s second-largest city. Go figure. NYC was full of roaches. Mexico City? Clean as a whistle.)

Chappy is an alebrije. I wanted to buy many more alebrijes while we were in Oaxaca, but the no-good rule known as “luggage restrictions” kept me from indulging in my intense need to collect oodles of Oaxacan folk art (much to Brendan’s pleasure, I’m sure).

Here is where Chappy originated:

This roadside stand of alebrijes is located way up in the mountains of Oaxaca.

Like all alebrijes, Chappy is carved from wood and hand-painted.

Companions to None: Film Explores Street Dogs in Mexico

Flickr Photo by Pedro Rueda

If there are two things I love, it’s film documentaries and dogs. But dog documentary Companions to None is one of those films I probably shouldn’t watch because I’ll just cry the entire time.

It’s about the overwhelming street dog population in Mexico (I highly recommend Amores Perros – or Love’s a Bitch in English, for a fictionalized-but-apt examination of Mexico’s bizarre relationship with dogs.)

My neighborhood, as I’ve explained before, is an odd microcosm of this societal ill. There’s people like me, walking our fancy, neutered, well-loved dogs in beautiful Parque Mexico. Never far away, though, are street dogs. Sad street dogs with open wounds, limps and desperately sweet souls. And because there is no consistent sterilization program for street dogs, these dogs keep reproducing, in the shadows, ignored by most. Thankfully, a few kind people in the neighborhood do try to take care of these dogs, such as putting out mats for them, feeding them, and taking them to the vet/groomer’s if they need help. More than once a street dog has followed me home, hoping for a hand-out. Of course I oblige when this happens.

Go to more rural parts of Mexico and profound poverty and cultural norms exacerbate the problem. People barely have enough money to feed themselves (and their large families — contraception for humans is not a wildly popular idea, either), so taking proper care of street dogs is low on the list of priorities.

Flickr Photo by patotenere

As well, a persistent belief that neutering male dogs will make them “gay” keeps sterilization programs from taking hold. One woman in the film trailer credits the Catholic Church with propagating this belief, and I’m not surprised. Homophobia knows no bounds, not even when it comes to pets.

As the LA Times explains, the film may not be widely seen. (I want to give a shout-out right now to the Times for having excellent coverage of Latin America at a time when most news divisions are cutting staff.)

“Problems securing a wide distribution for the film may obstruct the diffusion of what is an important message. Buchanan said American networks such as Animal Planet, Discovery and HBO passed on broadcasting the documentary and that a deal with TV Azteca –- one of Mexico’s two main commercial broadcasters –- fell through.”

I do hope the film gains momentum, or at least the important message it carries. Sterilizing dogs is far more humane than letting them over-populate, starve on the street, and create more starving puppies. And the more your sterilize, the smaller the problem gets with every passing generation.

I Made My First Neighborhood Enemy

Yesterday morning I took Charlie out for a walk, per my usual routine first-thang en la manana. We were walking down Calle Amsterdam, a lovely leafy street with a special walking path just for pedestrians.

A woman approached, walking in my direction with a German Shepherd off its leash. Before I had much time to react, the dog lunged at Charlie and all I heard was vicious growling sounds. Charlie tried to run away, and I got tangled up in the middle of the leash. I was scared, and screamed “Jesus Christ!”

The woman — instead of instantly grabbing her dog’s collar and pulling him off of Charlie — responded, ever-so-flippantly with “Oh, he’s just playing” in English. By this time I had gotten Charlie a few feet away from the dog. But since the woman hadn’t bothered to leash her dog, he lunged again at Charlie. Again I was standing in a tornado of angry teeth and fur. I lost it.

“Can’t you use a leash?” I shouted as loudly as I could. Then, not sure if she understood, I said “LADY: Use a leash. Por favor, use un CORREO!“

“My dog is not aggressive,” she told me in English.

I was shocked — what?? are you kidding me?? — but instead of asking how the attacking was “not aggressive,” I said back to her “well, mine IS which is why he’s on a leash, to protect us.” (This is true.)

Her response?

“No, no no. Dogs are meant to be free!” She shouted it as if high on the dander of her damn dog. “FREE!!” She lifted her hands to the sky, perhaps to puppy heaven, where leashes don’t exist. “FREE” she repeated a third time, walking away with her unleashed dog, as I tried to get a word in.

The best I could up with to battle her mantra? (I am miserable at coming up with powerful-and-irrefutable statements in the middle of a stressful situation.)

“Then why do leashes exist???”

Suffice it to say, after the altercation ended, my heart was racing, I was sweating, and I seriously was harboring violent thoughts to strangle her by her sweatshirt cords. Per my usual reaction during a confrontation, I started crying before I even made it home. Then I brooded for hours. And now I’m writing this post for catharsis.

Sadly, because she owns a dog and lives near me, the chances I will see her again are about 99%, meaning I have my first neighborhood enemy, and Charlie has his. (Who the rest of the day almost seemed to feel bad about what happened — he sat curled up next to me all day.)

She is just one of many people in this neighborhood who refuse to leash their dogs, but she’s the first one to be an unapologetic (perhaps delusional) jerk about it.

(And for all of you out there walking your dog in Condesa, watch out for a short, thin woman with dark hair walking a German Shepherd that’s about 8 months old. She and her dog are totally loca.)

Heartbreakers: Mexico City’s Street Dogs

Here I am petting a stray dog who lived on the beach in the Yucatan. From 2004.

There is nothing sweeter and more grateful than a street dog in Mexico. They always approach Charlie and me, but very shyly. If I stop and look at them directly, they cower, turn around and walk away.

Our neighborhood has about 6 full-time street dogs. At least two of them semi-belong to a street sweeper, because they follow him everywhere. I love it when he is sweeping on our block, because the strays come, too, and the really huge one, Ramone, sits outside our lobby. He looks like a really big, really scruffy Giant Schnauzer/Rottweiler, with big orange feet, a black body and big orange eyebrows and ears.

There’s also Solovino (sort of translates to “he who walks alone”), who has some mental problems. He sometimes barks furiously at cars for no apparent reason. Last week I watched him flip out when a woman walked by him, dragging a pull-behind suitcase.  The sound of the wheels against the concrete set him off — he started attacking the suitcase. (I know these dog’s names courtesy of my friend Susana, who helps take care of them).

In the U.S., we’d put these street dogs in shelters, and only the most cute and most tame would eventually find new homes. The rest? Well, you know how it goes.

Dogs in Taxco, Mexico. State of Guerrero.

In South Texas, where I was a volunteer dog walker, the huge amount of homeless dogs was overwhelming. There really was no way to house them all and not have to euthanize some of them.  People get angry about this, but when you actually work in a place like that, and realize a dog is only getting walked once every few weeks (hundreds and hundreds of dogs…and only a few volunteers), you come to accept it, or at least learn to put it in the back of your brain and try not to think about it too much.

In Mexico City, there are no shelters for animals (at least that I’m aware of), but the dogs and cats survive on their own, as they do throughout the world (I was kept up many a night by feral and frisky tomcats in NYC).

This morning a new dog was on my block. He ignored Charlie and me, and I could see some old injuries on his back. These guys are amazing survivors, I’m sure they have some of the strongest immune systems in the world:

A new-to-me street dog rests on the pavement.

He has an injury on his right side, behind his front right paw.

A Quick Pick-Me-Up

The Dog Treat that Must Be Endlessly Coveted

Like most dogs, Charlie likes treats. I try to keep a steady supply on hand, and I give him one when I’m feeling guilty for not giving him much attention, or if I’m leaving the house, so he associates “Joy gone” with “good treat.”

A few days ago, I bought a new brand. Each treat looks like a fake sliced bone, with red “marrow” in it. They’re pretty big for a Charlie-sized dog. (Off topic, but: Isn’t it silly how dog treats are designed with humans in mind? Who cares if they’re shaped like a fake bone? Not Charlie, that’s for sure. As long as it tastes good and smells better.)

Anyhoodles, Charlie has responded in a characteristically quirky way to this treat — I’m not sure what’s going on in his little dog brain (Brendan would say: not much). What happened this morning is the typical behavior he displays when given one of these new treats:

I took him for a walk this morning around 8 a.m. About an hour later, needing to buckle down and do some serious editing, I went into the kitchen and handed him a treat. Then around 2:30 in the afternoon, in time for his normal afternoon walk, I called “Charlie….go outside?” He didn’t come running like normal, when he’s usually desperate to go outside.

I kept calling his name, eventually heading back to our bedroom where his dog bed is. There he was, hovering, closely guarding something. I picked up his dog bed blanket, and yep, the treat rolled out.

He didn’t give me a second to contemplate things — he grabbed it (with his mouth) and ran out of the room. I followed him, and kept asking “go outside?” After all, I was holding his leash and the house keys and was damn-well ready to go outside myself, too.

He’d walk into one room, then another, making pained grunting noises the entire time, treat in mouth. Finally he went back to his dog bed, crawled in it, and apparently decided that, after 6 hours of coveting the treat, he’d better eat it. So he ate it.

Dog-people: Any idea what this is about? Is this like when a dog buries a bone? Do they guard it constantly after that? Even sacrificing trips outside? Is this something single dogs do since they don’t have to worry about another dog stealing it?

(He’s also been dreaming very vividly lately — is anything funnier than a Shih Tzu barking in his sleep?)

The Fuzzbucket Is Back

One of the hardest aspects of living abroad is what to do with our much beloved dog, Charlie. Back when we lived in NYC, we traveled all over the damn place guilt-free, either with Charlie in tow, or we dropped him off at our friend Dora’s house.

But, in Mexico, it’s not easy transporting him back and forth to the U.S. for just a week’s long trip, so we take him to Hacienda Campus Canino, a “pet resort” about an hour outside of Mexico City. (Actually, he gets picked up and dropped off, which is fantastic).

Today was his third time returning from Campus Canino, and I think he’s getting used to it. Unlike the previous two times, he seemed happy and normal and not totally racked with anxiety:

Photo: Carlito en el Parque

Charlie Takes the Pet Intelligence Test, Earns a D+

I couldn’t resist clicking on this headline from Prevention.com: Is Your Pet Smarter than a 5th Grader?

The article explains the various ways animals are smarter than they seem, especially dogs. At the bottom it has several tests you can administer:

“With your dog watching, put a treat under a can; then see how long it takes for her to retrieve it. Less than 15 seconds is very good.”

I used a coffee filter instead of cans — hey, he’s a little dog! Charlie took 45 seconds, but I was relieved that he at least did retrieve it.

“Set up three cans, and place a treat under one while your pet watches. Remove him from the room for a couple minutes and then let him back in. Does he run straight to the cans? Does he find the right one?”

I placed the treat in the filter on the far left (the one behind Charlie’s tail in the photo) and made him wait in our bedroom. Two minutes later, yes, he ran straight to the cans, but then he noticed I had the camera. He started posing:

What does this mean? The test says nothing about this happening!?! About 30 seconds later, he got bored with me and the camera and decided to sit, facing away from the potential treat — agh!

Curiously, once I got irritated and ignored him and started typing this blog post, I heard a ruffling sound. Found — and he went to the right one (although he did squash the first one).

Good boy, you’re not totally stupid — you’re just vain!

“How many commands, hand signals, and noises does your pet respond to? More than 200 means you have a superpet.”

We know for sure he knows “sit”, “gimme 5,” “down” (although this sometimes turns into a convoluted “sit”), “come here”, and he comes when I say “wanna treat?” and “wanna go for a walk?” He sometimes responds to “gimme kisses.” So 6.5 out of 200 isn’t bad, right?

OK, so I just checked — it’s been 5 minutes and what is Charlie up to now?

He left no stone unturned, so to speak. This has to be a good sign, right?

Random Photo: Hairless Mexican Dog

 

Taken from my balcony in Mexico City. This could be a hairless Xolo, just a very small one. It’s the size of a chihuahua.