No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone (26 page)

Hi, John,

Yes, Erin Kirk is trying to get a cat she calls "Burt" to the States as well. I just looked at the pictures of her cat and yours. It appears that Burt and Dexter are one and the same cat. If that's the case, which one of you will give Burt/Dexter a home? Both of you have become attached to this cat and want him out of Iraq, so you two will need to work out what you are going to do and get back to me as soon as possible. For the time being we will keep Burt/Dexter on the list for the upcoming mission. I can't wait to meet this twotiming feline who has stolen so many hearts!

-Terri

By now most of the owners had received the updated e-mail I'd sent that morning, which was starting to generate more questions from them.

Kevin Connors, owner of Tom, asked if any of the cats would be placed in shared crates and explained that Tom was a well-known scrapper, ready to fight for his territory.

Amber Daigle expressed her worries about Ralphie, who had never been confined in a crate and panicked whenever they tried to put him into one of the vehicles. "He just loses it," she wrote, "so I haven't had the heart to confine him. I hope this won't prevent him from being sent home."

"Please be careful with Patton," Jennifer wrote. "He's so little he can fit through just about anything, and he's used to being with lots of different people, so he'll follow anyone he takes a liking to."

"Let me know if you need me to send food along with Mama Leesa and her pup," wrote her owner. "She's had such a rough time up to now. Her condition is poor, and I'm concerned that she gets plenty of food on her long journey."

Oreo peeks out at his new world Bev Westerman

Beatrice and puppy Bev Westerman

What many of the owners really needed was reassurance. I continued to sound positive, stopping short of using the words "I promise." Several asked about making travel arrangements after the animals arrived in the United States. My response was, "Let's get them out of Iraq first."

Little did I know how difficult "getting them out of Iraq" would be.

Terri Crisp and Bev Westerman embarking on their adventure to Iraq Bev Westerman

n May 26 I had a make-or-break conference call with JD and Dave Lusk. This was it. We would decide whether to go with our plan as it was or conclude that it just wasn't feasible to get thirty animals out of Iraq in time.

After taking plenty of time to air our concerns and listen to our hearts, we made a decision. Despite the fact that several key issues regarding French regulations had not been resolved, we agreed that it was time to get Bev and me onto a plane. If we remained in the States until every detail for Operation Patriot Pets was ironed out, we would never leave.

After our meeting, I made airline reservations for two. The etickets landed in my inbox with the weight of reality. Any details I overlooked now could cost an animal its life.

I was relieved to see that John and Erin had come to an agreement regarding the two-timing cat. John had just befriended another cat named "Molly," so we decided to work toward getting her home in the autumn, whereas Burt would be a part of the upcoming mission.

Although it always felt good to add an animal to the active list, I dreaded having to take one off. That night Susan Dobbs called with news about the puppy named "Dodger." Her husband, Gary, had nursed him back to health after the puppy had collided with the soldiers' Humvee and had followed them back to camp despite his injuries.

"Dodger won't be coming home." Susan's voice broke before she could say anything more.

"Oh, Susan, I'm so sorry. Can you tell me what happened?" I waited several seconds as she tried to compose herself enough to talk. The image of an IED explosion flashed across my mind. I hastily wiped it away. Finally Susan took a deep breath and began to speak.

"He loved that dog. Dodger was like his own child." She took another deep breath and held onto it. I knew you can't rush people; you just have to listen and let it come out in its own time.

"Gary went out on patrol. While he was gone, one of the Iraqi soldiers at the base said Dodger attacked him. Oh, Terri, he was just a puppy ...

Given what I knew about Iraqis' all-too-frequent mistreatment of dogs, I could imagine the scene. Many of the soldiers I'd dealt with reported that their dogs loved Americans but feared Iraqis. When American soldiers worked with Iraqi civilians or soldiers during the day, the chance that one or more of those workers could be an enemy infiltrator was always a possibility. People had been wounded or killed by undercover insurgents who came on base with suicide bombs hidden under their clothing, and the dogs sensed the threat. Dogs had also learned to distrust a population that, by tradition, had kicked, stoned, tortured, and shot them. Unless Iraqis earned a dog's trust by showing that they weren't a threat and demonstrating kindness, dogs saw local people as potential enemies, even when they lived and worked at the base.

"Dodger wouldn't attack unless he was provoked, Terri! The soldier never even gave Gary a chance to intervene. Before he got back from patrol, the Iraqi shot Dodger. Every day my husband risks his life, and now this ... it's ripping him apart."

We had come within days of bringing the puppy home only to have his life extinguished. I couldn't find a way to reconcile the tragic situation. So many things about war and rules and other countries' customs seemed brutally unfair. Although I could do nothing to make Susan's and Gary's pain go away, I could grieve with them and remind them that Dodger's last days had been filled with knowing he was loved.

I began to fear that another tragedy might happen before we got these animals out of Iraq. Each time I opened an e-mail, I held my breath, hoping it wasn't sad news. Losing Dodger meant a replacement dog or cat could be added to the mission. Was there enough time to make this happen? I'd have to try.

On the morning of May 27 I shuffled out of bed knowing this was the last full day I had to prepare for the mission. My first caller of the day was John Wagner from Gryphon.

"What are you doing up so early?" I asked. It was barely 5:00 a.m. in Colorado, where John's office was based.

"Good morning to you, too," he laughed. "I've been on the phone with our guys in Kuwait. They're still working on getting our landing permits for Dubai, but they say the FedEx people over there have been terrific, pulling out all the stops to help speed things along. We should know something today."

"If the answer is no, I'll be spending the summer in Baghdad, babysitting animals."

"We'll make sure you get home long before then," he laughed.

My next e-mail was from Doug at SLG security in Baghdad. The day before, CPT Kevin Connor's dog, Francine, and his cat, Tom, had been collected and driven to the compound. Tom was the cat found with a cord tied around his neck, and John's team saved him from death by slow strangulation. Tom had been a great source of comfort after the unit lost several men to IEDs while training Iraqi Army soldiers.

According to Doug's e-mail, Tom wasn't eating, and he walked as if he was in pain. Searching for a local veterinarian with cat experience had proved fruitless so far. When I e-mailed Kevin to see if he knew what might be causing the problem, he replied that Tom had been fine up to the time SLG collected him. Kevin ended his e-mail with, "Please try to save him."

By mid afternoon the twenty-eight airline crates had not been delivered to Bev and Barb's house, and I was starting to get nervous. I took Bev up on her earlier offer to call her at work if I needed help. She immediately got on the phone and chased down the crates.

"It's a good thing I called," Bev said. "For some reason they never got loaded onto the truck this morning. They're still sitting in a warehouse in Virginia."

"Well, that's doing us a lot of good, isn't it?" I said, shaking my head in disbelief. When I had placed the order I had stressed how important it was for the crates to arrive on time, and the woman assured me they would get here in time. "At least the warehouse is in Virginia. Did you ask where they are exactly?"

"Yes. I've got the address. I called them to say we're coming, and the man at the warehouse said we could pick them up tonight around 9:00 p.m. It won't be busy then, and there will be someone available to help us load them. We'll have to take them out of the shipping cartons first and stack them, or they won't all fit in my car and Barb's truck."