Dog Catching at Punchana Meat Market

Backtracking a  bit, I am writing about our last day at the outdoor clinic in Punchana which took place on Thursday, October 21, 2010. As our agenda had changed, few people brought their animals for treatment. However, the proximity of the meat market ensured that the volunteers would not be idle: it was time to let loose CARES' own dog whisperer, Harris, with his wicked long pole net.
He and Bruno, CARES' director in Peru, who serves as Harris' wing man in such ventures, walked into the market, the net resting casually on his shoulder. Their studied nonchalance did not fool either the two- or four-legged occupants of the market. The people excitedly pointed and called to friends so they don't miss the show; the dogs began barking anxiously, and if approached, would stand their ground defiantly for a moment or two, then allowing discretion to overcome valor, would turn tail and run.

Bruno and Harris were more than equal to the task, however. Using hand signals and abrupt, machine-gun swift Spanish to coordinate their approach, Harris advanced on a small ginger colored female who bared her teeth in warning. When she finally thought to escape, there was Bruno, blocking her way. She turned back to Harris, looking for a way to elude him, but then it was over: with a masterful scoop, she was netted. Then the struggle began in earnest: the little dog weighed all of 25 pounds, fought like a crazed thing, twisting and turning in the net, at one point very nearly biting the assisting Bruno. Seeing the dog's herculean struggle, Barbara, a vet volunteer, whispered the near-endearment Diabolita (little she-devil) admiringly. However, finally the dog was subdued and carried out to the clinic for an impromptu, al fresco spay.

Diabolita was a pistol to the end - she nosed open her cage after the spay then stopped to chew through her bandage of gauze and masking tape. When Bruno went to help her remove the tape, she was wise enough to let bygones be bygones, and allowed his assistance. Once free, she daintily trotted away, pausing to sniff and briefly lick at a crust of unnamed filth on the concrete, then disappearing into the market.

Amazon CARES' Animal Care Workers

Last week when I was in Peru, I was able to observe the Iquitos CARES' animal care workers in action, and have been much impressed with their skills and dedication. While Molly is the visionary, it is they who labor to bring her vision to fruition, and they deserve a little recognition. So without further ado, I bring you the CARES' Iquitos animal care staff:

Bruno is the Director of CARES, and is the general overseer of day-to-day operations. He arranges for trips, makes sure the vets are equipped with what they need, gets things fixed, does the accounting, and, on occasion, plays back-up dog catcher/wrangler.

Just about every aspect of CARES and its work shows his fine, Gallic fingerprints upon it. He is Molly's right hand, and if there is anything about Iquitos or CARES that he does not know, it is not worth knowing. While very busy, he is quick to answer a question or offer a hand.

Esther is the senior vet of the organization. Successfully wooed by Molly to join the practice, she moved her entire family from a suburb of Lima to join the CARES team. She is a dedicated professional, and her affect is one of no-nonsense expertise with the pet owners. Back at the clinic, however, she is quick to smile and joke, her frank, intelligent face alight with friendliness.


Luis is the newest member of the CARES team, having only been in Iquitos for six weeks. With his soulful brown eyes and hipster goatee, Luis seems Hollywood-cast for the role of sensitive, idealistic young veterinario. Luis only was able to leave the practice clinic one time during my stay there to do spays at the Punchana mobile clinic, instead spending his days at the Pevas Ave. office, treating animals and performing surgeries for paying clients. Ambitious and keenly bright, Luis goes to school at night to learn English and Portugeuse, and has dreams of traveling the world like the CARES volunteer veterinarians or perhaps working in a wildlife preserve.



Behtjane (pronounced "Bet-hany" for us Spanish-impaired) is a veterinary nurse. Blessed with a "make-do" attitude necessary for the mobile clinics, she helped us all to use the materials on hand, even if they weren't the best for the job - "making do" with less, something else, or nothing at all. For example, we ran out of the small butterfly catheters for administering drugs. The vets quailed at using the larger catheters we had available, especially considering the scrawny, small animals upon which they would be used. However, Behtjane, with characteristic aplomb, skillfully used the catheters, with a minimum of bleeding and always on the first try, with no twisting or digging about. Minnesota vet Judith summed it up best: "She is amazing." No argument there.


Harris is CARES' resident dog whisperer. Despite only being 19 years old, his skill at catching and restraining dogs is by far the best of the group, so much that all the others defer to his skill when encountering a less-than-friendly animal. His skill at netting half-wild, snarling and biting street dogs is amazing; his gentleness, even more so.

It was wonderful meeting and working with all of these people; their skill and dedication are truly inspirational!

Motos, Motos Everywhere

This, my sixth day in Iquitos, saw me spending an inordinate amount of time riding in mototaxis. For the uninitiated, I will explain: imagine a souped-up tricycle with a seat in back and a driver in front whizzing by on busy city streets, weaving in and out of other "motos," motorcycles, buses, pedestrians, dogs and other obstacles.
Then imagine this same moto getting so close to other motos you could scoot over with ease and join your neighbor, whisper a secret in an adjacent driver's ear, or push their fender with your flip-flop. It's not for the faint of heart! Adding to the chaos is the noise: the moto engines are sputtering angrily, with their drivers honking interminably, at what appears to be random stimuli, or no stimuli at all. I am sure there is a reason for the constant, polite double-tap "beep-beep," but I have yet to discern a pattern. It reminds me of a kid with a whistle: he blows on it because he can.

There are traffic lights in places, but for the most part they appear discretionary: when the light changes, those with the green light are hesitant to be the first one to venture into the intersection. It would be rude, I suppose, to interrupt someone who is already going through in the other direction, so one must be patient and wait for him to finish. By that time the light is changing, and now you're the one going through on red, but no one seems to particularly mind.

An interesting paradox I've noticed in Iquitos is that while time seems primarily to be a very slow, languid thing (i.e., somnambulistic pace of service in restaurants, prolonged back-and-forth haggling with the motos and the street vendors, waiting more than a minute on occasion with a green light at an intersection, etc.), if you ask a moto driver to wait, you'd best not dawdle. Two times today I asked a moto driver to wait. Both times they agreed, and both times they left me stranded, without even getting paid for getting me to the initial stop. I suppose stranded is a bit too strong of a word, as you simply have to look like you might have an inkling of going somewhere to have half a dozen motos queue up offering their services. However, it did seem a bit unseemly that they left, and even more so that I inadvertently stiffed them.

A visit to Manatee Rescue Center

Today I visited ACOBIA-DWAzoo, Amazonian Manatee Rescue Center. Located 4.5 miles from the Iquitos airport, it took a good 25 minutes or so to get there. For S/10 (or about $3.60USD), you are granted admission to the bucolic preserve. A paved path leads you to a brackish pool covered with lush aquatic plants. It doesn't appear there are manatees in this pool, I thought, disappointed, when the water surface erupted with dozens of bubbles. We waited for the manatee to surface, but our patience is apparently not as great as the aquatic mammal's lung capacity.

Our guide Darwin told us about the threat of extinction of this gentle creature. Manatees' gestation is a year; the calf is then nursed for up to two years. Manatees are hunted for their meat in the Amazon, and the mother manatee is often killed before it can raise its offspring, resulting in many orphaned manatees. This shelter housed two youngsters: Nauta, and a new rescue that was yet to be named. The newer arrival was lethargic; it had apparently been malnourished and neglected, and had been relinquished along with another manatee which soon died.

Nauta, however, came over to the side of her pool and raised her large nostrils to the air and gave a curious snuff as we approached. We were allowed to touch the young manatee: all sleek and slippery, her body had the feel of a dolphin, but without a dolphin's feeling of ready muscular power. Instead there was the cushioned give of fat, or blubber; she narrowed her tiny blue eyes in either pleasure or perhaps resignation as I stroked her back and sides. I was then able to feed Nauta using a bottle with a ridiculously long and broad nipple attached. Nauta was a sloppy diner, letting part of her milk out of her mouth to cloud the water. Darwin said she was very well fed, and it reminded me of feeding a human baby: the nourishment derived from suckling is often strictly secondary to the comfort it provides.

After she finished the bottle, I stroked her head one last time and for just a moment she put her alien, bearded lips upon my finger and tugged at them with her mouth. She then dismissed me as not of interest and retreated to digest her meal, waiting for her new visitors.

It was an amazing experience; thank you Molly for taking me!

Written by Linda Schwefel

Volunteers at Spay/Neuter Clinic in Punchana

Gabriela, Barbara, Lisa, Judith and Catherine

I have been down in Iquitos for four days now. Today was Day 3 of working in the Punchana District where the vets are doing free spays/neuters as well as administering anti-parasite medication. On Monday, I weighed dogs to ensure the correct dosage of the oral anti-parasite medication. The problem is, we don't have a proper scale. However, the vets had rigged up an ingenious "make-do" invention which utilized a small sling and a luggage scale. Getting the dogs into the sling was often challenging; they didn't appreciate being lifted up in the air, and the temperamental scale often made it necessary for us to weigh them more than once. It was hot, sweaty work, bending and stooping and wrestling with the dogs and lifting them up. A large crowd of people gathered to bring their animals and to watch with great interest the goings-0n. After maybe 5 hours of non-stop sweat, and getting peed on and having some brown goo leak from the back end of a matted-fur mutt, I made the unwelcome discovery of just how bad I could smell. I really had no idea.

Yesterday and today I got to play vet tech trainee: the vets showed me how to restrain a dog, raise a vein, do operation prep, open a surgery kit, and clean up an animal afterward. I always fancied myself rather adept at handling dogs, but it is very different when it is not your own animal, and infinitely more difficult when you add frantic, half-wild street dog into the mix. All the volunteers were very patient and kind with my mistakes and questions, and I really enjoyed both the lessons and the work itself.

These women are true workhorses - they labor for 5-6 hours or more with no breaks in the action for anything. Catherine, a Scottish vet volunteer, had her dainty gloved hands buried in various animals for hours at a time, and a couple of times I gave her a cup to sip from as I held it: her grin is so joyful it is blinding, unmarred even by a smudge of blood on the end of her nose. Gabriela, a vet volunteer from Spain, was called upon often to give post-op instructions for owners retrieving their pets, and one is at once struck by her intelligence and great charm - she was an invaluable resource for all us non-Spanish speakers. Watching Gabriela do her sutures was like watching sleight of hand: all speed and precision - with one infintesimal motion, she ties off a stitch so quickly it seems magical. Yesterday Judith worked a great deal in coordinating care; today she did surgeries and seemed happy for the change. "It's the most sane place on earth," she told me with a beatific smile. I could see what she meant - while all around her was noise and chaos, her focus was narrowed to the 2-3" incision in a scruffy dog's abdomen.

Barbara, an ex-pat now living in the UK, also brings serenity to her surgeries. She has a Zen-like calm about her; she looks up rarely, but when she does her fair, flushed face is a portrait of determination and quiet satisfaction of a job done well. Lisa, a Welsh veterinary nurse volunteer, is the glue that holds the whole thing together - it is she who records all the information, figures out dosing, and administers most of the medicines. She also is called upon when problems arise, such as an unruly dog somehow noses open his (locked) cage and goes rushing off, or a biter comes in who needs to be muzzled. She is a consummate professional, but also very cheerful and friendly. Her flaxen cornrows are fascinating to the Peruvians; as she stood and drank one day, one child was brazen enough to flick one of her tiny braids into the air. The surprised expression on her face was pure comic book - it coaxed a laugh out of even the most weary of workers.

They are an inspiring, incredible group of volunteers that CARES is tremendously fortunate to have on board, and it is a true privilege to both see their work and be a small part of it.