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.
