A Hunter’s Dog Finds A New Home On My Farm

Hunting is illegal in Costa Rica. That being said, lots of people out here in the campo hunt. At night, on a full moon, you can hear the hunting dogs down in the jungle. Their distinctive “hooohooo” bark lets the guy with the gun know there is some poor animal up a tree, or trapped down a hole.

If you’re hunting to feed your family, I’ve got no problem with it. However, this is usually not the case. Most of the hunters are just doing it for sport, to go out in the woods and shoot things. And by things, I mean animals. They’re not generally very discerning, these hunters.

While they might actually be hunting pacas (a guinea-pig like creature that supposedly has great tasting meat), they often shoot anything that moves, like monkeys, dogs, wild pigs, or whatever happens to cross their path.

I don’t allow hunting on my property. Aside from my general aversion to killing animals for no reason (gee, really?), I have horses who do not generally get along with stray bullets flying through the air.

I’ve had a couple of run-ins with some particularly defiant neighbors, and have called the police on at least one occasion when a hunter continued to come onto my property after being warned, time and time again. We’ll call him Roger (not his real name).

The police actually came, SWAT vests and all, and chased him down through the jungle until they arrested him, which of course embarrassed the crap out of the guy. It didn’t exactly score me any points in his book, either.

My Tico friend Juan told me that Roger was quite pissed at me and was bragging around the village saying, “I don’t have to listen to that stupid Gringa. This is MY country, and I can do what I want!”

“Well, that’s too bad,” I said to Juan, “maybe Roger should learn to respect the laws of his own country.”

A few days later, Roger killed a pig and hung it in the tree next to the village soccer field. The village kids came running to tell me.

“Linda, Roger killed a pig and hung it in the plaza. Are you going to call the cops?”

“No, I’m not,” I said carefully. Roger didn’t kill the pig on my property. I don’t care if he hunts, I just don’t want him to hunt on my farm.”

The kids were disappointed; I think they were really hoping for a little more drama on my end. Sorry guys, I’m not an idiot, I’m a single older woman living alone. Ya gotta learn where to pick your battles.

About six months later, in July, I went down to my barn. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some movement up on top of the hay bales. When I went to look, I found a little bag of bones, shivering uncontrollably in fear, making himself as small as he possibly could, as if to say “I’m not really a dog, I’m just a little rat up here in the corner, please don’t pay any attention to me.”

Over the course of the next couple of days, I brought the little guy food and water. He never left the hayloft, he wouldn’t look me in the eye, he just hid his face and quivered in fear. I talked softly to him, never tried to touch him, and eventually he trusted me enough to come out of the barn.

The next week, one of the village guys stopped me as he was walking by my farm.

“Linda, I hear you have a new dog. ”

“I do, Pablo. He’s a little skinny, but he’s getting better.”

“You know, I lost a dog like that,” he said, rather tentatively.

“Really, Pablo?” I said, hands on hips. “You know, this dog was lost while someone was hunting on my farm. Were YOU hunting on my farm???”

“Oh, noooo, Linda,” he said, backpedalling madly, “I have respect for you. I would NEVER hunt on your farm.”

“Hmmm, I guess he can’t be your dog then, can he?”

I thought that was the end of the matter.

A few days later, my worker Enrique told me that another guy in the village was claiming that I stole his dog. He demanded that I return it.

For a Tico, a hunting dog is an investment and a tool, but never a pet. For some reason, Ticos think that a hunting dog will only hunt if it is hungry. So, they don’t feed them. Seriously.

This little guy may actually have been his dog, but there was no way I was going to return the poor little thing back to the miserable life he had had up to now. So I gave my worker $50 and told him to go and offer to pay for the dog. In the end, the guy refused the money, sheepishly saying “Never mind, someone gave me a better dog anyway. ”

I named him Hunter. My vet, Adrian, laughed at me.

“How long did it take you to come up with that name?” he said. In reality, it was about 5 seconds.

Hunter has now been with me for almost two years. He runs through the farm, ears and legs flying in five different directions, with a huge goofy loveable smile. He’s still terrified of loud noises; the slightest rumble of thunder will send him under the bed. And he won’t go anywhere near strangers. If I have guests in my house, he hides behind my bed until they are gone. After what he went through, I can’t say I blame him.

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Andrew Makarik

to@welovecostarica.com

Andrew Makarik is the main editor of WeLoveCostaRica, a fan of this sunny country. He is also a loving husband and a has a lovely daughter. By being a devoted family man and the biggest Costa Rica fan, he wants to make more people feel at home there. WeLoveCostaRica unites people and helps them find new home or a new travel destination. This website is a friendly community where everyone can find not only information, but also new friends and travel pals. Andrew is also passionate about IT and programming, so he himself maintains a friendly atmosphere in this cozy environment of WeLoveCostaRica.com.