No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone by Terri Crisp; C. J. Hurn Page B
Authors: Terri Crisp; C. J. Hurn
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my porters to push their trolleys off to one side with the dogs still in their crates. If all went as planned, I would go through Customs and then have the porters slide along behind unnoticed. It was a long shot, but given how inconsistent security procedures in this airport had already been, I thought it might just work.
I smiled at the middle-aged officer, and he half-acknowledged my greeting. The baggage handlers placed my suitcase and briefcase on the conveyor belt. While the baggage rolled slowly toward the X-ray machine, I walked to the other side of the scanning unit to wait. Just then the officer demanded, "Paperwork!" He pointed to the dogs.
"Oh, crap," I said under my breath.
Earlier I had peeled the "Operation Baghdad Pups" stickers off the crates to remove any evidence of where we had just been. Scrunching the wadded stickers tighter in my hand, I made my first move.
"Garbage?" I showed the wad to the officer, trying to stall for time without being obvious. He pointed to the nearest trashcan. I ambled slowly over to it and stopped along the way to retrieve a discarded candy wrapper which also needed to be thrown away.
Returning to the security area, I explained that the dogs' paperwork was in my suitcase, which had now passed through the X-ray machine. I pointed across to my luggage.
"Can I go there?"
The man nodded his head and followed me.
Unzipping my suitcase, I pretended to forget exactly where I had put the paperwork. I made small talk with the officer while rifling through pockets and layers of clothes. Because he knew about as much English as I knew Arabic, I'm sure it sounded like gibberish to him. Several times I stopped rummaging, straightened up, and smiled at him while my hands made grand motions to emphasize whatever elusive point I was making. All the while the porters watched me as if we had rehearsed our getaway plan a million times.
The officer's face began to reveal what I wanted. He was looking at me as if thinking, this woman is crazy.
What happened next was completely unexpected. Another passenger came through Customs, and traveling with her was a large orange tabby. The woman, who looked like she was an American, took the cat out of its carrying case so the empty carrier could go through the X-ray machine, just as they do in the States.
As fast as I turned to look at Liberty and K-Pot, they had zeroed in on the cat. Both of them began barking aggressively, silencing everyone and drawing attention to them. I realized this might turn out to be the lucky break I needed.
The cat struggled to get out of the woman's arms, while the terrified baggage handlers who worked the X-ray machine quickly abandoned their posts, putting as much distance as they could between themselves, the cat, and the dogs. In the commotion, the cat's carrying case got caught in the scanner, slowing its exit. Now the woman holding the cat was dripping blood and yelling, "Where is my carrier? Get me my carrier! I can't hold onto this cat forever. Ouch! Hurry up!"
I froze and stared at the woman. The Customs officer glanced quickly back and forth between me and my suitcase, the scream ing woman, and the scanner that was releasing strange noises. Every animal-fearing Muslim in the area would soon be shrieking and running to avoid contact with the equally panicked cat if he managed to escape. The officer made a lunge toward the scanner; then he turned and looked at me. With a flustered wave of his hand he said, "You go."
Those were the words I was waiting to hear!
I motioned for my porters to quickly follow me. There was no language barrier now. They got my message loud and clear and acknowledged it with a thumbs-up gesture. I closed and zipped my suitcase, then grabbed my briefcase and headed straight for the exit. Porters 128 and 314, in their bright blue uniforms and hats, followed me closely and pushed the barking dogs as fast as they possibly could.
When the automatic security doors opened, my cohorts and
I smiled at the middle-aged officer, and he half-acknowledged my greeting. The baggage handlers placed my suitcase and briefcase on the conveyor belt. While the baggage rolled slowly toward the X-ray machine, I walked to the other side of the scanning unit to wait. Just then the officer demanded, "Paperwork!" He pointed to the dogs.
"Oh, crap," I said under my breath.
Earlier I had peeled the "Operation Baghdad Pups" stickers off the crates to remove any evidence of where we had just been. Scrunching the wadded stickers tighter in my hand, I made my first move.
"Garbage?" I showed the wad to the officer, trying to stall for time without being obvious. He pointed to the nearest trashcan. I ambled slowly over to it and stopped along the way to retrieve a discarded candy wrapper which also needed to be thrown away.
Returning to the security area, I explained that the dogs' paperwork was in my suitcase, which had now passed through the X-ray machine. I pointed across to my luggage.
"Can I go there?"
The man nodded his head and followed me.
Unzipping my suitcase, I pretended to forget exactly where I had put the paperwork. I made small talk with the officer while rifling through pockets and layers of clothes. Because he knew about as much English as I knew Arabic, I'm sure it sounded like gibberish to him. Several times I stopped rummaging, straightened up, and smiled at him while my hands made grand motions to emphasize whatever elusive point I was making. All the while the porters watched me as if we had rehearsed our getaway plan a million times.
The officer's face began to reveal what I wanted. He was looking at me as if thinking, this woman is crazy.
What happened next was completely unexpected. Another passenger came through Customs, and traveling with her was a large orange tabby. The woman, who looked like she was an American, took the cat out of its carrying case so the empty carrier could go through the X-ray machine, just as they do in the States.
As fast as I turned to look at Liberty and K-Pot, they had zeroed in on the cat. Both of them began barking aggressively, silencing everyone and drawing attention to them. I realized this might turn out to be the lucky break I needed.
The cat struggled to get out of the woman's arms, while the terrified baggage handlers who worked the X-ray machine quickly abandoned their posts, putting as much distance as they could between themselves, the cat, and the dogs. In the commotion, the cat's carrying case got caught in the scanner, slowing its exit. Now the woman holding the cat was dripping blood and yelling, "Where is my carrier? Get me my carrier! I can't hold onto this cat forever. Ouch! Hurry up!"
I froze and stared at the woman. The Customs officer glanced quickly back and forth between me and my suitcase, the scream ing woman, and the scanner that was releasing strange noises. Every animal-fearing Muslim in the area would soon be shrieking and running to avoid contact with the equally panicked cat if he managed to escape. The officer made a lunge toward the scanner; then he turned and looked at me. With a flustered wave of his hand he said, "You go."
Those were the words I was waiting to hear!
I motioned for my porters to quickly follow me. There was no language barrier now. They got my message loud and clear and acknowledged it with a thumbs-up gesture. I closed and zipped my suitcase, then grabbed my briefcase and headed straight for the exit. Porters 128 and 314, in their bright blue uniforms and hats, followed me closely and pushed the barking dogs as fast as they possibly could.
When the automatic security doors opened, my cohorts and
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