Rabies in Spain

A rabies epidemic broke out in Málaga Province in 1975 and the Spanish government responded in three ways. First, they issued an edict that all dogs would receive rabies vaccinations. Second, they required that all dogs wear muzzles, with a $250 penalty per violation. Third, an order came down that all stray dogs be shot.

The first edict produced curious results. But to keep veterinarians from profiteering on the free, government-issued vaccine, all the vaccine was concentrated at a government building in downtown Málaga. The result was a monumental traffic jam as everyone and his dog from all over the province converged on this one spot. It was our experience that Spaniards culturally resist lining up for anything, preferring a great seething mass instead. A milling mob at the plaza de toros creates quite an impact after the last bull has been slain. But ten times that many people, assisted by their dogs, can tie up traffic in all directions for miles. And so it happened. It even interfered with siesta.

Eventually the traffic cleared, the dust settled, and the whimpering, barking, whining, shouting, honking, fist shaking all became things of the past. Muzzles were another story.

For one thing, there was no legal definition of a muzzle that anyone would admit to knowing about. One woman shopper in a bakery, seeing a policeman standing right outside, borrowed a white ribbon and bow, tied it around her dog’s nose, and walked right by him. Actually, she didn’t walk, she marched. She paraded. Even her dog pranced. In Spain, you get points for style. I think her short skirt helped also.

Another lady took clippers and clipped where a muzzle would go. She got away with it. In those days in Spain women expected to “get away with things” as their natural right.

Most of the Málaga dogs were unenthused about the muzzles. There was nothing in the new law that said anything about fit and sometimes small dogs tangled their feet in the contraptions hanging from their noses, while large dogs tried to wear muzzles that would barely fit over their noses.

One previously well-mannered German shepherd, Hilda, didn’t want to go for walks, something she had loved to do in pre-muzzle days. After a week of enforced promenades with the hated muzzle, she rebelled. As her owner stood at the doorway calling sweetly and holding out the leash and muzzle, Hilda ran into the dining room, leaped on the dinner table, scattering dishes everywhere, stole a whole roasted chicken, and retired defiantly to the bathroom. “I don’t understand,” the woman complained later. “Hilda’s always had perfect manners. She’s never done anything like that before.”

Toby, an Irish setter by trade, lived with an English journalist and his family on the third floor of an apartment building. He was naturally exuberant, gregarious, and loved parties. He wanted to be near to every guest and he never met a canapé he didn't adore. He was sometimes a pest, but his great charm overcame his other negative qualities.

Toby saw little use in a muzzle which interfered with his smile, the angle of his tongue droop and his ability to scoop up stray pieces of food from the street. After his first walk, he grabbed the muzzle, took it to the balcony and dropped it into the swimming pool four stories below. (This was Spain. The first story was on the second floor.)

It was the third edict condemning stray dogs to execution that I found most unusual. In the States dog catchers would be mobilized, dogs scooped up, their owners given the chance to reclaim them and pay their fines, and only as a last resort would the animals be “euthanized.” Spain had roaming firing squads.

We lived at the foot of a hill and walked to the top to our work at Sunnyview School every day. We grew to know and appreciate a saggy, mangy bitch who lived in the fields and whelped litter after litter of puppies, most of whom were eaten by predators or fell victim to passing automobiles. But though her pups died with regularity, Old Bitch, for so we called her, always survived.

But one morning as we walked to work we saw a team of government dog shooters, their official status proclaimed by their same color coveralls, creeping through the fields, hiding behind some old walls and vegetation and slowly surrounding Old Bitch. She lay in the weak winter sunlight, asleep after a hard night of raiding garbage cans, oblivious to her danger.

“It’s all over for Old Bitch,” I whispered to Joanne. “I’ll miss her.” I had grown to respect her as a survivor.

But that afternoon, as we walked home we saw Old Bitch snoozing by a thornbush. There was no sign of the dog shooters. They had her surrounded. Maybe they shot each other.