From Baghdad To America (6 page)

I guess in this case maybe that's what I
need
to believe. So be it. Am I sorry for what happened in that relationship? I suppose on one level I am—at least for the way I behaved some of the time. Being rude, arrogant, belligerent; seeing the negative in everything; expecting the worst. But I am also eternally grateful. If not for the place Lava and I found ourselves after the relationship ended, we would not have discovered the loving embrace of the family we now have—the wonderful, loving,
perfect
family that Lava in fact found for us. My family is everything in the world to me, and I'd sooner die a thousand deaths than spend even one day, much less live my life, without them.

Dear Sir:

I read the story of Jay Kopelman and was taken back [to my past] to hear what he and others did to get his dog, Lava, back to the States.

Sergeant Little with Lucky in Okinawa, 1953

I can relate to what a person will do for a dog. I was a Marine on Okinawa, Japan, back in late 1953 when I found my pup. Dogs were scarce there and we had to guard him with our lives.

The pup was loved by all in my company. I went through different channels to get the dog back, to no avail.

Lucky enjoying his days at the base

Needless to say, I had to leave the pup on the island. The other troops would adopt him and take care of him after I left.

Jay was one lucky guy.

P.S. The pup's name was Lucky.

Lucky trying his hand at driving

James J. Little

Sergeant, Third Marine Division, D Company

“We long for an affection altogether ignorant of our faults. Heaven has accorded this to us in the uncritical canine attachment.”

—
GEORGE ELIOT

How can I credit my dog with finding my family for me?
Let me count the ways. For one thing, his companionship during those tough first few months back let me open up enough to allow it. For another, he occasionally reminded me that both of us needed more in our lives than each other. And finally, he literally did find Pam for me. For us. It was in typical Lava fashion: He simply raced up to a gorgeous woman at the park whom I'd noticed on previous outings, homed in on her seven-year-old son, and dragged the boy to the ground as if he were another puppy. I didn't see this entire scenario unfold, but because my wife swears it did, I have to believe her. (I like to think it was a way for her to start a deeper conversation with me without being too obvious.) This is the way the op went down: One minute I was talking to another of the local dog owners, and the next, “Hey, your dog bit my son!” Panic struck. In La Jolla, the penalty for a dog bite is euthanasia for the offender, the owner, and all their kind.

I ran to them as fast as I could, expecting to see a gaping wound where Lava had sunk his fangs into this poor child's arm or leg and taken out a chunk of flesh. Instead, much to my relief, there was mostly dog saliva on the boy's wrist. In that moment of giddiness over my worst fears not being realized, I quickly regained my composure, put a look of deep concern on my face, and said, “Well, does your son have any diseases I should worry about?” Smooth, no? Man, I am Rico Suave, am I not? What woman could resist that line? That witticism? She should have been dropping her panties for me right then and there. Well, that's how I like to tell the story anyway—and some of my friends not-so-jokingly say I really believe it might have happened that way.

They have suggested at times that I was still in predator mode, a warrior hunting for his prey, lying in wait—the hunter-killer mode that I'd so easily fallen into in Iraq and that had become so much a part of me, both in body and soul. Not exactly flattering, but it's definitely something I've considered. Lava had worked hard on me to break this pattern and focus on the more important particulars of life such as playing with a stick, but I'd been a Marine for far longer than he'd been alive. In this case, however, I'll let the comments slide, as sometimes the ends justify the means. Which they absolutely have.

I do know that after I nearly pissed my pants with fear and concern over the alleged dog bite, I very sincerely asked if the boy was okay and checked him out thoroughly, making a mental note to myself to call my attorneys first thing in the morning—just in case. The beauty of all this, however, was that it put me in close proximity to a lovely woman and gave me the opening I'd been looking for. I sat down next to her and began what was probably our first real conversation, despite the nerves I was feeling.

Over the next few weeks, I'd see Pam at the park and we'd talk about the mundane and the interesting, though the courtship really wasn't going anywhere yet. Then, one Sunday morning—October 2, 2005, to be exact—I was at the park early with Lava. There was no one else around at that hour, and I couldn't help thinking about what a great day it was going to be and how it could only be more perfect if, during this period of calm, Pam just happened to show up alone with her dog so that I could really get down to business. And then, as though the angels had heard me, it happened. I saw Koda (Pam's dog) first as she rounded the corner, followed by Pam, wearing flip-flops; the white denim mini skirt with the frayed hem that I'd come to love because it showed off her lean, tan, muscular legs so very nicely; and her trademark Ironman (outrigger canoeing competition) sweatshirt that had allowed me my first opening when I inquired once if she did triathlons and if she'd actually done Ironman Hawaii.

She approached from the southwest, the sunlight glowing on her auburn hair, an aura literally surrounding her. She moved with the ease and grace of an athlete, at the same time exhibiting an almost feline quality (tiger or lioness) that allowed her to exude sensuality and sexuality in every step. My heart did backflips, my mouth went temporarily dry as I smiled like the village idiot and waved. She came over, sitting next to me on the wall while the dogs played. We mostly just watched them, but after several minutes of not talking—though the tension was palpable—I said, “Uh, I was just wondering, maybe you'd like to get a drink or something sometime.”

“That would be nice,” she said. “I'd like that.”

“Great,” I said. (Was this the dialogue of an Academy Award- winning film or what? I was ready for my close-up.)

“I can get a babysitter for tonight,” she added.

I nearly leapt to my feet and screamed to the blue sky—and anyone else within earshot. I couldn't believe it was really going to happen. I'd been willing to go to any length to have this woman to myself and there she was, offering to go out with me right away. In any event, I'd managed to at least close the first deal and was well on my way to becoming the proverbial salesman of the year.

It was all Mexican, all night that first date. We went to a great Mexican restaurant for dinner and followed it up with margaritas at another fantastic Mexican restaurant just down the street. Of course I took her to the one where I knew the owner and the bartenders all treated me like a local celebrity. I wanted her to know that she wasn't out with just any jarhead, but a real important jarhead. I think I was drinking mostly to calm my nerves. That first date ended on the front steps of her house, but it was the kiss—the kiss of rebirth for me—at the end of the night that provided all the promise of things to come. It was intense; it was urgent; it was magic.

Those were good days, easy days. I had a cushy job at I Marine Expeditionary Force as one of the night senior watch officers (SWO), which meant I only worked three to four nights a week from 2000 hours to 0800 hours (that's 8:00 PM to 8:00 AM for the uninitiated). The rest of the time was mine to pursue any number of my favorite activities, including getting to know Pam better. I'd often get off work at eight, change into bicycling clothes, and join a large group of cyclists for an intense training ride through Camp Pendleton north toward the town of San Clemente and back. Or I'd head home, take a catnap, grab my board, and head to the ocean for some surfing while the rest of San Diego worked.

September is the best time of the year in San Diego. The sun shines daily, making it ideal for any outdoor activity; the water temperature is still in the upper sixties so you don't yet need a wet suit when you surf; and the Zonies—the yearly influx of Hummerdriving, beach-crowding hordes escaping the heat of the Arizona summer who act like they own the town—have departed. I took full advantage of this as Lava and I settled into a routine of sorts.

Pam loved to surf and water-ski, too, as I found out. We shared the details of our lives: books we liked to read, the various things our dogs did to impress us, how we earned a living, and so on. I don't think Pam had ever met a Marine before, and I'm pretty sure she was the first anthropologist completing a doctoral program I'd ever run across. I was thankful she wasn't a paleontologist—she'd have used me as a subject for her dissertation.

The month of October we spent surfing every opportunity we had, then dining on one or the other surfer's culinary favorites—fish tacos or egg, potato, bacon, and cheese burritos. Ultimately, what got me additional dates with Pam and thus allowed me to continue wooing her was the occasion when, coming out of the water after a surf session, she straggled slightly behind me to “check me out” and see if I—or my back half—met with her approval (hey, her words, not mine).

Having Pam in my life altered my relationship with Lava, but it also showed me how much he'd given me and everyone over there in the anus of the world—aka Iraq. Just being able to pet him reminded us all that we were still human, still capable of feeling. Studies have shown that people with pets have lower levels of stress and anxiety. A biologist recently commented in
Newsweek
that any condition with a stress-related component can be helped by a pet: “It's providing a focus of attention that's outside of someone's self. They're actually letting you focus on them rather than focusing inward on yourself all the time.”
⁹
Yes, science proves that it's true—pet your dog and you'll be happier and healthier.

I think the Department of Defense has finally started to accept this fact. For the first time in the history of the U.S. Army, skilled therapy dogs—provided by America's VetDogs, a subsidiary of the Guide Dog Foundation for the Blind—will be deployed to Iraq to help relieve combat stress of soldiers in the field. Two specially trained dogs will join a multidisciplinary team of army professionals to address mental health issues as they arise. The dogs, Budge and Boe, will work with members of the Eighty-fifth Medical Detachment as they work with soldiers, whether in a one-to-one or a group setting, to cope with home-front issues, sleep problems, or day-to-day operational stress. I like to think that my violation of the rules regarding pets and mascots in the combat theater, or the stories of the hundreds of other mascots, helped the DoD finally acknowledge that dogs are good for morale, not detrimental.

Maybe having Lava now—and having had him around some of the time in Iraq—is why I'm more okay than most, and when Pam walked into my life I was ready to embrace her. I no longer depend on Lava the same way, but he is still as loyal as can be. He reminds me of who I am, and where I've been, every day. I'm lucky to have him, and I hope one day it will be easier for Marines to bring back their best friends.

I heard one hopeful story recently: Lex, an approved military working dog in Iraq whose handler and best friend, Marine Corporal Dustin Lee, was killed by a mortar attack in Fallujah, was allowed early retirement to live with Lee's family. The dog wouldn't leave Lee's side when both were wounded; other Marines had to pull him away to let the medics reach Dustin. It was too late for Lee but, despite being injured by shrapnel, Lex survived. The family lobbied the Marine Corps for months afterward to bring Lex home from Iraq. I even signed an online petition urging officials at the Department of Defense to do the right thing . . . which they did. Lex returned to live with Lee's family in December 2007. I would guess he reminds the family of Dustin. His father admitted as much: “There's always going to be that missing link with Dusty gone,” he said. “But part of Dusty is here with Lex.”
^10
11

I get it. While I was still in Iraq, Lava felt like my next of kin there. So it only seemed right that he'd play as large a role in finding Pam as he did. Lava has been family since the first day I laid eyes on him. For a while there, when I first returned to the States, he was really and truly my only family.

He loves me despite my shortcomings. So does my family—my wife and children—and believe me, the shortcomings are plentiful and sometimes difficult for all. For one thing, I don't have a lot of patience and will not suffer fools.

I get agitated a little more easily than I used to, and I seem to be less tolerant of people who don't put the same importance on things as I do or who seem to take what they have for granted. On occasion I've been known to give someone a piece of my mind, too. The other day, someone parked in my reserved spot—again. There's a school adjacent to the lot where I park for work every day. Since I have the spot closest to the school, people feel it's okay—their right, even—to park in my spot while they pick their children up from school.

And it's not like they just apologize and move their cars when I tell them about it. No, they would rather argue about it.

“Oh, it's just for a minute while I'm picking up my son.” Or, “I wouldn't normally do this, but there's nowhere else to park.” No shit, lady, that's why I pay my landlord every month to have this spot.

Hey, excuses are like assholes—I already have one and don't need another. And if you wouldn't normally do this, then don't do it now.

I left a note for the latest violator: “To the owner of this vehicle: While I'm certain your time and feelings of self-importance are, in your mind, of greater significance than others', please understand that I have neither the interest nor the time for your discourteous behavior. Be advised that you are parked in a reserved parking spot for which I pay; by parking here you waste my time and interfere with my ability to do my job. In the future, make every effort not to confuse your sense of entitlement with others' opinions of your rude behavior. You
will
be towed at your expense.” Nice, no? I did try to have the car towed, but the proper signs weren't posted, so I'll have to wait until next time.