An Ode to a Street Dog
Skip in his refined years. Jon Hull
It was 2003. The school year was underway, and the last leaves were clinging to barren limbs. The superintendent of our public school system, Dr. Evan Pitkoff, was over for dinner.
We adopted Skip, a street dog from Puerto Rico, a few months earlier. He and I eventually became best friends for twelve years. Anywhere I went, he followed. We could communicate with a look or a turn of the head.
Skip was also insane for his first three years in America.
Dr. Pitkoff knew some Spanish and said something to try to make our new family member feel more at home. He may have expected polite nods and words of encouragement, “You know Spanish? Impressive.” Instead, Skip became apoplectic.
He barked viciously and lunged at our distinguished guest. Foam flecked his lips. My mom grabbed his collar just in time.
A few words of Spanish stirred up such a reaction that it resulted in years of speculation about Skip’s life before Connecticut.
Who was Skip?
As I grew up, I developed an idea of what Skip’s life may have looked like in Puerto Rico. My theories were based on some evidence: he reacted to Spanish with fervor; he escaped, disappeared, and roamed the neighborhood for days; he descended upon a skinned knee like a shark on chum — if given the opportunity, he’d lick any wound clean.
With these clues, I envisioned him as the wannabe alpha male of a dusty lane. A 16-pound fighter with a Napoleon complex who occasionally took beat downs from the big dogs or kicks from passersby.
…
When Jessica and I visited the Caribbean in February, a dog followed us from the village to the bamboo gate outside of our place. I resisted the urge to roll around on the ground and play tug of war with him on account of his fleas. He was clearly a male dog — one of the few. Most of the dogs in town were pregnant, had recently given birth, or had bodies that bore the marks of many pregnancies past.
I feel I have a better understanding of Skip’s street life now that I’ve lived in Central America. Jessica and I see street dogs everywhere. They roam the fancier avenues of our neighborhood, Casco Viejo, and the secluded Caribbean beaches of northern Panama. The urge to pet them is generally replaced by a feeling of pity. Most look hungry or have mange.
Panamanian street dogs have difficult lives. They scrap for everything they get. They fit the scenario I imagined for pre-Connecticut Skip.
However, during a trip to Guatemala, I developed a different idea. The dogs around Lake Atitlan seemed content to run around. Bowls of food and water were left outside of shops. The people in Panajachel and San Pedro have a pleasant relationship with their street dogs.
What if this was Skip’s life in Puerto Rico?
I enjoyed this version of Skip’s story. It is nice to envision him prancing from house to house, lapping water from a dish that an abuela left out for him. But over time, it made me sad to think he was taken from a life of dignified freedom on the vibrant streets of Puerto Rico.
If this were the case, maybe his reaction to Dr. Pitkoff was misdirected anger. The last Spanish speaker he knew may have been the dog catcher who snatched him from paradise. If I were him and that was my life, I would be pretty upset. I might even try to bite the next person who spoke Spanish.
It also put a different spin on his early and often attempts at escape from the Hull Family property. These were not the mad-dashes of a crazed dog, but his attempt to return to a lifestyle he yearned for. He was searching for Abuela’s water dish.
Digging for Truth
I reached out to the Danbury Animal Welfare Society (DAWS) to learn more about his origins. We adopted Skip from DAWS around 2002, and my hope was that they would have a record of where he came from. I was disappointed that their data doesn’t go back that far.
The intake manager, Dr. Karen Pasieka, did share some helpful insights in an email.
“Many years ago we participated in a SATO rescue program… those were dogs that came from Puerto Rico,” Dr. Pasieka wrote, “Many were strays [with] no back history.”
Armed with this tidbit, I continued on my quest to understand who Skip really was.
“Sato” is Puerto Rican slang for a specific type of street dog. The Hearts and Tails Animal Alliance describes a Sato as, “a small [mutt] with a thin, agile frame; a long snout… many are almost foxlike.”
Skip was a Sato through and through.
As I dug deeper, it became clear that his life before Connecticut probably wasn’t great. Satos are mainly seen as a nuisance, and they’re treated as such. Residents who can no longer take care of pets often release them or dump them on beaches. One such place, known as “Dead Dog Beach,” is in a South Eastern Puerto Rican city called Yabucoa.
Yabucoa is most likely where Skip is from. Animal rescue groups, like the one that sent Skip to Connecticut, honed in on that specific area in the early 2000s. Most Satos don’t live long out in the elements, and the shelters there have a 95-99 percent kill rate. It is a miracle he made it out alive.
Skip’s Refined Years
For all of the challenges Skip presented in the first few years, he became an integral part of our family. He overcame his trauma and eventually refined his behavior to that of a proper New England dog — primarily barking at deer, delivery men, and children riding by on bikes. Still, he never lost his street smarts, and I loved him for it.
He appreciated a belly rub and scratch underneath his collar. He learned to welcome friends into our home. If I couldn’t fall asleep, he would curl up by my arm and breathe a contented sigh to say, “It’s alright.” It got to the point where I felt we could practically read each other’s minds.
Skip really was the cutest, sassiest mutt a kid could hope for. He passed away in the fall of 2015. RIP Skipper.
Street dogs of Guatemala.
