No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone (14 page)

K-Pot and his new American buddies Danielle Berger

imes like these seem to turn on my adrenaline pump, and I shift into high gear. I had to figure out how to handle this particular problem quickly. First I checked to make 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 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 headed straight for the closest terminal exit without looking back. After we were out of the Customs officer's sight, I put up my right hand to give my partners a high-five, exclaiming, "We did it!" The porters knew immediately how to respond, and they understood we had just accomplished something, though they weren't quite sure what. I couldn't have found two better men to help execute my plan.

My victory, however, was short-lived. Standing outside the airport with two hungry dogs, waiting for a flight that wouldn't leave for twenty hours with no place to sleep did not sound appealing. On my second trip in nine days, halfway across the world and miles from family and friends, I had reached the point of exhaustion. This was no good; I couldn't succumb now.

Looking at the dogs, I pulled myself together and motioned to one of the porters to follow me back into the terminal and for the other porter to stay with the dogs. Thank goodness those men didn't abandon us but showed instead that they were willing to do all they could to help.

Earlier that day when I had entered the terminal, I had passed an entire row of hotel counters and noticed a sign for the Sheraton. This gave me hope, considering how kindly the staff at the Sheraton in Washington, D.C., had treated Charlie. My porter and I approached the hotel agent.

"Excuse me."

The sleepy man, slouched in a desk chair behind the counter, stubbed his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, slowly rose to his feet, and shuffled toward me as if it pained him to do so.

"How can I help you?"

"Does your hotel allow pets?"

His puzzled expression was accompanied by, "What are you asking?"

"Does the Sheraton allow dogs?" I rephrased my question, sensing he didn't know what the word pet means. This was not a good sign.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He emphasized every word each time he blurted it out. "Dogs are dirty."

One down, seven to go.

My next stop was at the Radisson counter. This man didn't even get up from his desk, but his response was the same. Strike two.

Working my way down the row, I asked the same question. JW Marriott, Hilton, Holiday Inn, Crowne Plaza, and Four Points all responded in the negative until I reached the young man who represented the Courtyard Hotel.

"No, we do not allow dogs, but let me call the hotel, and I'll see what I can do."

Porter 314 had been listening intently to each of the conversations between the hotel representatives and me, and I think he now understood what I was trying to do. He smiled encouragement.

"This is Ahmed," the young man said into the phone. "I have a good friend of mine here at the airport. She missed her flight, and she needs a room for tonight."

I looked at this man in amazement. He was making up a story to help me and what he thought was my one dog. I hadn't broken the news to him yet that there were two. We'd cross that bridge when we got to it.

"Great. She'll take that room. Oh, one other thing, she has a dog with her. It's just a small, well-behaved one. I know he won't be any problem."

I held my breath and watched my new friend's face.

"Are you sure we can't put her in the old wing, in a room at the end of the hall? There is the entrance no one uses. She could take the dog in and out from there."

Finally, as he hung up the phone, his defeated expression preceded the words, "I'm so sorry; they just won't allow a dog."

"You were the only person here who went out of your way to help me find a room. I can't tell you how much I appreciate that you tried." I reached out to shake his hand and, remembering the taboo, started to draw it back. "I'm sorry," I said. Once again he surprised me and offered his hand, so we shook. "You're a kind man. Thank you for everything."

My search may not have resulted in my getting a room for the night, but I did meet a Muslim who went the extra mile to help me and my dogs. He had indeed acted like a good friend, and he proved that not all Muslims hold the same attitude toward dogs.

As my porter and I walked back to where his colleague and the dogs were waiting, I came up with another idea. Searching through my briefcase, I found the business card that Linette had given me. Calling someone in the middle of the night can be a real test of a friendship, but I was desperate. I phoned Linette two times, only to have someone pick up the phone and immediately hang up again. The person at the other end probably thought it was a crank call. I phoned her several more times but no one picked up. All I got was a recorded message in Arabic. Now what was I going to do?