Nancy's latest stray closes his eyes against the pain as he is picked up to be carried into a Nepalese veterinary clinic.

Journal by Nancy Olson, photo by Matt Candelaria

Delhi, Delhi, Delhi…We at Drive Around the World know we’ve been in one spot too long when our weekly journal day rolls around more than once. This happened in Bangkok quite often, and, frankly, it’s no picnic trying to come up with interesting things to write about when we’re not actually driving.

I described my impressions of Delhi in my September 2 journal, so I won’t bore you with that again. We’ve been venturing out into the hot and sticky weather here each day, taking auto rickshaws to various markets for shopping and errand running, and we usually get charged exorbitant fees. Delhi has turned me into a very rude bargainer, and of that I am not proud. On more than one occasion, I have told the driver off for charging Chanda and me triple or quadruple what he would charge a local, and on another occasion I just handed him twenty rupees and walked away as he screamed about the other eighty rupees he wanted. The nerve!

Occasionally, I have the good fortune to meet a sweet little street dog who lifts my spirits and allows me a brief escape from the hustle and bustle going on about me. The dogs here in India are bigger, healthier, prettier, and more pure-bred-looking than those of many other countries. We refer to them lovingly as “third-world dogs”, and we love them. Two days ago, for example, I met a yellow Labrador retriever puppy. He was beautiful, and he was wandering the streets alone, so I decided to befriend him. When I first spotted him, he was being scolded and chased off by a mean-looking chef holding a butcher knife! Yikes! So, I scolded the chef and led the dog to a safer loitering area. He was so cute and friendly that I ALMOST kept him. The reason I didn’t? A fear of commitment. Dogs like that one are at least a 10-14-year commitment, and I can’t make that step. That’s definitely a good thing, too, as it has prevented me from taking on strays in nearly every country we’ve visited.

A few days ago, as you might already know, Matt Candelaria and I took a short weekend trip to Kathmandu in Nepal. The trip was too short, but it was great. By the way, I have Nick and Chanda to thank for making my dream of visiting that city a reality, so, “Thanks, Nick and Chanda!” Matt’s journal (Sept. 5) explains the curfews, Maoist insurgents, the city, and the mountain flight, so that saves me from including a description here. What he didn’t tell you about is the dog we met on our first day out in the city.

We were walking down the street, taking in the sights; Matt was eyeballing cool clothing for his girlfriend, and I was drooling over all the camping and climbing stores, when we heard the most woeful cries up ahead.

In the gutter in front of one of the shops was a cute little dog curled up into a little ball, his head down, rear end immobile, and front paw lifting up and down rhythmically. Careful not to receive a bite from the obviously scared and hurting pup, I tried to comfort him and feel for broken bones. I was certain he must have been hit by a car and had his hips busted or dislocated. But everything seemed intact. I didn’t know what to do. He was cute, scared, and helpless. Matt and I could not stand to see him suffering, yet we couldn’t walk away and pull the out of sight-out of mind trick. Matt stood by the little fella while I ran into a bookstore to get a map and directions to the nearest veterinary clinic.

Because he was covered in mud and cold, I wrapped him in a newspaper and held him to my chest. We hopped in a taxi and rode some 10 minutes to a vet; it felt like a half hour. The pup screamed at every bump. When we arrived at the clinic, it was closed. Fifteen minutes-or-so later, a young girl opened the doors, and ten minutes later, a kind-looking man approached. He took one look at the pup and said, “Looks like canine distemper,” and walked away.

I used to work for a vet as a kid, and I spent a year selling veterinary diagnostic equipment for a company called IDEXX Laboratories, so I wracked my brain trying to come up with the symptoms and treatments for distemper. Nothing. I know we vaccinate for it in the states, and I know it’s a dreadful disease, but that’s all I cold remember. Is it neurological? Yes, I think it’s neurological.

Anyway, I asked the man about the treatment. He said that, in this advanced state, they cold try to treat the disease with medication for seven or eight days, and it would cost a lot of money, and the dog would probably just suffer and then die, anyway. The best and most humane treatment would be to have the pup put to sleep right away. The cost? Five hundred rupees, or around $8.50 US.

Matt and I couldn’t stay in Nepal for eight days, and I didn’t want the dog to suffer a minute longer, so I walked into the back room with him and put him on a counter to await the lethal injection. A skinny man met us back there, and I held my dog while he attempted to put a huge-gauge needle into a vein in the left forearm. He must have had 200 cc of death in that huge syringe. He couldn’t find the vein (duh, the dog was extremely dehydrated), but he kept sticking it in and pushing the fluid in under the skin, anyway. I was becoming furious with him and yelled at him to knock it off. Matt walked away toward the window in the corner, unable to witness the needle and the little doggie’s impending death. Finally, he switched to the other arm, found the vein, and administered the drug. My dog reached around and landed a final death-nip to my hand before he went under. I was an idiot for relaxing my grip on his head, knowing from experience that dogs are instinctually programmed to fend off death by biting. The dog was just barely out before the skinny man picked him up, put him on the floor like a sack of potatoes, and covered him with the newspaper. I flashed him a dirty look for treating my dog so roughly. And that was that.

I handed a 500-rupee note to the kind older doctor, and we left. I must admit that I was a wreck for the next 20-30 minutes. It wasn’t even my dog, really, and yet I was crying over him. Had he been curable, I had great plans to keep him and smuggle him to India with us. He was going to be my little riding companion, because he was a perfect traveling size. But it wasn’t to be, and it’s probably for the best.

It was a rotten way to begin our Nepalese adventure, but the mood soon changed, and Matt and I had a wonderful time in Kathmandu.

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