No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone (8 page)

"So, how is the dog getting to the airport?"

"He'll be flying from Baghdad on a charter airline. Once they arrive in Kuwait, the ground crew will transfer the dog to United Airlines."

"Okay, that will probably work, but who is going to pay for the dog's freight charge?"

"I am. I can give you a credit card number right now."

"That's not how it works. Cost is based on the weight of the dog and the crate he's traveling in. We can't confirm that information until the dog is actually at the airport."

"I can't pay in advance, even if we overestimate the weight?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's the rules."

Oh, my God, how much more complicated could this get? Just when I thought it was clear sailing from here. There had to be another way, but I didn't know what it was.

Needing a break, I let my dogs out for a run around the three acres that surround our house in the Sierra foothills. While they gamboled about, I settled down on the squeaky porch swing, my favorite thinking spot. Usually I find the gentle back-and-forth movement calming, but nothing eased the aggravation I felt at that moment. All I wanted to do was cry.

After chasing each other across the property, my dogs stampeded back toward the house, producing as much noise as they could, tongues lolling, ears flapping, and tails rotating like a collection of giant windup toys. Skyler arrived first, hopped onto the swing, and planted her soft Australian shepherd body next to me. Tabasco, a large spaniel mix, laid his head on my lap, while Millie, a Lab cross, began tapping her black, stubby leg on my foot as she scratched. Luke, our sweet-natured Rottweiler, plopped down on the deck between Morgan, the older black Lab, and Mica, a short-haired terrier cross, each of them vying for the next-closest space to me. They all sensed I was worried.

"So, guys, what am I going to do now?"

I don't know whether it was their collective gaze of trust or just the fact that I sink into a state of contentment whenever the dogs surround me, but something suddenly hit me. The porch swing froze at the back of its arc. As if a tape recording had been switched on by invisible hands, my own words, spoken weeks before, replayed in my head.

"If Eddie is willing to risk everything to save his wartime buddy, I should be willing to take necessary risks as well."

Was this my test? Was I willing to take that risk? Looking at my dogs, I found the answer, but now I needed the approval. It was time to call my boss.

"JD, this is Terri. Sorry to call you after hours, but do you have a minute?"

"Sure. What's up?"

"I came up against another obstacle on Charlie's transport."

"Well, that's a surprise."

We spent nearly an hour discussing the options. It was all boiling down to one that left me feeling somewhere between really excited and scared as hell.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" JD asked. All the kidding had stopped. "It is a war zone."

Five minutes later I called United Airlines back to book a oneway flight for Charlie and a round-trip ticket for me between Kuwait and Washington, D.C. I then made reservations with Gryphon Airlines and e-mailed Eddie so he could begin to coordinate logistics with SLG.

All I had to do now was break the news to my family that I'd soon be going to Iraq via Kuwait. My husband, Ken, and I had met in 1989 while responding to the Exxon Valdez oil spill in Alaska. And my daughters, Jennifer, Amy, and Megan, had grown up with a mom whose work involved rescuing animals on short notice during floods, fires, and other natural disasters. My family members had long since learned to live with the demands this kind of career can make. Totally supportive when I had to leave home, sometimes for weeks at a time, they would adopt routine B and enjoy hearing about my adventures when I returned. Even so, I had never traveled to a country at war. For the first time they might say, "Don't go!"

When I got up the courage to tell them, they were too stunned to say anything at first. I quickly jumped in with assurances that I would be okay, but it took some convincing, particularly with my oldest daughter. Jennifer also worked for SPCA International, so she was more aware of the kind of dangers I might be facing, whereas my other two daughters were still in high school and less cognizant of the world outside America. Ken knew me too well to even try talking me out of it.

Finally my daughters got down to the nitty-gritty: the most important questions. "What are you going to wear? Do you have to cover your hair? Can you show any skin?" I didn't know the answers, but, thank goodness, John Wagner from Gryphon Airlines did.

"As long as you don't go wandering down to the beach in a bikini, you'll be safe," he laughed. "Just wear normal clothes, and don't shake hands with a man unless he offers his hand first. Rest assured that Kuwait City has everything-you'll feel like you're at home. They have American restaurants, upscale malls, and they even accept plastic money. What more could you ask for?"

Charlie patrolling the streets of Baghdad Eddie Watson
A guarantee that this isgoing to work? I kept that thought to myself.

Usually when I leave for a disaster, Ken or Jennifer drops me off at the airport, but this time the entire family came and followed me into the airport. After we said our goodbyes, I went through security. When I gathered my stuff again and looked around for one last glimpse of my family, the post 9-11 screens blocked my view, so I took a deep breath, turned back toward the departure gates, and started walking.

Stephanie, Bev, Jennifer, Barb, and Terri after Charlie's arrival in Washington, D.C. SPCA International

ohn Wagner had been right. On February 12, 2008, when I exited the plane from Washington, D.C., and made my way down the crowded Middle Eastern airport concourse, the first thing I saw was a McDonald's. I laughed.

Welcome to Kuwait.

Military backpacks, muscled arms, shaved heads, and sandcolored boots were dead giveaways that the majority of passengers exiting my plane were probably contractors whose final destination was Iraq. The farther into the terminal I walked, the more they dispersed, and the crowd went through a gradual transformation.

Gritty sounds ofArabic chatter began to fill the air. Dark-skinned men wore floor-length, brown or white long-sleeved shirts, perhaps better described as robes. (I later learned that the long shirt is called a disha-dasha.) White cotton fabric in red-stitched patterns covered their heads and draped down their backs just past their shoulders. These were held in place with a circular cord crown. Black-robed and veiled female figures also walked gracefully by, some wearing burkas, with only their dark eyes exposed. It was hard not to stare. A cluster of identically shrouded women walked toward me. How could they distinguish one from another?

John had recommended the Safir Transit Hotel, located on airport property, for my overnight stay. Relieved that signs throughout the airport were written in English as well as Arabic, I found my way to the hotel shuttle. When we pulled up in front of the hotel, I was taken aback by its nondescript appearance. Boy, would Martha Stewart like to get her hands on this place!

I had lost track of how long it had been since I'd Slept; I hadn't even napped on the plane, despite being in the air for fourteen hours. As long as there was a bed in my room, I'd be happy. Walking down a dimly lit, second-floor corridor, I found the door that opened into my compact sleeping quarters. A twin bed with a gaudy floral bedspread hugged one wall, and a small, outdated TV perched on a rickety wooden table in the corner. One fluorescent light bulb hummed from its wall fixture. Gray light flickered across the hills and valleys of a well-worn carpet that landscaped the floor in various shades of red. Checking the bathroom, I found a shower and was relieved to see a modern toilet rather than a hole in the floor, a common option I had been warned about. I collapsed onto the bed, tour over. What now?

Grabbing my phone, I called home, and my oldest daughter, Jennifer, answered.

"I'm here! I made it!"

"I cannot believe you're actually in Kuwait. Tell me what it's like; I want to hear everything."

Her voice was so clear, as if she were just on the other side of town. Pushing aside the heavy floral curtain from a narrow, dustcovered window, I began to describe the scene outside.

"Well, I'm definitely not in Kansas, but there are similarities. It's flat for as far as I can see. The buildings, cars, and pavement are all covered in sand, almost like a thin dusting of snow. There's no green anywhere. Even the leaves on the trees are tan with dust."

"What about the people?"

"They're not dusty."

"Oh, Mom," she laughed, "tell me, what are they like?"

"In one word? Extraordinary. I've never seen so many types of traditional clothing, and the faces ... some revealing years of struggle and making you wonder, `what's their story?' Then there's the blending of sounds and languages that I can't understand . . . it's like a parade of cultures from all over the globe. People are meeting and passing, going to homes and lifestyles totally different from ours. Oh, Jennifer, it feels amazing. This euphoria keeps washing over me-I'm actually here in the Middle East-and I want to run outside and immerse myself in it."

"Just be careful, Mom. Don't immerse too much. We want you back again."