Bekki: A True Street Fighter
It has been seven months since I began feeding the street dogs of Bali.
There are thousands of them here—on beaches, in cemeteries, near dumpsters, at the edge of forests. Where we live, about ten circulate the neighborhood. Some wear collars. Some don’t. The collars sometimes mean they’re vaccinated, or someone nearby feeds them. Other times, the collar is a decoy—a threadbare talisman to protect them from the government’s routine poisonings.
Wallie and I started walking the route in January. That’s when we met Bekki.
She was the first to approach. Black coat, bright yellow eyes, and a cautious curiosity. A woman on the street called her “Blacky,” like every black dog on the island. We renamed her Bekki.
She was thin but playful, always checking over her shoulder while eating. The others would drive her off. I often fed her part, hidden behind walls or cars so she could eat in peace.
But that peace was never long.
Five weeks ago, on a Monday, I found her collapsed in front of the same house where she usually lingered. She looked starved, weak, and terrified.
A woman came out. No, the dog wasn’t hers, she said. I hand-fed Bekki what little she could eat, then left. But the image followed me. The dread haunted my sleep for nights.
A few days later, I returned again with food. She came limping, emaciated. Trailing behind two others—Mama and LilOne. When she stepped closer, I saw the wound.
A clean gash split open her hind leg. The fat, tendon, and bone of her ankle exposed. Her eyes, once bright, were dulled. Her tail didn’t wag; it tucked low underneath the belly in extreme fear.
I froze. Not because of the oozing red and white area on her leg—but because I recognized it.
This was no accident. No dog fight. No car.
A crime scene.
This was surgical. Performed by a human. Evil human.
She followed the food into an abandoned house away from the rest. She ate a little, then crawled beneath a filthy bed, out of reach.
When I came back later, she was gone. I searched with her photo, but people shrugged. “Not my dog.” “Never seen her.”
I went back every two hours until nightfall. No life under that bed, or around the streets.
The next morning, I brought my husband, Michel. And my luck. Bekki showed up. She was still wearing her collar. I hooked the leash fast and carried her to the car.
She trembled in my arms, on my lap, all the way to the vet.
A dog that size shouldn’t shake like that. A dog that size shouldn’t need to be carried like that. But I held her. I told myself this wasn’t the time to worry about what came next—what this would mean for our home, for Wallie, for our marriage. All that mattered was that we saved her. That her pain would soon end.
And in that moment, that was enough.
It’s been nearly four weeks now. The surface wounds have healed, but the deep cut—down to the bone—remains open. I visit her often. Bring Wallie. We sit with her, let her smell us, try to stitch a thread of trust to begin again.
Sometimes she still tucks her tail. But she’s eating again. She recognizes my voice. My scent. My love.
We won’t put her back on the street. Not now. Not with what we know.
A week after we brought her in, the authorities began posting banners about the surge in dog and car poisonings. Pets vanishing. The dog meat trade is still alive and moving in the shadows across Bali.
And still, she lived. Bekki survived whatever cruelty found her. And she found her way back to me.
That’s what moved me most. That’s what silenced all of my fear, and I felt enough.
Stay strong, girl.
Kindness doesn’t always win. But it tries. And that has to count for something.
A kinder future for all animals in Bali starts here ❤️
Dr Sasa Vernandes
👉Read about the powerful lesson this recue taught me to let go of the attachment here
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