I'm Not Really a Pet Person

In the 2nd grade I got to take Sunshine, the class rat, home for the summer. I loved that rat, and it spent many an hour getting carried around on my shoulder. I remember making my dad take the hurt pigeon in our backyard to the wildlife center for treatment. Pigeons were a huge pest in our neighborhood, and I think he would have preferred to kill it and have one less problem to deal with, but I insisted, and he humored me. In high school, I volunteered at that wildlife center. I loved it. Every Saturday morning I would drive to the foothills and spend several hours feeding baby birds with eyedroppers, playing with the rescued opossum, taking live rats and mice to the Golden eagle (I always felt weird about being the one who decided who in the cage was going to live and who was going to be lunch), trying not to get clawed to death by injured owls who needed to get bandaged, etc. When we went to Wyoming in the summers to visit my grandparents, I would spend the majority of my time catching and taming wild kittens. My first major in college was Pre-Veterinary Medicine.

So how I turned out the way I am is a bit of a mystery. Now I think of pigeons like flying rats. In fact, I rather dislike birds in general. I have no particular fondness for dogs (except Diesel, and I'm not really sure why I like him). I don't see the point of pets like snakes and hamsters and especially not rabbits. And while I still like some cats, I don't really feel the need to have one in my life (or in my house). But when my friend (I am using the word friend loosely here--he is rather shy and a bit socially awkward, and I think I make him nervous, so I am sure that it was a huge undertaking for him to call and ask me a favor) from the Navy base called in a panic because he didn't have a car and needed to get his dog and cat to the airport by 10pm, I was happy to help him out.

I already had plans that evening, and had to cut them short in order to get him to the airport in time. I had gone to a church activity and we were talking about Arabian cultural traditions. And in the spirit of the evening I was wearing this lovely frock:It's called a jalabiya, not to be confused with the mumu, and it is perhaps the most comfortable piece of clothing I own. I should also mention that this a housedress in Arabic culture, and no one would dream of wearing it outside (unless of course they had an abaya on top of it). But you're talking to the girl who used to go grocery shopping in her pajamas, and I was running late and didn't have time to change back into my regular clothes. I figured it would be a quick trip and I would just stay in the car, so it didn't really matter what I wore.

I pick up the man. And his dog. And his cat. And their crates. And their food. And we barely fit in my little car. He keeps the cat in her crate, but lets the dog loose in the back seat. When I question him, he assures me that his dog will be fine outside of his crate, and no, he will not go to the bathroom or do any other damage. Against my better judgement, I believe him.

The man is extremely nervous about his pets and their 24 hour journey to Texas, and their life without him for 2 weeks until he gets released from duty, and whether or not his parents are going to take good care of them until he gets back, and whether the animals are going to be too hot/cold in the cargo area, and whether or not they are going to escape from their crates, and whether or not the animal cargo people are going to be careful, etc., etc., etc. The cat is going into hysterics in her crate. And the dog is hyperventilating in the back seat. It was almost too much nervous energy for one little Mitsubishi to hold.

We finally make it to the airport, but we have to go to the cargo area, and it looks like it's on lockdown. There are gates and security personnel, and I have some serious doubts about them letting us in. We pull up, and I start looking for some ID. "Do you want to come in?" asks the guard. I nod, he says "Okay" and the gate is opened. So much for airport security in Bahrain.

We pull up to the little office and the man starts unloading. I am still planning to sit in the car, when all of a sudden the man gets a panicked look on his face. And I smell something. The dog has thrown up all over the back seat. I can handle blood, I can handle messy diapers, but I don't do vomit. I need to exit the car. Immediately. So there I am, in my jalabiya, forklifts zinging all around me, people staring, hardhats yelling at other hardhats, gagging in the cargo area. The man hands me a towel from one of the kennels. Oh no. Clearly, I am not the one who is going to be cleaning up this mess. I inform him that he is going to have to do it, while I continue dry heaving. I am having nightmares about what 135 degrees is going to do to the smell the next day. I want to sit down and weep. I hate dogs.

I manage to make it through the evening without crying and without throwing up, which is no small feat. I try to be gracious. I tell the man it's not a big deal that his dog barfed all over my car, and that it now reaks. I assure him that his animals will be fine and well cared for. I lie through my teeth.

By now it is late and everything is closed, and I have church the next morning. After church, I immediately go to the car wash. I make the men wash the back seat twice, and prove to me that they are using soap, and not just a wet sponge. I go to the store and buy an air freshener called "Orchard Garden." It is horribly strong, and gives me a headache, and still doesn't solve the problem. Now my car smells like "My Dog Got Sick in the Orchard Garden."

P.S. In the midst of me trying not to cry or throw up, the only thing that made me feel better was thinking that maybe one day I would laugh about the whole thing. And maybe one day it would make a funny blog post. So I took a picture of my back seat. Slightly odd, I admit, but I was having a lousy evening, and I had to take whatever comfort was available. My mom told me I couldn't post the picture, but don't think I don't have one ;)