Over the course of my three weeks in Valparaiso I saw around a hundred different stray dogs, and that was just in the areas near the house I was staying at. The number of stray dogs in total that are running around that city is probably in the thousands. Of course, within a couple months most of them will be dead from malnutrition and their offspring will take their place for a brief period until they eat it, too.
I’ve seen all different kinds of breeds and mixes, from feral huskies to mangy labs and one-legged mutts. Some are missing eyes and others have a useless hind leg or two from that time they got clipped by a car. Since their only sustenance is garbage they have become finicky eaters that won’t even touch regular dog food or hot dogs if you put it in front of them (I know, I tried to do it). To sum it all up: they’re born, have a very brief, misery-filled existence and die on the street about a decade before their time.
The thing I always admired about Latin America is that most of the countries within it are so poor the people have to keep their priorities straight. After all, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to crusade for the poor neglected puppies when there are two-year-olds walking around the street by themselves at midnight and begging for change before they‘re even old enough to phrase the question. In places where people live that hard, where basic human dignity is a luxury most can’t afford, and a single piece of beef can mean your kid doesn’t go hungry, the very notion of animal rights is a slap in the face.
People in these places have a hard enough time keeping their family’s heads above water without worrying about pets. It’s sort of the opposite where I come from. In Los Angeles there are many people who place the well-being of a sea scallop above that of an immigrant. And I’m pretty sure there are plenty of people who, if you gave them a choice of saving all the stray dogs in Valparaiso or saving the life of one Chilean who died in Concepcion, would take a frighteningly long period of time to make their decision.
But I think the dogs got to me because Chile is a South American success story. Chile emerged from a dark dictatorship and over the last two decades has become an economic powerhouse in the region due to government reforms and the people’s strong work ethic. In Valparaiso I didn’t see kids begging for change and there are far less homeless people there than the thousands that live near the shit-hole hotel I called home for about a year in downtown Los Angeles. So in the end what you have is Valparaiso, one of the most beautiful places in the world, populated with friendly people who are starting to have the economic opportunities many in my country take for granted, and the whole place is peppered with dying dogs.
Even I have to admit that it is a less-than ideal situation.
People can talk about the animals that are smarter than dogs that I actually eat, and I’m sure they’re right. But something I do know is that there are few other animals born that need a companion as much as a dog. Like a battered wife they’re willing to stand by your side even if you mistreat them. You just have to be around. And if you are they’ll give you tenfold the affection you give them. There’s something particularly unsettling about so many of those kinds of animals born into a world that wants nothing more than to kick them in the teeth repeatedly for a year or so and then have them die alone, in pain and unwanted. But not quite as unsettling as the kids that are born that way, I guess.
I realized after I tried to feed the dogs that there isn’t really anything to do about it. It’s shitty, but it’s the way it is. At least the Chileans are nice enough to pet them when they’re close. It may not sound like much but I guarantee you even that little gesture means a lot to the dogs.
So I went about my business in Valparaiso. I worked, spent time on the patio and enjoyed my view, went to Pablo Neruda’s house, wandered the hills, got drunk at local bars with my new communist friends, listened to live Chilean hippy folk music, listened to performance artists talk shit on my country while simultaneously giving me the stink eye, and gorged myself on amazing seafood (not readily available in Argentina).
And every night for three weeks I would look out my window into the hills that were lit up with thousands of red and yellow lights, just like the toy I had when I was a kid. And each one of those nights, under the Lite-Brite canopy, there were dogs dying in the street...
Valparaiso is beautiful and I'm coming back as soon as I can.
