On the Move with Chesty and Rocca - We land in Panama

   As we walk the covered ramp to enter the second plane of the day, the flight that will take us out of the country and to our new home in the country of Panama, I am at that stage of exhaustion and anxiety known as walking comatose.

   Again, I take the window seat with Rocca. I put her in a sit and physically hold her head against my chest so she can’t turn and look at Chesty as he, happy as the proverbial clam, backs into his spot and eases himself down. Convincing Rocca to lie down with her rump resting cockeyed up on top of Chesty is a challenge. She’s done this before and didn’t enjoy the procedure in the least. Putting my dog in position without her or the ever-playful Chesty turning their heads to make eye contact, leaves me shaking and twitching, but we eventually get both dogs adjusted with a couple of airplane blankets under Rocca’s head to even out her position a little. Jack and I each throw one leg over the necks of our dogs so as to prevent them turning and, God forbid, looking at each other.

   Rocca is already rumbling in the knowledge that Chesty is, sure enough, trying his hardest to twist around to see what kind of reaction he can get out of her. I bend over with her head held tightly against my chest and whisper to her what we’ll do to both males once we’re on the ground and safe somewhere. She and I stay that way, making our plans, until the plane is in the air. I don’t tell my furry girl that I have no idea when we’ll be anywhere that resembles safety.

   Once the plane is in the air, Jack leans over to me and says, “We’re home free now. What are they gonna do? Throw us off the plane?”

   He then strikes up a conversation with the three men in Hawaiian shirts across the aisle who are flying down to Panama for their yearly month-long fishing trip. These guys seem to know more about the gentlemen’s clubs in the city than they do about sailfish or dorado, but perhaps they’ve only heard rumors about such things. Jack tells them about his plans to raise guard dogs in Panama. I, on the other hand, spend most of the flight worrying about getting through customs once we land and don’t completely believe the pilot will not turn the plane around in a swooping U and carry Jack and me and the dogs back to the land of Federal Marshalls until the stewardess tells us we’re over half-way in our flight. Then I concentrate all my anxiety on the ordeal of getting the dogs through customs and out of the a

   As we walk the covered ramp to enter the second plane of the day, the flight that will take us out of the country and to our new home in the country of Panama, I am at that stage of exhaustion and anxiety known as walking comatose.

   Again, I take the window seat with Rocca. I put her in a sit and physically hold her head against my chest so she can’t turn and look at Chesty as he, happy as the proverbial clam, backs into his spot and eases himself down. Convincing Rocca to lie down with her rump resting cockeyed up on top of Chesty is a challenge. She’s done this before and didn’t enjoy the procedure in the least. Putting my dog in position without her or the ever-playful Chesty turning their heads to make eye contact, leaves me shaking and twitching, but we eventually get both dogs adjusted with a couple of airplane blankets under Rocca’s head to even out her position a little. Jack and I each throw one leg over the necks of our dogs so as to prevent them turning and, God forbid, looking at each other.

   Rocca is already rumbling in the knowledge that Chesty is, sure enough, trying his hardest to twist around to see what kind of reaction he can get out of her. I bend over with her head held tightly against my chest and whisper to her what we’ll do to both males once we’re on the ground and safe somewhere. She and I stay that way, making our plans, until the plane is in the air. I don’t tell my furry girl that I have no idea when we’ll be anywhere that resembles safety.

   Once the plane is in the air, Jack leans over to me and says, “We’re home free now. What are they gonna do? Throw us off the plane?”

   He then strikes up a conversation with the three men in Hawaiian shirts across the aisle who are flying down to Panama for their yearly month-long fishing trip. These guys seem to know more about the gentlemen’s clubs in the city than they do about sailfish or dorado, but perhaps they’ve only heard rumors about such things. Jack tells them about his plans to raise guard dogs in Panama. I, on the other hand, spend most of the flight worrying about getting through customs once we land and don’t completely believe the pilot will not turn the plane around in a swooping U and carry Jack and me and the dogs back to the land of Federal Marshalls until the stewardess tells us we’re over half-way in our flight. Then I concentrate all my anxiety on the ordeal of getting the dogs through customs and out of the airport.

   As we walk the covered ramp to enter the second plane of the day, the flight that will take us out of the country and to our new home in the country of Panama, I am at that stage of exhaustion and anxiety known as walking comatose.

   Again, I take the window seat with Rocca. I put her in a sit and physically hold her head against my chest so she can’t turn and look at Chesty as he, happy as the proverbial clam, backs into his spot and eases himself down. Convincing Rocca to lie down with her rump resting cockeyed up on top of Chesty is a challenge. She’s done this before and didn’t enjoy the procedure in the least. Putting my dog in position without her or the ever-playful Chesty turning their heads to make eye contact, leaves me shaking and twitching, but we eventually get both dogs adjusted with a couple of airplane blankets under Rocca’s head to even out her position a little. Jack and I each throw one leg over the necks of our dogs so as to prevent them turning and, God forbid, looking at each other.

   Rocca is already rumbling in the knowledge that Chesty is, sure enough, trying his hardest to twist around to see what kind of reaction he can get out of her. I bend over with her head held tightly against my chest and whisper to her what we’ll do to both males once we’re on the ground and safe somewhere. She and I stay that way, making our plans, until the plane is in the air. I don’t tell my furry girl that I have no idea when we’ll be anywhere that resembles safety.

   Once the plane is in the air, Jack leans over to me and says, “We’re home free now. What are they gonna do? Throw us off the plane?”

   He then strikes up a conversation with the three men in Hawaiian shirts across the aisle who are flying down to Panama for their yearly month-long fishing trip. These guys seem to know more about the gentlemen’s clubs in the city than they do about sailfish or dorado, but perhaps they’ve only heard rumors about such things. Jack tells them about his plans to raise guard dogs in Panama. I, on the other hand, spend most of the flight worrying about getting through customs once we land and don’t completely believe the pilot will not turn the plane around in a swooping U and carry Jack and me and the dogs back to the land of Federal Marshalls until the stewardess tells us we’re over half-way in our flight. Then I concentrate all my anxiety on the ordeal of getting the dogs through customs and out of the airport.

The requirements for entering The Republic of Panama with an animal are complicated. You need an international health certificate. We were lucky and our veternarian on Fort Huachuca was familiar with this document and actually had them on hand along with the official stamp that is required. Once in our possession, this piece of paper had to be Overnight FedExed to the Panamanian consulate in Houston for their official stamp and signature. This all had to be done so that the dates of the stamps were no more than fifteen days or less than ten days from the time of our arrival in the country. We did all that. Those papers are in my day-pack.

   On arrival we will need to have the government veterinarian approve all this paperwork, examine the dogs and sign off before we’ll be allowed to leave the airport with the dogs. Our flight arrives in Panama at 7:45p.m. The vet works 8 to 5. However, he has been contacted by our realtor and asked to stay until after he checks us through customs because we refuse to leave our dogs overnight in the airport. The vet has reportedly agreed to stay and examine the dogs for the low, low price of $50. Which we gladly agreed to pay.

   There is supposed to be someone meeting us when we arrive. Here’s how that happened. We sold our house through our local ReMax company. The realtor in Arizona asked if we wanted a referral to a ReMax agent in the area where we were relocating.

   I jokingly said, “Sure, fix that up for us. We’re moving to the Republic of Panama.”

   Turns out there is a ReMax office in Panama and our agent hooked us up with a nice unsuspecting young man named Arie. This poor guy has been our contact person ever since. He’s the one who talked to the veterinarian at the airport and he’s the one who begged a friend at a hotel to rent a room to us and our two giant service dogs.

   We hope he’s done all this. We’ve only spoken with him on the phone and I can already tell we’re making him half-crazy with our weird requests and questions. He’s been gallant and accommodating, but for all I know, we’ll never see him once we land and nothing has actually been pre-arranged at the airport or the hotel.

   Well, you can see that I entertain myself with lovely, rosy thoughts on the three and a half hour flight from Houston to Panama City. I do supplement these images of impending disaster with holding Rocca’s head when Chesty’s wagging tail sets off her rumblings. I also break the monotony by digging my fingers into Jack’s arm, making little squeaking moans and sayings things like:

   “What if the vet’s not there?”

   “Do you know the name of the hotel where we’re supposed to be staying?”

   “Watch your dog! He’s looking at mine!”

   “If the vet’s not there, I’m not leaving my dogs!”

   “I have to pee but there’s no way I can leave Rocca and make my way to the bathroom.”

   “I hope Arie is there to meet us.”

   “Chesty’s looking at Rocca!”

   “If Arie’s not there, how are we going to even get to the hotel?”

   “Where is this hotel in relation to the airport?”

   “I really have to pee.”

   Jack’s response to all of this is predictable.

   “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. There won’t be any problems that we can’t handle. Did you hear what the guy said about the $50 lunch special at the gentleman’s club?”

   I have gone now, out beyond comatose and into the altered state of consciousness where the mantra, “One breath at a time. One breath at a time,” has brought me to place where peace and calm are attempting to beat the crap out of a crazed lunatic that seems to be lodged somewhere at about the level of my gut.

   Flying into Panama City at night, skyscrapers light a black curve of bay and the bridge of the Americas over the canal is strung with lights like colored jewels. Low clouds race in the wind and create the illusion that the plane is standing still and the city itself is moving, flowing along in another world down below us. I relax a little. Maybe our new home is going to be okay. Maybe Jack’s right and everything really will be fine. Maybe pigs really can sprout wings and fly.

   Once on the ground, while everyone else is racing for the custom’s line, I walk Rocca, both of us stiff-legged, to the nearest bathroom. By the time we leave the facilities, I’m feeling much better, but Rocca has still not been outside to pee since we left Tucson this morning before dawn. Getting both dogs outside has become a priority.

On the Move with Chesty and Rocca - on the Plane

I read an excerpt from this book at Ozark Writers League this weekend and folks said they liked it.  They laughed out loud, and that's all the encouragement I need.  

You can catch up by going to the previous post, of course, but to the gist is: Two clueless gringos move to The Republic of Panama with two giant service dogs, Chesty and Rocca.

We pick up the story as my husband, Jack, and myself board the plane to begin our journey.

  My husband is telling his new friend and fellow traveler about the history of the Cane Corso breed and how these dogs were trained by Italian ranchers to grab the bull by the nose and hold the huge animal while the farmer cut the throat at butchering time. Jack pays no attention whatsoever to me, his panicked wife. Rocca and I are pushed forward into our assigned seats. I am against the window. Jack has the aisle seat.

 I instruct Rocca to lie at my feet, wedged in between the seat and the bulk head, with her head facing toward the outside of the plane. My feet rest on Rocca’s back. Chesty lies with his head sticking out the aisle. The dogs are butt to butt. Okay. This is uncomfortable, but it might work. If the flight from Tucson to Houston isn’t any longer than ten minutes.

   “Jack,” I say in a quiet voice, trying to keep the panic smashed down where it will only eat a hole in my stomach lining instead of leaping out my throat and spilling all over the inside of the airplane. “I don’t think this is going to work.”

   “What? See, nothing to worry about. The dogs fit just fine in this space,” he says with his usual enthusiasm for impossibly difficult situations.

   Maybe it’s just me. Flying with both of these dogs in the passenger section at our feet, this is a sane idea?

   Now the situation moves beyond difficult and I am absolutely positively sure we’ve crossed that demarcation line into full-fledged-screaming-crazy-land-wacky-this-can’t-be-doneville. The head stewardess tells Jack that Chesty’s head cannot extend out into the aisle. People might trip over him. Which means that one of the dogs is going to have to lie on top of the other dog.

   No way Rocca is going to allow Chesty to lie on top of her so we maneuver ourselves out of our seats. This proves the most difficult for Rocca as she is stuck and has to grunt and groan and look balefully up at me until she manages to wiggle her way out of this predicament into which we have placed her. Once in the aisle, we think our way through this arrangement like those big footed clowns at the circus trying to fit into the Volkswagen before the start of the greatest show on earth.

   Chesty has to be able to see out the aisle. He’s had far too much training in watching Jack’s back to handle anything else. Rocca has to be the dog on top. The dogs have to be placed so that Chesty can’t look at Rocca and stir her up into a froth of irritation. 

All right, let’s try this. 

I squeeze into the tiny space between the seats and the bulkhead wall with Rocca and she sits while Chesty and Jack get into position with Chesty’s butt extending to the front of my seat. Then Rocca lies down with her butt on top of Chesty’s hunches. 

Yeah. This is just perfect. I can’t see why this isn’t going to work for the four hour flight to Houston. 

Both dogs look as though they are going to begin, the moment we get off the plane, a serious search for new owners. My feet are now perched on Rocca’s back which is on top of Chesty’s back.

   Then things get interesting. 

There is a passenger in the aisle who claims to have a ticket for the middle seat, the seat between Jack and me. An older woman who’s on her way to visit her grandchildren for the week. There are no other seats available. Jack gets up, Chesty goes with him, Rocca sits up. The poor woman seats herself in the middle seat. Rocca lies down. On the woman’s feet. I have Rocca get up, freeing the woman. The old lady puts her feet up on the seat.

   “See how this is going to work out!” Jack says, “Who’d have thought we’d be so lucky as to end up next to a woman agile enough at her age to sit with her feet perched up on the seat like that.”

   Jack sits and then backs Chesty into his space. Rocca lies down, wedging herself yet again into her allotted space on top of Chesty. Chesty looks goofily around, his rump pinned, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

   “Are we having fun Dad? Is this the adventure you’ve been telling me about? Huh? Is it? Huh?”

   I apologize to the woman, who tells us that this will be a wonderful story to tell her grandchildren. Sure, as soon as the feeling comes back into her legs and she can actually exit the plane. Jack tells her the holding-the-bull-by-the-nose story and I don’t even interrupt to ask why in hell the farmer would be butchering a bull. Wouldn’t it be a steer he’d be killing? Somehow this detail just doesn’t seem like a relevant point at the moment.

   Remember those treats we brought so the dogs would be chewing and swallowing at takeoff and landing? 

These turn out to be a really bad idea. First of all getting anything out of my little daypack, which is on my lap, means moving around at least a little and there really is no room to move around. No room at all. But, more importantly, Rocca has decided in true female fashion, that all of her difficulties are the fault of this stupid male dog on whose butt she’s being forced to lie. She not only does not believe he is worthy of a treat, she doesn’t think he should be allowed to live. 

The instant I break the seal and she smells the liver, she starts one of those low elephant rumbles of which I am all too familiar. I correct her, stuff the liver treats back in the backpack and beg the stewardess to put the pack in the overhead compartment instead of on my lap where the smells are going to waft down and cause a scene I am desperately praying to avoid. Rocca settles down and, in this fashion, several lifetimes later, we make it to Houston.

   The old lady’s grandchildren are there to greet her at the gate and she introduces us and the dogs to everyone. How else would they possibly believe her story? After meeting her family, we make our way to the gate for our Continental flight out of the country, to Panama City. We check in and again, not one single official person blinks at the two dogs with whom we’ll be boarding. 

Evidently, as long as something, anything, is on the computer screen, it’s no problem. Now, sitting in those plastic chairs that are all attached together and to the floor, in the Houston airport, we lose our concentration for a moment and Chesty turns around and LOOKS AT ROCCA.

   Rocca, already madder than the proverbial wet hen, leaps up and jumps into the middle of this stinkin’ male dog who is the cause of all her freakin’ problems. Every single damn one.

   Chesty wiggles his tail and does his “Aren’t I the cutest thing you’ve ever seen” routine and I correct Rocca and move her away from Chesty. 

The whole episode takes no more than three seconds. It clears all the seats around us for a good thirty feet. Jack and I act as though this is no big deal. Nothing to worry about. We move the dogs and go right on with our conversation about who should go and get us a Starbucks coffee. 

Amazingly, it works and the stewardess let us board the plane with both dogs where, the good news is, there’s no one in the middle seat between us and the bad news is, Rocca has now decided that that freakin’ boy dog had better not even THINK of looking at her.