Weddings and Whitewater: For the Love of Fido

By Julia
Montezuma, Costa Rica

An animal lover once told me that you can tell a lot from a person (or a people) by how they treat their animals. As the daughter of a veterinarian, I have spent years observing my father's clients coddling, obsessing and spending absurd amounts of money on their beloved Fidos. We Americans treat our dogs like children: they crawl into bed with us, go to daycare, are given their own toys...and yes, taken to doggy spas for pampering. There is even a new book by Michael Schaffer exploring this cultural phenomenon called "One Nation Under Dog".

Now, as with many avid travelers, I have been ingrained with a certain fear regarding "foreign dogs". And we're not talking about the Taco Bell Chihuahua here. We're talking about the run-for-your-life image guidebooks describe when they talk of the dogs one could encounter in exotic lands: snarling, flea bitten, Rabies-infected Cujos thirsty for the blood of unsuspecting travelers.

I came across said canines in Tanzania. These dogs tended to fall into one of two categories:
1. Guard dogs with an almost cliche desire to rip the face off any trespasser (or innocent homestay student coming home for the night) in their territory
2. Bone-thin stray dogs - usually harmless unless you were another bone-thin stray dog with a morsel of food.
Needless to say, I went to great lengths to avoid any interaction with dogs in Africa. Mostly because a Rabies vaccine is both hard to come by and costs $600.

So you can imagine my distress when, upon arriving to the quiet beach town of Santa Teresa, I come to find the place absolutely infested with stray dogs. Big ones, little ones, spotted ones, tan ones. There were even several dogs that looked like some amalgamation of my beloved Sylvester. There was no avoiding the onslaught that certainly would befall Tom and me.

My first encounter with a "foreign dog" came while I was sitting on the beach watching Tom surf. A tan cattle dog mix trotted over to me. It didn't look like the kind of creature that could sense fear, but still I avoided eye contact. Mouth agape, tail wagging, he continued to advance closer and closer. Just as he got within striking distance he slowed and plopped himself down right next to me. He didn't beg for food or try to get me to pet him. He seemed to simply be coming over to say, "Hi." In fact, as I began to look around I noticed that everyone sitting on or walking the beach - locals as well as tourists - had at least one furry friend in tow.

Over the next few days, I discovered that no one owns the dogs in Santa Teresa, everyone owns them. They are all tame, well-fed, co-socialized sweethearts who seem to spend their days making rounds to say "Hi" to as many people as possible. The impression we got is that most of the dogs have a family they go home to at night (some even have collars) but they are let completely loose during the day. Tom likened the situation to a Disney movie where animals live in their own society parallel to humans (like 101 Dalmations). On several occasions, we would witness a dog trotting up the street as if on a mission, or late for work. We saw dogs playing in groups in the surf and rolling joyfully in the sand. These dogs have the life!

I'd love to think that this says a lot about the "it-takes-a-village" ethos of Santa Teresa as it pertains to pet rearing. Perhaps it echos the socialist vibe of Costa Rica (along with the universal health care Costa Rica provides its citizens). Or it could be related to the copious amounts of weed the denizens take in like other Costa Ricans imbibe coffee. Could be any of those reasons, but in any case, I like the dogs here.