No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone by Terri Crisp; C. J. Hurn Page A
Authors: Terri Crisp; C. J. Hurn
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sure that Liberty and K-Pot were okay. Their bewildered faces peered out from the crates.
"I know you want to stretch your legs, but you'll have to hold on a little longer."
I topped off their water bowls but had nothing to feed the two dogs. "If we clear Customs," I promised, "I'll get you guys two of the biggest, juiciest chicken sandwiches I can buy."
I half-sat on Liberty's crate and finished off the last of the bottled water. Eighteen hours without sleep threatened to fog my thinking, and I needed all my wits to pull this off. As I surveyed my surroundings, I explained our situation to my canine companions.
"Over there is our obstacle. If we can just get through that hurdle, the worst of our problems will be behind us." They tilted their heads and listened, making me feel less alone, as if we were now a team.
It was almost midnight, and the airport still bustled with activity. This might work in our favor. Customs officers would be less inclined to scrutinize the dogs' papers from Iraq when hordes of travelers were pushing through Customs anxious to reach their destinations. I decided not to launch my plan until the next full flight arrived. As I studied from my vantage point how the officers operated, I considered several scenarios.
Considering the lack of compassion that people had for dogs in this part of the world, I decided against playing the sympathy card. There was another good technique I had used while in disaster areas. When approaching a person who has the power to concede permission, you confuse him so thoroughly with distractions that he finally gives up and grants your request just to get rid of you. The key part of this technique is to remain enthusiastic, smile a lot, and exude a genuinely pleasant personality.
Fifteen minutes later weary arrival passengers appeared, forming a human wall around the baggage carousels. "Please," I prayed, "don't let me show any nerves. I can do this. I know I can do this." Then I crossed my fingers and jumped into the fire.
First I needed a porter. When I flagged one down, he wheeled his trolley toward us. After he saw the two dog crates, he enlisted the help of a fellow porter. Two could definitely be useful, I thought. I soon discovered that neither one of them spoke English. Their accents sounded as if the two men were from Sri Lanka or possibly Bangladesh, meaning they probably weren't Muslim and wouldn't, therefore, be afraid of the dogs. On their royal blue uniforms, the porters each wore badges that showed the numbers 128 and 314 instead of their names. This was typical of how poorly paid foreign laborers are treated in Kuwait, the role being considered more important than the person behind the badge.
While they loaded the dogs' crates onto the trolleys, I pulled out K-Pot's and Liberty's paperwork from my briefcase. I made sure that any pages with the word Iraq on them were placed at the bottom of the stack, and then I tucked the envelope under everything in my suitcase.
"I sure hope I haven't forgotten anything," I mumbled. "If I have, it's too late to fix it now."
Just before we reached the Customs checkpoint, I directed the porters to follow me over to the side, out of the flow of traffic. For a few minutes we stood there, giving me a chance to more closely observe the individual officers. Six of them worked the night shift, increasing the odds that one would fit perfectly into my plan. I studied each man carefully, hoping to find an officer whose actions revealed that he hated his job and who displayed an "I don't care" attitude. A stickler for rules would be a disaster for us.
One officer paid as much attention to his line of passengers as a bored child pays to the preacher in church. He was exactly the type I sought. I nodded to my porters, and we stepped into the apathetic officer's line.
Inch by inch our line moved forward. My skills at reading body language would soon be put to the test. When we got to the security checkpoint, I motioned for
"I know you want to stretch your legs, but you'll have to hold on a little longer."
I topped off their water bowls but had nothing to feed the two dogs. "If we clear Customs," I promised, "I'll get you guys two of the biggest, juiciest chicken sandwiches I can buy."
I half-sat on Liberty's crate and finished off the last of the bottled water. Eighteen hours without sleep threatened to fog my thinking, and I needed all my wits to pull this off. As I surveyed my surroundings, I explained our situation to my canine companions.
"Over there is our obstacle. If we can just get through that hurdle, the worst of our problems will be behind us." They tilted their heads and listened, making me feel less alone, as if we were now a team.
It was almost midnight, and the airport still bustled with activity. This might work in our favor. Customs officers would be less inclined to scrutinize the dogs' papers from Iraq when hordes of travelers were pushing through Customs anxious to reach their destinations. I decided not to launch my plan until the next full flight arrived. As I studied from my vantage point how the officers operated, I considered several scenarios.
Considering the lack of compassion that people had for dogs in this part of the world, I decided against playing the sympathy card. There was another good technique I had used while in disaster areas. When approaching a person who has the power to concede permission, you confuse him so thoroughly with distractions that he finally gives up and grants your request just to get rid of you. The key part of this technique is to remain enthusiastic, smile a lot, and exude a genuinely pleasant personality.
Fifteen minutes later weary arrival passengers appeared, forming a human wall around the baggage carousels. "Please," I prayed, "don't let me show any nerves. I can do this. I know I can do this." Then I crossed my fingers and jumped into the fire.
First I needed a porter. When I flagged one down, he wheeled his trolley toward us. After he saw the two dog crates, he enlisted the help of a fellow porter. Two could definitely be useful, I thought. I soon discovered that neither one of them spoke English. Their accents sounded as if the two men were from Sri Lanka or possibly Bangladesh, meaning they probably weren't Muslim and wouldn't, therefore, be afraid of the dogs. On their royal blue uniforms, the porters each wore badges that showed the numbers 128 and 314 instead of their names. This was typical of how poorly paid foreign laborers are treated in Kuwait, the role being considered more important than the person behind the badge.
While they loaded the dogs' crates onto the trolleys, I pulled out K-Pot's and Liberty's paperwork from my briefcase. I made sure that any pages with the word Iraq on them were placed at the bottom of the stack, and then I tucked the envelope under everything in my suitcase.
"I sure hope I haven't forgotten anything," I mumbled. "If I have, it's too late to fix it now."
Just before we reached the Customs checkpoint, I directed the porters to follow me over to the side, out of the flow of traffic. For a few minutes we stood there, giving me a chance to more closely observe the individual officers. Six of them worked the night shift, increasing the odds that one would fit perfectly into my plan. I studied each man carefully, hoping to find an officer whose actions revealed that he hated his job and who displayed an "I don't care" attitude. A stickler for rules would be a disaster for us.
One officer paid as much attention to his line of passengers as a bored child pays to the preacher in church. He was exactly the type I sought. I nodded to my porters, and we stepped into the apathetic officer's line.
Inch by inch our line moved forward. My skills at reading body language would soon be put to the test. When we got to the security checkpoint, I motioned for
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