When he and his 10 siblings were born, my heart experienced one of the happiest joys possible. There they were: my furred grandchildren, the perfect copy of their beloved mom; eleven at once! I had them for eight wonderful weeks and got to know them well and to love even more. Before they left home to their new families, I would hold and kiss each one and pray hard for their great lives ahead. They would live in my heart forever.
It’s a scary fact for me that in some cultures people still clap every time their plane lands. Fair enough: up there we are at the mercy of wings, and if we think too much, it certainly seems like a miracle that such a heavy monster actually lifts off and flies. So with such airy thoughts, who would think that a short trip from the boarding gate to the plane would result in terrible trouble?
His name would have been Lloyd. He had been long-awaited, and I’d imagined he would live that great life I prayed for with a loving family in Azores. The “yellow boy,” as he was known by the color painted on his little butt, was kissed goodbye and he went on his journey toward his new home. But never got there: on his way to the plane, his crate loosened, bumped open, and my precious cargo got hit by a car.
Two years have passed and the tears still come, along with the memory of that little, clever, black furball. At least sharing this story now give some kind of honor to his short life.
A being was killed and nobody was ever punished: the company simply paid the family the monetary value of a puppy. Stories like this proliferate...and lives go on treated like luggage in airplane huts.