"The Best Souvenir"
by Kim Singer

Part One

NEW!Part Two is now available.

Pinto moved into my life one year ago in March. My first trip to Mexico. My second night in Cabo San Lucas.

I half dreaded the trip. Friends warned me about how tough most dogs have it in Mexico. Mange plagued, dusty furred bundles, scrounging for scraps just to survive. No homes. Not loved. Not wanted.

I steeled for the worst, but the first two days were almost dogless. The few dogs on the beach seemed happy and healthy. They chased small birds, shared the shade under restaurant tables and begged bits of tortillas from cocoa-buttered tourists. No gaunt ribs or torn ears. No open wounds. No major problems. I started to relax and work on a sunburn.

That night we joined a table of friends at The Trailer Park, an outdoor restaurant tucked in the barrio. The food was fair, the tab was high, but nobody cared after another margarita. Some of us took home doggy bags. Little did we know.

Dinner over, we stepped through the wrought iron gates of the restaurant. The night was filled with tequila promises to meet in the morning, and then it happened.

A small white smudge in the quiet Cabo night. More a shadow than a shape with real substance. The instant she entered the circle of light from the street lamp, I knew she was homeless.

The thin little dog with bright black eyes and swollen teats knew her business, taking quick, cautious steps toward the strangers with dinner. With a tilt of her head, she got what she wanted--the leftover quesadilla and a foil-wrapped packet of carne asada. Her terrier face and whippet body made her cunning. Her black and white spots made her irresistable. "Pinto," one friend said, and wondered if she had puppies somewhere nearby.

While the little dog worked on her panhandled dinner, I returned to The Trailer Park's bar. "A glass of milk to go, please," I ordered, then added, "For the little dog outside." The bartender turned to a cluster of waiters. A quick stream of Spanish followed. "Loco Americano" were the only words I could understand. I slapped down a handful of pesos and took the milk.

Outside, the milk disappeared in 30 quick flashes of bright pink tongue. "We're taking her with us," I said, bracing for resistance.

"But what if she has puppies?" one friend countered. "She may belong to some little kid around here."

"That's right," said my boyfriend. "She probably lives just a couple doors down."

I looked at the sad street and its ramshackle little houses. I looked at the little dog, still hoping for handouts. I felt her threadbare polka-dot coat and her swollen teats. I was sure she was homeless, but puppies might really be waiting. I couldn't take the chance.

As my boyfriend and I drove away, I watched the little dog follow our friends to their car. I saw her standing in the middle of the street, following them with her eyes as they drove away. That night I dreamed of the little dog.

Six days and four miles later, my boyfriend and I trekked along the sunbaked sand from our hotel, the Finisterra, to Sol Mar, another beachfront resort. The hot sand stung our bare feet and the hike to brunch seemed endless. Finally the Sol Mar's beachfront restaurant came into view. So did Pinto, nestled in the sand.

"Look!" I shouted. "There's the little spotted dog."

"No way," said my starving boyfriend. "There's lots of spotted dogs in Cabo San Lucas."

But I was sure and went to the bar for a cup of water. I put the paper cup on the sand in front of the panting dog.

"Will you just come on?" barked my boyfriend. "Leave the dog alone. Let's get some breakfast." Silently I willed the dog to be there when we returned.

A good forty minutes later we were back on the beach, with me carting a turkey sandwich in a napkin. I prayed the little dog was waiting.

She had moved away from the restaurant and closer to a beachfront condo. I offered the sandwich, and she devoured it. While the dog checked the sand for fallen tidbits, a young woman slipped through the sliding glass door of the condo. Dark, short hair. Big hips. Thick British accent. She was kind. "Oh, you're feeding the little dog. She's been here for three days, sleeping on our patio. We've been giving her dinner scraps."

"We saw her six nights ago at The Trailer Park," I said. "We're taking her with us." Before my boyfriend could object, I took the strap off my camera and tied it around the dog's neck.

"God bless you," said the woman. "There's no animal shelter in Cabo. We didn't know what to do. We're leaving for London tomorrow."

"Don't worry," I said. "We'll find her a home, or we'll take her with us to Portland." Before my boyfriend could contradict me, I started back to the Finisterra. "Good luck!" she called.

I heard my boyfriend say he'd need it.

Read Part Two of Kim's struggles to bring Pinto home.