Fourteen volunteers showed up yesterday to continue the “dog” cleanup project. Uruguayan, Canadian, American, South African, and Cuban. Sweating profusely, we filled two volquetes to overflowing, including
We did “meet” the dogs. Apparently the all-but-immobile husband, closed in the house with the dogs on a hot day, decided he’d had enough. He had already insisted that no one touch a pile of old tires (even though there is no vehicle even close to functioning — the volquete driver will remove the four rusty hulks at no cost, presumably for their scrap value). Husband opened the door. Dogs poured out, barking, making a couple of people understandably nervous. The vet Mariana and I fanned out and helped drive them back inside. They were no problem; obviously loved.
It appeared there were about 25 dogs, not 44. And it seems that ASH(Animales sin Hogar, Animals without Homes), the private animal rescue agency, announced some time ago that they had received 50 or so dogs from an individual. So our speculation is that somehow someone rescued them from Telma, who OBTW is now Marlena (?).
We disassembled the roof that had blown off, and consolidated sheet metal, so the lot is somewhat organized and the dogs have more usable ground. Next phase would be construction, but the person in charge of that is sidelined with a sinus infection.
Meanwhile, the lot-clearing and construction project mission-creeps into a open-ended social work project for low-functioning hoarders. For which others are better suited than I.
Our Canadian neighbors, who put on a wonderful Christmas day get-together, also use the occasion to collect dog food for an impoverished woman in Montevideo who has 44 dogs. Sound like a lot? Last year it was 77.
Delivering the donated food — 260 kilos of it — they were appalled by what they saw. So they organized. Friday morning we arrived, I and another guy with our weed-eaters with brush blades, others with clippers, all with work gloves and most with Wellies. In a few hours, we had changed the overgrown property dramatically.
Tomorrow, we go to fill a dumpster (volquete; I did boring posts about them here and here) with various trashed appliances, and to continue clearing a path for one of four abandoned vehicles to be dragged away. I will use a “found” concrete column to straighten the leaning fence in front.
Next: repair the roof that blew off because the beams had been eaten by termites, make the house a little livable, install a fence to segregate dogs. At present, when we arrive, she has to put them inside. And what does inside look like?
The bearings on my 6-year old wheelbarrow broke. You can’t replace them. You can’t buy a replacement wheel with the same size axle.
A South African guy named Geoff told me about buying a replacement wheel, then taking it to this guy who fabricated an axle to make it work on his wheelbarrow. So I went to buy the wheel, then after some discussion with the muchacho at the ferreteria (hardware store), decided it might be prudent to discuss it with Mr. Fixit, Luis, before purchasing it.
Luis said he could make a solution out of plastic that would solve the problem for a long time. Come back at the end of the day. So I did, to find custom-fabricated plastic bearings (they would be a T in cross-section, with perfectly fitting rubber grommets.
“Put a little grease on it when you put it back together,” he said, “and you’ll have no problem.”
I was with an escribano (basically, a lawyer for two parties in agreement) getting paperwork done, and was so stunned with his handwriting that I took a picture when he was out of the room:
The first line: my address
Second: townThird: marital status
Fourth: wife’s name – that might be a question mark because I’m not sure what my wife’s proper name is in Uruguay, and I hesitated. She got one from migración, a different one from the Corte Electoral when we became citizens.
Amazingly, it was all correct when he produced the finished document.