Coming to America

Now we're in a van speeding along. I heard the driver tell the man loading us into the van that I was from New Zealand and that my owner was in San Francisco.

 

I tried to correct her and say, “We are going to meet Dad, not my owner,” but my barking has been ignored.

 

No matter how hard I sniff I can’t get past the smell of car exhaust. We’re in a place called L.A. No sheep smells in L.A. Just cars and more cars. Not so into LA.

 

My cage is too low to see much, but I feel the sway of the van; we must be in the mountains. I wish Dad informed the driver that I’m a highly qualified co-pilot certified to leave nose smears on the windows. I bark to request the passenger seat, but the lady just turns up the radio.

 

Baetis head butts her cage door and meows. We lock eyes and we both sigh. I settle in listening to the tunes, something I couldn’t do with Dad because our van in NZ didn’t have speakers.

 

The driver mumbles something about Country stations and Christian stations being the only radio signals around when driving in the middle of nowhere.

 

Soon, she bobs her head to a drawn out voice of a man singing about his old truck and drinking something called tequila. His voice lulls me to sleep and when I wake there’s a different guy singing a different song about his new truck. It appears guys in America like trucks and tequila.

 

The driver sighs and hits a button. There’s a moment of static and then I hear a man singing He is my savior. The Lord is my savior! Over and over again—it’s like the whole song is made up of these lyrics. After many miles I find it catchy and it gets me thinking. Dad did save me. I’d probably be shot by now for chasing and killing sheep if Dad left me in New Zealand. The Lord has spoken to me; I am blessed.

 

What a day I’m having. At this rate I bet Dad will have a steak ready for me. My stoke, though, is interrupted by Baetis yowling. I reach my paw toward her.

 

It’s all good my sistah. Didn’t you hear? We’re on our way to meet Dad!

 

Did I just call her my sister? Traveling in the bottom of a plane for 10,000 miles together will do that I guess. The driver has had enough about trucks and being saved so she turns the radio off. I wonder if Dad has a truck and I doze off again.  

 

But what’s this? We’re stopping. Is that Dad’s laugh! Baetis twirls in her cage and my tail clubs the cage. The sliding door on the van rips open and there he is!

 

I don’t remember the crate opening, but I’m out of the van, my ass moving faster than the rest of my body. I run circles around Dad, claws scratching and slipping on the blacktop. He catches me with a couple moving head rubs and heavy pats to my behind. There’s a brown van and I just know that’s my new ride; I run and leap into the back turning to stare out.

 

Dad laughs and comments to the driver, “How does he know that’s my van!”

 

I look out at Dad with a slobbering grin.

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 I just know Dad. I’ve always known.