"The Best Souvenir," Part Two

The little dog pulled back at first, trying to slip the camera strap. After three gentle tugs, she finally followed, then skipped ahead, darting and hopping, a merry spirit on a string. She made a run for a sea bird. She pounced at the sand for imaginary bugs. She stopped only to scratch at her sunburned skin.

It was a long trudge back to the Finisterra. The heat rose in waves from the gritty white sand. My boyfriend's silence added to the distance. A passing cruise ship bounced on whitecaps, pacing our progress.

"What are you going to do with the dog?" My boyfriend broke his silence. "You're not really taking her home. And even if we could, there's bound to be a quarrantine between the United States and Mexico. She may have to stay in a cage for months. We're leaving in three days."

"We can at least try to find her a home," I answered, but I knew I couldn't leave her. I already loved her completely.

"Just promise me one thing," he said. "If no one here will take her, don't put her in quarantine. She's a street dog. She's used to her freedom. It wouldn't be fair."

"I promise," I said, but I didn't mean it. Friends who know Mexico had already told us about the dog campaigns. The officials periodically round up and kill all the strays they can find to keep the feral dog population under control. Only the fastest and smartest survive. There had to be a way to get the little dog home.

To be continued....