A Dog's Tale

Our life here has gone to the dogs. It’s true. Literally.



The downhill slide started when we adopted our little Chiquita and seems to have hit bottom with, not one, but two strays who found their way to our doorstep. Wiser folks would have scurried them on their way, but (sigh) not us. Nooooo. But then, it only one stray… at first.

Yoda started hanging around a few weeks ago. At first we thought he belonged to one of the workers that starting showing up at six o’clock every morning – with a medium-sized brown terrier mix following in his footsteps. But then we found the dog sleeping his nights away curled up in an inside corner of a little inset on the north side of the house – in the one square foot space that stays dry even when the rain pours down in buckets. Smart dog.

After a few days we determined that he did not belong to said worker and that he apparently had no home. The only humane thing to do, we reasoned, was to put out a little food for him. It took a good 7 to 10 days, but eventually he decided we were not going to hurt him and he started sleeping on the front porch.



One day, I sat down on a chair on the front porch and called him over. He approached slowly, but let me pet him. Still, mostly, he kept his distance, waiting in the driveway at dinner time, ate his food, then curled up in his little, dry corner.

Even before we and he decided he was here for keeps, we felt he needed a name. One look at his big, funky ears and we knew it had to be Yoda, the elfish guru from Star Wars.



Then about a week ago, we awoke to find a scared little puppy huddling on our patio – an interesting fete, given that this little eight-pound creature would have had to hurdle a three-foot high Plexiglas barrier to get there. In other words, someone decided he would find a home with the nice gringos.
And, it appears he has.


Ozzie seemed a fitting name, given that he is likely an Australian Shepherd/Terrier mix. (We’ve concluded that most mixed-breed dogs in Costa Rica have some Terrier in them.) Unlike Yoda, Ozzie arrived with a serious flea and tic infestation and looked as if he had been on the street – or terribly neglected – for a long time. We can only imagine how hard that must have been for this little guy, given that he appears to also be deaf.

(If you’re looking for an investment, I strongly suggest buying stock in the company that makes our flea shampoo. And maybe Frontline, too. Due to the climate and the vegetation, I’m certain we will be purchasing them regularly! But I digress… )

As it turns out, while we were fussing over the new “baby,” Yoda was watching the activity from a safe distance on the driveway. That is, until he decided he was ready to be part of the action! So, the very day that Ozzie made his debut on our patio, Yoda climbed the steps to the patio and officially joined the family, too.

Our family of three dogs is still jostling about, trying to figure out who is top dog, but they get along amazingly well. Fortunately, Chiquita does not have a jealous or confrontational bone in her body. She’s just happy to have someone to play with.



Yoda looks to be about three or four years old, very intelligent, and has had some training – or perhaps bad experiences that make him eager to obey. He watches us for clues to identify good and bad behavior, responding instantly accordingly. He’s loving – even a bit needy – and wants to win our approval every step of the way. He’s our Velcro dog and he and Vic bonded instantly.



In the beginning, he wasn’t quite sure that the pack had a place for more than one male dog, but he has since decided that if we like Ozzie so much he must be okay. Besides, the little guy, while not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is smart enough to surrender dominance to the big boy.

Yep, Ozzie is a strange little creature. He’s a bit funny looking in that his some of his body parts don’t seem to match, but then looks aren’t everything. He’s quiet, well behaved, loving, and believes he was born to be a lap dog – and he’s decided that Chiquita is his best friend and wrestling companion.



Any other time, this would be a perfect scenario. But our two found puppies have only furthered our conviction that Costa Rica does not need more dogs, no matter how cute, cuddly or smart they might be. The plain truth is that for every loved and doted upon dog in Costa Rica there are countless others who live unhappy lives, unwanted, abused, or neglected. We cannot, in any good conscience, add to the problem.

So this week, Chiquita spent a morning with the vet. She came home about an hour after her surgery, slept off the anesthetic and ran a fever through the night, before getting the upper hand on the situation. Today she’s prancing around, chomping at the bit to start rough housing with her new friends. Trouble is, those stitches just are not ready for that yet.



Between a spray bottle of water to break up the periodic wrestling matches and a homemade e-collar to keep her from licking her stitches, we just might make it. Then, of course, we’ll need to think about doing something about the mating instincts of our two little boy dogs.

Like I said, our lives have gone to the dogs!
Pura Vida

Que Día! Ants, Ants, And More -- ARMY Ants

What a day, or as they say here, "Que Día!"

It started as most Saturdays do, with a trip to the feria, for our week's supply of fruits and veggies. On the way back to the bus, we also picked up this beautiful bouquet of flowers.
Fresh flowers are abundant and very affordable here ($4 for the two bundles that made up this arrangement), so it's a treat we give ourselves whenever we still have one free hand when our shopping is finished. The flower arranging today is a bit sub-par, though, thanks to a close call with a small army of Army Ants.

I was cutting stems and keeping an eye on my homemade yogurt, trying to get the temperature stabilized, when Vic announced their arrival, putting anything not ant-related on hold.

From everything I've read, if army ants target your house, it's best to just grab the pets, a cool drink, and some lawn chairs, and make yourself comfy under a shade tree while you watch the show - which consists of them scouring every square inch of the house, flushing out (and eating)every single ant, cricket, cockroach, spider, scorpion or other creepy crawly in their path.

Not a bad deal if you aren't totally grossed out at the thought of tens of thousands of ants invading your homestead. And even though we've read that, when finished, they leave en mass as quickly as they arrived, we're not ready to board that boat - at least not yet.

The collective term of army ants actually refers to more than 200 species of ants, all of which are known for their aggressive and cooperative foraging behavior. At a mere two-inch wide column, ours was a small army compared to some that I've read about. I can only imagine how it would feel to see a wall of ants 10 to 50 feet wide bearing down on your home. But our plans for the day did not include feeding a small platoon - even if it meant getting rid of our scorpions. It was time to bring out the weapons of mass destruction.

In the time it took Vic to grab a bottle of super-strength insecticide, the ants had the house almost surrounded. One squadron marched across the front of the carport and bodega and another approached from the rear. A third was was crossing the carport and starting up the steps to the house level. He stopped them at the first landing.

The ants he hit directly died on the spot. The others got the message and changed their route. Once Vic had broken their momentum, he followed up by spraying a border all the way around the house, which we hope will hold the fort against a second assault.

Just to be safe, while Vic went on the offensive outside, I readied the inside of the house for evacuation by stowing the rest of the feria produce in the fridge, rounding up the bits and pieces of dog's rawhide chewies, and filling our water bottles so that we would have something to sip on during our exile. Luckily, we didn't need any of it - this time.

Yes, we can be certain that they will return. Perhaps in a few months or a year, perhaps sooner. When they come, it could be the same small-platoon species or it could be a massive invasion. And while this was certainly an exciting and potentially inconvenient event, it's not something to be particularly worried about because these guys are not after us. If our defensive measures fail us next time, at least our home will be bug-free for a few hours.

For now, it's been a good three hours and the ants are still hard at work in the yard, thankfully at a respectful distance. My yogurt is happily culturing away at 110-115 degrees. When I stop heaving sighs of relief, I just might take another stab at arranging my lovely flowers.

Pura Vida

Back to Basics - Cooking in Costa Rica

I was emailing back and forth with one of my sisters today and our conversation turned to how our diets have, or have not, changed since moving to Costa Rica. The discussion reminded me that my post about cooking here is overdue.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how lucky I was to grow up during an era when people hung their wash on the line behind the house, covered leftovers in the fridge with a bowl for a makeshift lid, and actually baked cakes from scratch. I say lucky, because in our new life in Costa Rica we often find ourselves without some of the little (and sometimes large) conveniences that we used to think we couldn’t do without.

Actually, I haven’t baked a cake here yet. But I have resurrected my pie-baking skills and whipped together a variety of them: pumpkin pies (made with winter squash, actually), pecan, lemon meringue, and lemon chiffon. Spaghetti sauce doesn't come from a jar. Neither does gravy. And since we haven’t found bread here, I make our own.

I’ve always loved baking bread. There’s something about working with dough… I’m not sure what it is, but I assume the pleasure response it triggers has the same roots (no pun intended) as the satisfaction a gardener/farmer gets from working the soil by hand. And nothing that comes from a bakery here or in the States can compare with a loaf fresh out of your own oven.

Cooking – even from scratch – can be interesting without the well-stocked pantry I enjoyed in the States. Some of that dearth will be remedied with time. Some will remain a void in my alimentary tool chest, as the plain truth is that many ingredients can’t be bought here at any price, and others command a price that I just can’t justify. Turkey is a good example. I read a report last week that the Automercardo in Alajuela had two frozen turkeys on hand. They appeared to weigh in at about 10 to 12 pounds and cost $22 & $24, respectively. Thanks, but I’ll pass.

I get around the problem by creating all new recipes for my old favorites, as I did with the squash pie that could have almost passed as pumpkin. I made a pecan pie for company, but guess what? There is no corn syrup to be had anywhere withina 10 mile radius - and perhaps further. So I hit the Internet and discovered, to my surprise, that the early French settlers who brought the recipe to the South didn’t have corn syrup either! Who would have thought?!? It turns out that they actually used brown sugar instead, and so did I. My pie tasted fabulous!

Then there is the question of what cookware to use. For years I’ve been threatening to toss my Teflon skillets and dig out my old collection of cast iron and now I have finally made good on it.

I made the decision partly for health reasons. The jury is still out on the safety of Teflon and the science is contradictory, but given that I have an alternative on hand, I choose to err on the side of caution. My other motivation is purely economical. In my kitchen, Teflon pans generally have a life of about two years. And they aren’t cheap. But I am! I don’t like U.S. prices for cookware and in Costa Rica the price can be double what I would pay back home.

Fortunately, my 1950s upbringing makes me well-familiar with cast iron cookware, even though I haven’t used mine in years. Hah! I knew I bought them for a reason! Actually, I’ve owned one of my skillets for close to forty years – and it was old when I bought it at a yard sale in Ohio. The rest are newer – maybe a dozen years old – and have seen only enough use to get them reasonably well seasoned. What better time or place to haul them out and put them back into service?!



Cast iron is virtually indestructible, so theoretically I shouldn’t need to buy another skillet – ever! They are naturally non-stick, if properly seasoned and well-cared for. They heat evenly, without the hotspots you get in all but the most heavy, expensive stainless skillets. And they hold the heat better than aluminum or stainless, keeping food warm longer if my timing happens to be off. What’s not to like about all of that? Well, the weight, maybe. But I look at handling them as part of my weight/resistance training that will keep my arms – and bones – strong.

To be sure, I still own and use other cookware. I love the saucepans and Dutch oven of my fifteen year old set of Circulon. I still own and use my big Revere Ware soup pot. And, then of course, there is my stainless steel pressure cooker – an essential tool in a country where beans and grass-fed beef are eaten many times each week.

If it all sounds like more work than it’s worth, maybe it depends on where one sits. For diehard do-it-yourselfers like us, the satisfaction is worth the extra time required to create food from scratch. What I really could use, though, is a few more ingredients. Like green chiles (canned or fresh) and a little tin of ground sage. Who knows, maybe I’ll find them next to that $22 turkey!

Pura Vida

Going Under the Knife

Yesterday we had a new opportunity to experience another segment of Costa Rica’s national healthcare system, when my husband underwent ambulatory surgery at the hospital in San Ramon. All went well and he’s doing just fine – which is important for more than the obvious reasons.

As I have mentioned before, medical care is one of the big reasons we made the decision to move to Costa Rica. I’m in that *gotcha* age group for healthcare insurance in the U.S. – too old and laden with a litany of small pre-existing conditions to obtain full coverage and not quite old enough to qualify for Medicare. Moving here provided us the opportunity to buy into the country’s national healthcare system, which is referred to as Caja, for a nominal monthly fee of $47 (for both of us!) which entitles us to see family practice doctors, obtain tests and formulary prescriptions, and use the emergency room at our local clinic. More complicated treatments, like consultations with some specialists, ambulatory surgery, and in-patient medical treatment takes place at a regional hospital. In our case, it will typically be the hospital in San Ramon, which is about twenty minutes from our house. Non-formulary prescriptions have to be purchased at non-Caja pharmacies and we have the option of using private clinics and paying for services out of pocket.

So over coffee this morning we did a little Monday morning quarterbacking to determine just what we thought about the process. (A) Who did what right (B). Or wrong. And (C) mostly, whether we were beginning to question our decision.

The short answer is (A) Lots (B) Not much and (C) No. If you’re interested in the details, read on.

The system seems a bit more cumbersome than what we’re used to in the U.S. Appointments have to be made in person as opposed to over the phone. Few, if any, instructions are posted or otherwise available, so it’s a matter of blindly feeling your way along, asking questions (mostly in Spanish), and basically figuring it out as you go along. In three separate instances, we stood or sat with a group of patients (‘the herd,’ as I called it) until someone appeared and instructed us to follow.

There is virtually no hand-holding in the process. You get the paperwork. You take it to the proper window for stamps, dates, etc. You show up. You get treated.

The one exception to that rule is that one of the papers we received when the surgery was scheduled (6 months ago, by the way) instructed us to show up two days before the surgery for what we could only surmise was a pre-surgery consultation. It turned out to be a classroom lecture on how to prepare for the surgery (e.g. , no food or water after 10 p.m. the night before, how to put on the hospital gown, etc.) The instructor asked each patient to bring along a box of juice and some cookies or crackers for after the surgery so they could judge when you are ready to be discharged – as measured by whether or not your stomach will tolerate food and drink. (You’re probably thinking that in the U.S. THEY provide that. And you’re right, of course, but then how much does it cost you?!?)

The day of the surgery, we reported at 6 a.m., as instructed, took our place amongst the herd and waited to be escorted to the ambulatory surgery center. There, we took a seat and waited. One by one, people were called, disappeared behind an unmarked door, and re-emerged several hours later. My husband was called at about 9 a.m. At 12:45 p.m., I was called to the door, handed a prescription for an antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory, which I took to a special window of the pharmacy where it was filled while I waited. When I returned with the prescription ten minutes later, my husband was sent on his way with post-op instructions and referrals to see the appropriate doctors for follow-up.

To be perfectly honest, it was a little unnerving at times simply because of the uncertainty of each and every step. But what really counts is the care he received, which he tells me was top-notch.

He was given the choice of a local or general anesthetic. For an abdominal procedure, I would have chosen the general, but Mr. Macho chose the local. Consequently, he was awake and able to observe the medical staff in action. Some of them spoke English, so they had good communication throughout. They were attentive and seemed competent at what they were doing. But as the old saying goes, the proof is in the pudding. Based on the outcome, I have to give the process a solid A-, with the minus earned only for not providing one more handout that would have told us when and where to go for appointments and how the process works.

But then again, the next time we will be pros and know exactly what to expect!

I can’t end my little report without mentioning the help we received along the way. I have concluded that the population of Costa Rica is peppered with little angels. They are the folks who show up at just the right moment and go way beyond what one would expect to help us out. There was the security guard at the hospital who we asked for instructions on where to go to make our appointments. Instead of pointing, he took our referral slips and walked us from office to office, spoke to the clerks on duty, and sent us on our way with all of the appropriate paperwork in hand. Then there was the Intel employee, who accompanied her father for his surgery, and who jumped in to serve as translator when my meager Spanish failed me. And then there was the father, whose son was undergoing surgery, who walked me to the pharmacy and waited with me while I had my husband’s prescriptions filled. These kinds of things happen all the time here, but I never stop being amazed by and deeply grateful for them.

Pura Vida