Confession is Good for the Soul

I am a smuggler.  There!  I’ve said it!   And, yes, there is a measurable lightening of the burden I carry.  It is my fervent wish—no—my hope and prayer that this public mea culpa will remove the dark shroud of guilt that weighs like a leaded blanket on my soul.  You see, the corruption of my act does not extend just to me, but to my child as well.  But before you judge, hear my story, and then deal with me as you will.

            My daughter has a soft heart especially where lost or abandoned animals are concerned.  Living on acreage outside of Minneapolis, she had room for her growing menagerie, but none of this served her well when she accepted a promotion to Atlanta, Georgia.  She was going to have to make a move on the run and a call to her mother was the first task on her, “to do” list.   

            I was in Minneapolis in three day.  We worked hard, and in this Norman Rockwell picture of mother-daughter bonding, did I anticipate the crime that was about to by committed.

            Daughter has two dogs, English bulldogs, rescued from the local animal shelter.  Bulldogs are wonderful dogs.  They are love sponges, eager to please, magnificent with children and at home on any couch.  They also are heavy, drooling, snoring animals and flatulent to a fault.  An hour without passing gas is an hour wasted as far as bulldogs are concerned.  And, being naturally gregarious, they assume that the rest of the world thinks that breaking wind is as joyful an occasion as they do.  One of the dogs actually smiles while fogging the air.

            Besides her bulldogs, Daughter also has three cats, all of them abandoned near her home.  All these animals needed to be transported to their new home in the two vehicles driven by Daughter and me.  She gave me my choice; I could travel with either the gassy bulldogs or the cats and their litter box.  Numbers for weight it was probably a draw, but I decided to go for the dogs.  Both cars were filled with the remaining boxes and luggage.   

I loaded the bulldogs, Flo and Ziegfield, into the back of my van.  Flo preferred to stay in the pet cage, but, “Ziggy,” settled into the free space beside the cage in the back of the vehicle.  He was prevented from scrambling into the front of the car because of all the boxes and bags, but he frequently propped his front paws up on the back of the seat, barked good naturedly, and fired yet another round of gaseous intestinal ammunition into the air.  He could afford to be generous with his ammo.  This was an animal that never outran his supply lines. 

Daughter and I left Minneapolis early and traveled hard and fast.  We covered 600 miles that first day.  We were in our cars over 10 hours, stopping only to fill the gas tanks, hit the bathroom, walk the dogs and grab fast food from the drive-thru.  

Just south of St. Louis we arrived at the scene of my crime.  Daughter had reserved two rooms for us at a motel and we were eager for a hot shower and a soft bed.  It was in this place and time that I willfully crossed the line from law-abiding citizen to a woman with a past.  Daughter and I arrived late, dirty and tired.  She gave her name and said she had reserved two pet friendly rooms.  It was then that she was told that the word, “pet” meant one small dog, which had to weigh less than 20 pounds.  Cats, of course, were not allowed.  Daughter and I looked at each other. 

My voice seemed to come from a person I scarcely knew.  “We have a Yorkie, and he’ll stay in my room.”  It is just that easy to become the person I am now!

Our rooms were at the far end of the motel, around the corner and down the hall from the desk.  Good for us.   

It was dark when we drove to the back door.  We left the door to the rooms ajar as we got the bulldogs out of my car, walked them in the pet area and then stealthily hustled first Flo and then Ziggy into the motel.  Then we turned to the thornier problem of smuggling in the cats. 

We rounded up all three felines, which had had their roam of the car on the trip, and forced then into the 15 cubic feet of pet carrier.  It was cold.  We were tired.  The carrier was both heavy and ungainly.  With Daughter and me on either side of the crate we got it out of the car and stumbled toward our goal.  Our sideways, crablike steps were stilted and limited in ground-covering capacity.  As we approached the door to the motel I eased my head around the corner to make sure the coast was clear.  We then shuffled the crate of cats as quickly as we could down the hall and into my room.  The cats were hissing and yeooooowling at the top of their lungs the whole time. God knows what the security cameras were recording.  The right to roam and full food dishes quieted all of the pets once we were safe in our rooms.  I skulked out for take-out, too tired to contemplate my crime. 

We arrived in Atlanta the next day and Daughter began her job on time.  I returned home and stand now before the bar of public opinion if not that of justice.  I am not proud of my behavior, but every once in a while, I do smile a little, sort of like that damn bulldog.