MIA: Airport III

….Continued from Yesterday

       The flight from Dallas / Ft. Worth to Miami was uneventful (Thank God).  By now it was late afternoon and I hadn’t eaten all day save a few

not really Betty

pieces of beef jerky I’d slipped into one of the pockets of the slippery, plastic folder.  Betty wouldn’t eat the precooked bacon I’d stashed for her, and she hadn’t had a chance to go potty all day either.  Though on each flight I was able to get little cups of water for her.  Considering all we’d been through she was a trooper.

       In my grand scheme there was time between each flight to take her out to the designated areas that all the airports had, but we had been running non-stop.  I was feeling miserable and getting worse as each airport came and went. 

       As we began our approach into Miami, the Captain announced that

do to “weather” over Miami we would be in a holding pattern over the airport until further notice.  We circled the airport for 20 minutes – the twenty minutes to spare until our connection to Panama City.  Needless to say, we were off and running to the reader board to see which gate our next flight was to board. 

 Miami International is a huge airport and we needed to hurry.  We had to catch a shuttle train which circles that entire place in order to even get to the right hemisphere.  When we finally reach our stop we jumped

off and started following gate signs.  Up escalators, on moving sidewalks, through tunnels, on horseback, hot air balloon, and I forgot to tip the Sherpa.

       Here, I want to point out that, me at 5’10” and being 58 years old, had a distinct advantage over my travelling companion when it came to navigating all the moving, climbing, and turning devices one encounters in an airport.  Betty is about 6 inches tall, with short, spindly legs, and never experienced moving, metal stairs, or gliding sidewalks, or giant spinning doors.  At first I would pause and encourage her to move forward or take the small step of faith needed to continue, but as the day wore on, our time ran short, and I became more delirious, well…

Have you ever seen dress rehearsals of “Peter Pan”? You know

how Peter and the children, strapped in to their safety harnesses, jump and swing and fly magically through the air?  How the Stage hands pull and release the ropes like puppeteers.  That is basically what Betty looked like as we rushed through the airport.  I’m sure her feet hurt, her legs were tired, and she felt as wiped as I did, so as we’d approach an escalator I would pull up on the leash and Betty would ‘magically float’ onto the stairs. 

We finally started down the concourse where Gate D40 was located.  It was only three gates away and we were going to make it on time.  I slowed down enough to walk at normal speed when I felt resistance on the leash.  As I turned my head, Betty was already hunched over and shaky-legged.  “No, no no…!”

 

 Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Miami – Little Betty had pooped out!

The little Diva, my little traveling companion, my little girl, had held it as long as she could.  There, smack dab in the middle of the concourse, at about Gate D37 Betty took a big runny, dump.  My first concern was for Betty because I knew she would feel like she had done something wrong.  So I tried to assure her that it was okay. That’s when I heard a man laughing hysterically.  He was standing there talking on the phone, describing the scene to the person on the other end.

Luckily I had a poop bag tied to the handle of the leash.  As I knelt down I looked up into the crowd at Gate 37 who, alerted by the loud laughing man (who had now wandered closer in order to snap a picture), stood staring in horror and disgust at the scene unfolding before them.  Then, from my knees, like a desperate father

whose child has just been hit by a car, I said (way too loudly),

“We’ve had an accident!  Can somebody please get me a towel or something?!” No one moved.  “My dog just pooped on the floor!”

It reminded of the scene in the movie Tombstone when Wyatt Earp is kneeling in the street weeping, grieving his just murdered brother as the pouring rain splashes around him.

I small, round, bald man wearing what looked like an airport blazer scurried off down the corridor, the only person to move.  I was mopping up the poop as best I could with the plastic bag.  I

could tell my butt crack was exposed to the Looky-Lews, but at that point, I could have cared less.  My goal was to clean it up and catch our waiting connection.

That’s when I heard a woman’s voice behind me,

       “Senior.  Senior!”

I sat back on my haunches and looked behind me.  The first thing I saw was Betty’s empty harness!  

       “Shit! Betty!” I caught her as she came around the other side.  I scooted her close to me and tried to comfort her until I got the harness back on her.  At this point I felt a deep inner peace, similar to what you must feel as your plane hurdles to the earth toward your certain end. There is no need to panic – you’re toast anyway.

 I held Betty for a moment.  A Hispanic woman in nice clothes walked by and offered me a travel pack of tissues, which I gratefully accepted and used to finish cleaning up the rest of the runny mess.  It is interesting how both people who offered me assistance were Hispanic.  Crackers!

I stood up, and with as much dignity as I could muster, picked up the guitar case, slid the slippery, plastic folder under my arm, held the leash, the wet, stinky tissues, and the poop bag in the other hand, raised my head loftily, and walked slowly away.

After disposing of the shit rags in the nearest recycling receptacle we walked up to the attendant at Gate D40.  She hadn’t seen what had occurred just a few dozen feet away.

“Well, hello!” she said.  “You must be Betty!”

I cannot express my relief at hearing this woman’s voice.  First because I knew she was already informed that we were coming, and secondly because I could actually hear her voice.  Sometime during our ordeal my ears popped.  I still had to concentrate but at least I could make out words.

As I boarded the plane I asked the greeting attendant if there was room to stow my guitar.  She informed me that they were “light” and there was no problem.  What she meant was there were relatively few passengers on the flight down to Panama City.  Every other flight had been packed.  This plane, the newest thus far, was calm and quiet with nice seats and drop down video screens.  Even the seatbelts had soft leather sheathing around the straps.  Betty and I had three seats to stretch out in, even the folder and her leash had their own seat.

Another two hour trip, this one a world apart from the previous nightmares.  Betty slept in the seat next to me, and I just sat in a state of trance, glancing once in a while at the screen above.  As flights begin there decent into Panama City, Panama they fly parallel to the Pacific coast, which is on the South side of the country.  Then suddenly the

scene below opens on to a beautiful display of twinkling lights set in the blackness of the night time harbor.  Ships ranging in size from giant freighters to huge cruise liners to fishing trawlers, pleasure yachts and sailboats all lounging peacefully, and each one decked out with party lights, running lights, cabin lights, and more, all reflecting off the calm waters of Bahia De Panama.

Then the plane banks and you see one of the most beautiful, modern skylines in the world, Panama City.  If there is any doubt in anyone’s mind about Panama being a first world country, take a look at the pictures here.

We landed and went through immigration without a hitch.  Then it was off to retrieve my two wonderful suitcases.  As the first luggage began to circle passed, I heard a pleasant voice behind us.

“Hello, Miss Betty”, she said.  Then she was at our side.  A nice looking Panamanian woman holding a clipboard and smiling widely. 

She introduced herself as the person in charge of animal imports and that she had been expecting us.  She pointed out her office, just across the way, and said once we had cleared customs we could find her waiting for us there.  We got our luggage, cleared customs, and after giving a man in military uniform $20.00 for filling out some forms and stamping them, we were shown into the woman’s little office.  She sat smiling with her hands folded over what I recognized as the forms I had filled out and emailed to her earlier in the month.  I sat down holding Betty.

“I’m sorry. Your forms are incomplete, Senior Farrell.”

To be continued….