Leaving Texas

Just when I thought I had it good, Tom and Shelley decided to move . . . again. 

Although I didn’t like it, I had suffered a series of moves previously when I was living in Texas, mostly from apartment to apartment. Then Shelley moved to Tulsa for a while and Tom and I lived with Aaron, then Aaron and Craig. Then Shelley moved back to Houston. Then Shelley moved again leaving Tom and me. You get the picture.

As you know from my profile, I am a Maltese. Some refer to me as a dog. I certainly don’t think in those terms, and we don’t have to dwell on those images. Tom and Shelley are my so-called owners. I think of them as my providers, caretakers, and satisfiers of my every whim.

This move was different even though at first I thought it was the same. A bunch of packing boxes and suitcases and endless trips to the storage unit. Then a stay for a short time at Sandra’s house. Then over to Honey and Trey’s house with Tully and Taylor and the big dogs, Daisy and Luke. And then “the crate.” That’s right, a crate. I hadn’t seen one of those since I was a puppy and they thought they would crate train me, right, which lasted exactly one night. Hah.

Tom bought a crate and started putting treats in it like I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. I began going in and out to snag the treats, but never for longer than a minute or two. Early one morning in January 2012, suitcases got loaded up along with the dreaded crate, and we headed for the George Bush International Airport (IAH) in Houston.
As usual, Tom carried me and we headed for the check-in counter. We were asked all the standard questions, then the more specific ones about me. Did I have a ticket? Yes. Did I have my shot records? Yes. Did I have the veterinarian’s  okay to go to a foreign country? WHAT! The airport was scary enough, but what was that all about? Nobody had said anything about a foreign country.

Out came the crate, and the ticket agent said it was too big to go under the seat. But wait a minute. We had upgraded to first class (a mere $99 charge) and ticket agent #2 said the crate would fit under the seat in first class, and everything was fine until Tom put me IN the crate and locked the door. Whoa. “Make sure the dog stays in the crate throughout the flight,” we were told. The good news: We went to the First Class Lounge where I sat on Tom’s lap and shared a muffin, that is until a very nice lady with a very big smile told us how much she loved dogs and that she had two herself and that I would have to go back in the crate and stay there. Period. No exception. Back in the crate.

Well, I whimpered for a minute or so, but to no avail. First class passengers get early boarding privileges and we had two perfectly good seats to ourselves, but, oh, no, in the crate I was and in the crate I stayed, on the floor, under the seat. Oh yeah, a few bites of scrambled eggs through the bars of my cage, but that was it. I may have just as well been going to Shanghai kidnapped by slavers.I slept most of the way. Why not? I wasn’t going anywhere. 

A couple hours later we arrived in Belize City and went through customs. That went more smoothly than expected even though Shelley had asked us to bring hundreds of items ranging from mosquito spray to cosmetics to a pink laptop she had promised to her favorite taxi driver’s girlfriend. 

The test came when we got to animal control.  When we had gone to get the veterinarian’s health certificate, we were told it had to be a special certificate from the United States Department of Agriculture which would be sent from the vet’s office to Austin, then back to us . . . except the flight was booked five days later. That wasn’t going to work. Tom called the Belizean Animal Control Office in Belmopan and was told the local vet’s certificate would be just fine, thank you very much. Except the guy at animal control in Belize said, “Where’s the certificate from the USDA?” Tom practiced law for a very long time and told them it really wasn’t necessary, and the man said, “Really? I didn’t know that. Okay.” (If you're thinking about bring a pet to Belize, we would recommend getting the more acceptable certificate. And don’t check the wrong box on the form, the one that says you are importing the animal for slaughter.)

I was taken outside the customs office with Tom and the luggage and freed from the crate. Not much grass at the Belize International Airport, but we found some. Tom tipped the porter a whole lot of money to load up the luggage and help us get to the Tropic Air (“the Airline of Belize”) terminal while I was looking for the grass. When we returned two minutes later, the porter pointed to the Tropic Air terminal which was immediately next to the door we had just come out of. The porter was very happy with his tip.

After a 30 minute wait, boom—back in the crate! This time I was carried aboard a Cessna Caravan with seats for 13 passengers. Tom held me in his lap for the duration of the flight, about 15 minutes, to San Pedro. Ambergris Caye (pronounced amber-gee key) a small island 35 miles away. This, I was told, was my new home.

In San Pedro we ran right into Abby, the taxi driver, who recognized Tom from an earlier trip and volunteered to take us to the apartment Shelley had previously gotten for us. It’s a good thing we called ahead. Shelley was on the way to the airport to pick us up and take us to a hotel. Seems like some heavy rains had pretty much destroyed the septic tank at the apartment plus the refrigerator hadn’t worked for a week. So off we went to “Coconuts” where dogs aren’t allowed, but heck, this is Belize, right? The next five days we lived in a hotel room.

I am officially an islander. Hello, Belize. Here comes Bella!