Yes, we are still here. In Belize, until Thursday.
Getting to San Miguel de Allende with a little dog and six formidable suitcases in tow (still an estimate) will be quite a coup from my perspective. I turn out to be very good at perspective, while Rose is, in fact, even better at actually scheduling things like planes (2) transport vans (2), and hotels (1).
Meanwhile, I have been studying YouTube videos on how to lovingly coax your little dog into an even littler carrier. I just finished a 9-minute video in which the rather attractive woman spent seven of those minutes telling us, me, how lovely and obedient her own little Muffie is.
“There you are Muffie, you beautiful, beautiful little angel! Who’s mama’s little angel!?” And, you know? She had that way of drawing out the word “angel” into several extra syllables, covering three octaves in the upper register.
Muffie is an over-achieving little princess, in my book. My Moppit, former street dog and reality TV star of “Survivor for Dogs,” would whip her furry little ass.
I’ve watched enough of these videos to grasp that achieving the successful bagging of a dog for carry-on requires lots of little treats and a cricket-like clicker that you press every time she makes a correct move. One “click!” when she is almost inside the bag. Two “clicks!” when she goes all the way in on her own and you only have to ask her once.
Moppit, of course, laughed all the way through this video. In dog talk, I think she said, “You’ll be hearing those crickets all night, before I go into that thing voluntarily, chicken bits or no chicken bits.” Then she snorted, as she does often when trying to communicate contempt.
See, my dog is far too smart for that. She’s nobody’s little Muffie. None the less, my stomach will be in a knot for the entire 2.5-hour flight to Mexico City. Which reminds me of something else I need to look up: airport doggie parks. The thought makes me nauseous: dogs flying in from all over the world to do their business on an ancient piece of astroturf decorated with a red plastic fireplug. Do I have that right?
All I know is that if Moppit does the wild thing on an airplane or in an airport, I am to be designated cleanup. I suppose I shall stock a hazmat suit, scented hygienic scrubbies, plastic bags, and canned apologies in my backpack.
Moppit knows something is up. I can tell by the way she stations herself by the front door and looks at me through those dark, accusing eyes.
“Don’t worry little girl, you will be going with us! I promise! Now, come get this nice little treat I put inside this nice carrier bag. Good girl.”