Cry for help

Sometime in April 2000, I nearly drowned in a sea of ​​initiatives and proposals to organize all sorts of things for the benefit of the abused greyhounds that, through my “appearances and testimonies” in various programs, had aroused much disbelief and horror among a great many people and organizations. Until then they knew nothing of what was happening in Spain. In any case, with Battenbroek in mind, I was very cautious but could not escape the good intentions without offending people. Thus, under the supervision of my very first employee, Mrs. Pelgrims, the very first Greyhound Survival Ball, complete with orchestra, was organized in Antwerp!! A fruitful and very successful ball at which I met Diana V., an important employee of Virgin Express, who asked me if she could do anything for me and, without waiting for an answer, made me an incredible proposal that entailed that I could fly to Madrid for free with 5 crates as many as I deemed necessary and return with 5 greyhounds!! With or without a guide of my choice to help me. The only thing I had to do was submit the organization’s “official documents” to the board, who expected me in Brussels ASAP!!! After a meeting with the board and the person responsible for the baggage compartment on all flights, whom I was always allowed to call and who would always reserve a spot, I received their approval and would be able to make use of this incredible gift from heaven for years. When Virgin stopped operating and was replaced by the Lufthansa Group and/or Brussels Airlines, my “contract” was terminated with the message that they did not engage in charity. So much for that.

Anyway, before that happened, I had to stay behind for a van full. After several phone calls stating that various people were counting on me, not to mention dogs, I left for Spain for the last time with the donor of the van. Since he had a girlfriend in the meantime, it was his final trip, and we said goodbye afterwards. We first drove to Madrid, where an employee of a local group was waiting for me to visit the largest Gypsy camp in Europe with her. As a “white person,” she had exceptional access because she regularly went with food for the dogs. The community trusted her, she had assured me, so I should not be worried or afraid. Her friend, that is me, was exceptionally allowed to join the visit by the “Chief or Gypsy King” because I was going to donate a few hundred kilos of dog food as a gift. I was not at ease about it, but the lady absolutely wanted to show me what was happening to the dogs in that inaccessible place. After a long, arduous journey and very bad weather, we arrived in Madrid, where, much to the displeasure of my impatient and tired driver, we had to search for the meeting place for far too long. No easy task with the heavy traffic. Fortunately, we found the lady quickly amidst the chaos of streets and squares, and the fact that she was also willing to provide us with accommodation made up for a lot with my driver. However, the knowledge that she had also unsolicited arranged other appointments for me besides the visit to the gypsies did not make his good mood quite as much.

The next day, we set off at the crack of dawn in her tiny car, with the van in tow containing the promised food heading towards the motorway. After a few kilometers, just before the capital, we took an exit and immediately turned right onto a winding, descending gravel road full of potholes and bumps that seemed endlessly long. Not good for the van following us, and not good for the driver's peace of mind, I thought anxiously. After nearly fifteen minutes of cautiously going up and down and back and forth, a gigantic iron gate blocked the passage to what looked like a substantial village whose end could not be seen. As far as I could see, it lay filled with mountains of car wrecks, with countless barracks in between. Here and there stood a horse or horses on a dry patch of ground fenced off with barbed wire; several emaciated horses stood in old trailers without wheels. In between, there was soil and several car wrecks; in most of them sat equally emaciated Galgos. When the “gate” at one of the foothills of “Canada Real,” the largest Gypsy city in Europe, was opened and we drove in, our little car and the van were immediately surrounded by a group of men and arrogantly shouting children. The women in long skirts, most of whom were adorned with jewelry and had mouths full of gold teeth, were clearly proud of their heritage, keeping their distance and ignoring us. In front of every “house” was a kind of enclosed box made of wood or brick with a hinged lid on top. Barely large enough to house a Galgo and her puppies full of fleas and ticks, as would soon become apparent. After I had introduced myself to the chief and expressed my respect and gratitude, we were allowed to walk around. My driver, who was uneasy about the situation, preferred to stay with the van and unloaded the bags of dog food in the meantime.

While I tried to establish contact with the ladies who indifferently showed me their poor, emaciated Galgo females, who sat together with their pups in stinking, dark prisons full of vermin, I tried to gauge through my companion whether I could buy a few females and their offspring. They were allowed to state the price. I asked and insisted in vain, because it was impossible to communicate with the ladies; they were inaccessible and shook their heads with a condescending, mysterious Mona Lisa smile. Persisting did not help, for they were very aware of their superiority. Here they were the bosses, and I had to show respect for that; whether I arrived with a hundred or a thousand kg of food, they looked down on me with contempt regardless. Before we left, my “friend,” to my surprise, carved a tear into all the bags of food “to prevent them from reselling the food,” she clarified; it only elicited a sad smile from me. Tear or not, I knew better; one thing was certain, the poor Galgos would not get a single grain of food into their empty stomachs. After saying goodbye, just before we left, a young, corpulent Gypsy couple jumped into the small car and demanded that we take them to Madrid! We did not dare refuse and took them where they wanted to go. As we drove on to my next appointments with chairmen of local organizations and shelters, I could barely hold back my tears.

The next day, we set off for Medina with two puppies I had kept from the meeting with the chairmen. In Medina, I had been informed that 30 ex-racing Greyhounds from the racetrack had been abandoned at a boarding kennel 50 km away, whose future was precarious because the owners no longer wanted to care for them. I was told there were 70 dogs in total, and I thought anxiously that I could only take 38 on board. After a long drive, we did not arrive in Medina until late afternoon. There was no one in charge to be seen at the shelter, so it was a matter of waiting and waiting again until early evening, when I was told that we would not be allowed into the boarding kennel until 15:00 the next day. To my despair, I must “choose” the dogs, or rather, select who would come along and who wouldn't. Because we didn't know where Shelter Lagune or something similar was located, someone from Medina would drive along. After a night at a hotel where you could not get breakfast or anything to drink, we left with our guide and on empty stomachs for the shelter, which was about 50 km away. When we arrived, it was freezing cold and it started to snow lightly. After they finally let us in following a long period of ringing and knocking, we walked across the central courtyard to the kennels of the ex-racers, who were almost all black and all wearing coats. When I asked the stubborn manager to open the kennels and looked under the coat of one of the poor animals, there was a skeleton underneath!!! The poor animals were all emaciated and had received little to no food for a long time!! Poor, poor wretches, it was terrible and, above all, outrageous. Unbelievable that the dogs were still standing on their legs. I was beside myself and furious at the manager, who was unimpressed and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. It was finally 16:00h in the afternoon when we were able to load the dogs. Meanwhile, dark storm clouds were gathering above our heads and a violent whirlwind hurled everything it could get its hands on around us. Passes, notebooks, papers, all kinds of things went up in the air.

While the poor souls were being helped on board, the heavens opened, spewing rain, snow, hail, and other torrents down upon us. Everything landed on our heads, and my driver, our guide from Medina, and I were soaked to our underwear.

Loading frightened, stressed animals under such conditions was no easy task; it was therefore 20:00h before we stepped into the van, dripping wet, and set off for Belgium for a 24-hour drive, and that after we had already been on our feet for 14 hours. Due to the fumes in the cabin, we could not see a thing and were forced to stop at the first service station we encountered, where, shivering with cold, we tried to take off our wet clothes in the toilet to replace them with dry ones. You really should try that in such a small space. I still cannot bear to think about it without reliving it. Despite all the misery, once back in the cabin, we had giggles out of sheer misery. For the rest of the journey, I had to go without shoes because I had had the brilliant idea of drying them on the dashboard, with the result that they had shrunk. It kept pouring rain the entire rest of the way; I did not know where it kept coming from. In the Basque Country, a truck lay overturned across the road on the dangerous, hilly "descent" full of tunnels and bends towards France, despite the prohibition against overtaking another truck. To our annoyance and frustration, we were stuck for hours. When we were finally able to leave after an endless wait, we faced a double check at the French border but were fortunately allowed to continue with congratulations from the gendarmes.

In any case, my driver started to feel unwell. He began to nod off, and his eyes closed from exhaustion. When I insisted he rest, he lost his temper and hurled every possible accusation at me. Driving in the pouring rain, the delays, and the lack of rest took their toll on everyone. Fortunately, the patient dogs, who remained calm despite all the commotion and setbacks  seemed relieved to be safe. Notwithstanding the fact that my driver was dead tired, I had to use all my powers of persuasion to get him to stop against his will, something that only succeeded after much insistence. After a little over an hour's rest in the parking lot of some rest area near Bordeaux and a hearty breakfast consisting of two cups of coffee from the vending machine and two spongy croissants, he stuck his head under a tap and was ready to start the final 750 km to Belgium and to his new girlfriend. As for me, I was dead tired too and could only think about what awaited me upon arrival. Fortunately, there was the certainty that the remaining dogs would be taken at Medina. Consequently, I must return as soon as possible to pick up the remaining dogs. But first, I must find adopters and a driver. A delicate matter and not easy, because I had absolutely no idea who qualified to be a driver or for adoption.

Mireille