I call it the big hurt because my shoulders are about six inches wider than an airplane seat, and I can never straighten my legs, even for a moment, so after about an hour on a plane, I begin to get sore unless there's an empty seat next to me -- an increasingly rare phenomenon, although it did happen on two of my four flights this time. If I sit on the aisle, I get tagged by every drink cart and flight attendant's hip that goes by, plus I'm not thrilled with having some guy's crotch in my face while he rummages through the overhead compartment, or having old ladies use my headrest as a hand-hold as they make their way to the lavatory. I like the window seat, because besides liking to look out the window, I only have another person on one side of me and I can lean my head against the side of the plane to sleep, which I have to do because the headrest isn't high enough for me to just lean back, and my legs are too long for me to sit lower in the seat. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I'm a big guy, but I'm not abnormally large; that I can't sit comfortably on a plane shows the airlines' decided lack of respect for their customers, and what's more, the airport is the only place I ever go where I'm the tallest person there, which means that people bigger than me who can't afford first class simply don't fly, and they never get to travel overseas. I think it's discriminatory and that tall people should file a class action suit against the entire airline industry, run the airlines out of business, and usher in high speed trains as our preferred mode of transport. What it really comes down to is that flying is stupid, and America not having the world's fastest trains is ridiculous. Moving on...
My flight to Seattle was shorter than originally planned, by about an hour, for which I was very grateful, even if the tiny Asian girl sitting next to me made for a more comfortable flight. I had time to go to the airport food court for a burrito before picking up Phoenix from baggage services; he seemed content with the experience, but glad to get out of the crate. Once in the truck, he alternated between sleeping and quietly looking out the window, and was totally unphased by Bradley barking and snarling at him fromt the front seat.
Phoenix is kind of an old man, although I don't think he's actually that old. He's from Long Island, where he was abandoned presumably as a young dog and found by the guy that originally turned him over to me in March, after living with him for about five years. Unfortunately, the guy was kind of a dumbass -- nice guy, but just... yeah. He didn't tell me the dog's knees were blown out until I got there and saw his limp -- when you're about to drive for two weeks with an animal, his health problems are a good thing to know about ahead of time. But that was mildly annoying; what was really frustrating was that even though the guy knew his dog had joint problems, he continued to both overfeed him and to play roughly with him, so there I was watching this fat, gimpy dog getting slammed onto the concrete by this dipshit who thought that was how you showed a dog affection. I'm not sure which one of them I felt worse for, truthfully. This poor guy was crying and it was clear that it was really painful for him to give his dog up, but he had also been abusing the dog and just didn't know it.
The reason I was asked to take Phoenix was that the guy he lived with was moving to a third floor apartment in Kentucky and with his bad knees, Phoenix wouldn't have been able to go up and down the stairs. That alone wouldn't have been a problem in terms of placing him with someone, but Phoenix had also bitten several people, usually strangers reaching out to pet him, which is a totally inappropriate thing for a person to do, but under the law, dogs are expected to just take it. Instead of bringing Phoenix back to Washington, I took him to a shelter in Orange County, New York, because I didn't feel that his behavior warranted him coming to live with me. I also gave them a German shepherd with hip dysplasia, and took a golden retriever that had been beaten with a cane and burned with cigarettes for a few weeks by a degenerate alcoholic after her husband overdosed, leaving the dog with some 'people issues' that made her unsafe in a traditional home environment.
The people at the shelter loved Phoenix, but unfortunately he didn't love some of them and racked up more bite incidents while he was there, so four months later, I had to make good on my promise that I would take him back if he turned out to be non-adoptable due to behavior. And that's why yesterday afternoon, I found myself in the position of having to remove a big pit bull mix from his crate for an airport security check, with about a thousand people around me and nothing between them and the dog, having just realized that I hadn't seen the dog in months, that even when I did have him, it was only for a few hours, which he spent in the back of my truck, that I had no idea what kind of kennel stress he'd developed at the shelter, that I had spent no time walking him or familiarizing him with me at the airport before he was put into his crate and wheeled to the ticket counter by a skycap, that his issues at the shelter involved being in confined spaces, and that he had already snarled, lunged, and tried to bite me through the wire frame door of his crate. I wondered how badly I was about to be bitten and how much blood the airport bystanders were about to see, how many camera phones would soon be documenting my 'skill' with dangerous dogs. Fortunately, Phoenix did everything he needed to do, and I'm not a punchline on YouTube just yet.
Picking up from where I left off, Bradley came from a rescue in New Hampshire that works mainly with dogs that aren't quite ready for adoption; they're a new organization with no facilities (foster care only), but from what I saw, they're doing a good job. They're also young, which isn't common. The one thing they screwed up was the dog carrier -- they forgot to get one until yesterday, and it was too small for the dog. We had to make a stop at Petco this morning to get a bigger one.
The first leg of my flight today was smooth; the dog fit under the seat and was pretty quiet. Now I'm at JFK, where I picked up the second dog; he made it through security without much trouble, but he was doing a little snarling and lunging, so I hope he'll be OK with the rest of this process, when i can't be there to look out for him. This next leg, New York to Seattle, is likely to be pretty awful, especially if I have someone sitting next to me who's normal size or bigger.
I'm about to board again. Highlight of todays airport experience: slobby women who, despite having been dressing themselves for 30 or 40 years, can't figure out how to keep their lady garbage in their shirts. Disgusting and hilarious.
I read the sign in Seattle that said my flight boarded at 9 AM (even though it was supposed to leave at 8:20) so I didn't rush to get on the plane; at about 9:05 I walked over to the gate, only to find that everyone else had boarded and they were calling my name over the PA. Off to a great start. I got onto the plane and was fortunate to get one of the few seats with no one next to me. The flight was pretty good; we flew right over a property that I really want to buy someday, although it's not for sale at the moment and even if it was, no chance at this point.
In San Francisco, I had enough time to make my connection, although it was close. Once on the plane, we sat for an hour before it took off. Also on board, about thirty high school kids from Boston who were returning from an overseas trip somewhere in Asia. Draw your own conclusions about how awesome that must have been. My favorite part -- the girl with the potato chips walking up and down the aisle, giving chips to everyone from the high school group, but not to anyone else who might have smelled them and wanted to eat some.
After about five hours in the air, we flew a few S patterns before landing, thanks to congestion. We landed in Boston and waited awhile longer while they fixed the broken walkway that connects the plane to the gate.
I found my ride and headed to their home for the night, met the dog I was taking, Bradley, and after dinner and hanging out a bit, I finally got some sleep -- while the Bradley wasn't barking or pooping on the floor.
My flight is loading; gotta go.
It's about 8:20 AM and I find myself embarking on another rescue trip, this time by air to pick up a Pomeranian in Boston and a pit bull/Lab in New York -- a dog that I've rescued once already, having taken him to a shelter in March along with a German shepherd, trading the two of them for Shirley, the golden retriever who had absolutely no chance of ever being adopted thanks to her biting episodes. It turns out that the shelter doesn't feel comfortable letting anyone adopt Phoenix, either, so I'm on my way back to get him.
As usual, I didn't manage to get much done before I left, but I did get on the road on time; getting to bed was another story -- that didn't happen. Between the Hood Canal and Gig Harbor I have no idea how many times I fell asleep while driving, but I know at least twice I woke up just before my truck straddled the concrete wall along the median. You'd think that would have helped to wake me up, but being calm under pressure has its disadvantages.
I made it to the airport alive and went to the American ticket counter, getting there just in time to see a ticket agent scold a kid for not helping his mom with her bags, at which point the kids mom pointed out that her son had no arms. You'd think that after a blunder like that, the agent would try to be a little less impulsive and maybe assess things more fully before she reacted, but apparently this woman doesn't learn from her mistakes. I had tried to do self check-in, but was denied because I had a reservation for a pet; I went to the counter with the printout the ticketing computer had given me, to make sure that my reservation was booked correctly, because I am not taking a pet on this leg of the trip. Instead of listening to me, she took the print-out and threw it in the trash after barely glancing at it and said, "You're on Alaska -- you need to go down to their ticket counter at the other end of the terminal." I had booked the ticket with American, but Alaska was the carrier -- no problem. But I still needed to check on the dog situation. I said, "OK, but I have a question..." She cut me off and told me to go to the Alaska counter again. I said again, " I need to ask you a question first..." Again she cut me off and said, "You're ticket isn't with American -- I can't help you." So I said again, "I have a question for you before I go." Finally she listened, and I asked her first if the pet reservation was booked for the right leg of the trip, and then if I was going to hav tocheck in again in San Francisco, because my San Francisco to Boston flight is on American. So she ended up digging the print-out out of the trash, checking my reservation, and printing up my boarding pass for San Francisco, which she could have done sooner if she'd just shut up and let the customer ask his damned question. But as rude as she was, she was still friendly, if that makes any sense.
Time-out: I just saw a woman slip and fall on a spilled drink in the food court that no one had bothered to mop up. She almost took out a mother holding a baby in the process.
Time-in: When I checked in with Alaska, I found out that my flight is delayed about an hour, which is why I'm sitting in the food court typing this instead of sitting in a tiny airplane seat wishing the person next to me would go to the lavatory and get lost on the way back.
