Mr. and Mrs. Dog: Our Travels, Trials, Adventures, and Epiphanies

A Thousand Yards

116 AThousandYards I t’s easier (and cheaper) to squeeze a camel through the eye of a needle than to fly two forty­five pound dogs to Britain. DEFRA­ approved air carriers accepted dogs as cargo, US to the UK, at $860 one way. Per dog. Plus kennel costs in the UK and the owner’s ticket and expenses over there. It looked like $4,000–$5,000. Or I could fly to Paris (my ticket plus $600 round trip for both dogs as excess baggage) and enter the UK on the DEFRA­approved Calais/Dover ferry ($150 round trip). Hmmm. Our trip must satisfy three sets of regulations: the French, DEFRA, and the International Air Travel Association (IATA). Make one mistake and the Mister and Missus would be turned back at the port of entry. At the previous World Trials several Americans were turned back, and the return flight was so expensive Scott Glenn had to sell one dog to get himself and the other dog home. I didn’t know which rule might safely be ignored; prudence suggested I cross every T. Hence, I assumed when a form asked for military (24 hour) time, they meant 1310 not ten past one. When the IATA suggested ventilated crates two sizes larger than Luke and June ever traveled in, I bored extra air holes in two huge (11 cubic feet each) Vari Kennel 500 dog crates. My vet patiently filled out umpteen forms, which I stored in their own blue file folder. Three weeks before we were to leave, DEFRA updated their microchips. The Mister and Missus carried “old­fashioned” chips and every form was tied to their microchipped doggy IDs. As it happened I could rent a microchip scanner. “Yes, Mister Port­of­ Entry Official, sir. If your machine can’t read my microchips, this here reader can!” I rented one. A Thousand Yards 117 Although the French forms were identical to the Brit forms they were in FRENCH. Could I trust French officials not to get weird? Had they forgiven us “freedom fries”? So my vet filled out French forms too and I made a second five­hour drive to the USDA office in Richmond to get them stamped and—for the hell of it—I had them stamp an international health certificate although nobody had told me I needed one. I don’t like to fly dogs. I’ve heard too many horror stories. But, I confess, I’ve never had a problem and the airline people I met must have had dogs of their own. In San Antonio, after our flight was cancelled, the ticket agent rescued June from the baggage room so she and I could wait in the air­ port dog park. On a rainy morning in Charlottesville, the gate agent said, “We’re backed up in Atlanta and might get the ‘go’ call anytime. But I’ll unload your dogs and we’ll take our chances.” But under the best of conditions, flying dogs is a pain in the ass. Primed to worry every bit as much as they can, War on Terror thinkers have moved parking garages away from airport terminals. Luggage carts in the parking garage? Lots of luck. Porters? You must be joking. For domestic flights, I put wheels on one ordinary­size dog crate, bungee­cord a second crate atop it, slide my luggage into the crates, and clip the Mister and Missus to string leads. Wearing an “I know what I’m doing” expression on my homely phiz, I blow past the “All dogs must be crated” sign and beeline for the ticket desk. Should a TSA person try to intercept me, I don’t slow to argue but cry, “They haven’t been through SECURITY.” My invocation of the Magic Word freezes the person’s brain just long enough for me to get to the ticket counter where I check my luggage, re­ move crate wheels, and settle Luke and June into the crates—after they’ve been patted down by security. I coudn’t pull that stunt with Air France at Dulles. Just another thing to worry about. The hell with the worries. Working the Mister and Missus settles my nerves. At important trials, the sheep might be set out eight hundred, nine hun­ 118 mr. and mrs. dog dred, even a thousand yards from the handler’s post. At some it takes the...