Peace Corps by Piper

Against my better judgment, I started feeding a quiet, regal-looking street dog named Daisy last May. She has brown-spotted fur and a long tail that sticks straight up. It’s easy to pity street dogs here as almost all are malnourished and mistreated. Daisy noticed my kindness and started following me on my morning walk. Her happiness was palpable, and feeding her made me feel I had a purpose. I was actively making Daisy’s life better, right? 

But then Daisy started following me on my morning walk and everywhere else. The main issue was that she followed me onto other dogs’ property, and they would scuffle, speaking a language neither you nor I understand. I had no choice but to start changing my walking routes, wishing I had the power to say “stay.” One day, I was late to a meeting, didn’t detour, and Daisy got into a fight. It started with low growls, escalated to barking, and then epitomized with biting. It was five versus one. Not only did I have to witness the terrible event, but I also had to get myself out safely. 

Then Daisy’s companions noticed she was getting special treatment. When I left my house every morning, all the dogs on the block perked up. My furry shadow had turned into a pack. It became impossible only to feed Daisy. Sometimes, five dogs would jump on me without warning. The dogs fought for food that fell on the ground, and I had to be careful with my hands. Moreover, when I bought the bread, the dogs followed me into the store, and the locals were not a fan of this. They stared at me more than usual, and I felt attacked by their judgemental, questioning looks. I had bit off much more than I could chew. 

Finally, Daisy gave me fleas. Then she gave me bedbugs. The bites started on my ankles and reached my calves, knees, and thighs. I would wake up in the middle of the night in pain, scratching until I bled. I bought a nasty chemical to spray all over my mattress. I washed the sheets and then rewashed them. I ran through two tubes of anti-itch cream in three days. I stayed the night in hostels and at friends’ houses to give my legs a rest. My room was no longer safe. 

I thought I could help Daisy due to my abundance of time and energy. Also, I had enough money in the bank to feed another mouth. And then I learned why Guatemalans don’t feed street dogs themselves. Hint: it’s not because they don’t have the time, energy, or money. Every time I tried to help, I faced many unintended consequences. Daisy ended up with a laceration on her arm, I had unintentionally signed up to feed every dog on the block, and my legs looked like a connect-the-dots board. 

I still feed Daisy inconsistently, only when other dogs are not around. She still has to find food other than mine to survive. I hope I am helping in a small and subtle way. Change is not impossible, but dramatically changing the preexisting system was neither smart nor sustainable. It turns out that the whole experience has been a good metaphor for my Peace Corps service.