A one-way ticket. To any normal person that would have been a huge, billowing red flag. Aaron thinks he might be making a mistake as soon as he hands over his boarding pass and passport. He feels more certain of it as he tramps along the passageway, totally convinced as he takes seat 13C. The extra leg room is no consolation nor is the thought of Rocky sleeping soundly in the cargo hold. A condition of being allowed to travel with animals is that they are sedated for the duration of the trip. When they reach the United States, the final remaining bastion of unregulated pet ownership, he’ll be groggy and disoriented for a while, but once free of the drug induced sleep, he’ll be happy. He thinks of Jen too, perhaps not sleeping soundly, tossing, and turning, wrestling with her decision to stay home, and join them later. He feels anxious without her, like his peace has been removed.
The plane fills quickly. He gets bumped by every passing elbow, hip, and oversized carry-on bag. Soon, everyone will settle, and the taxi will begin. He tries to imagine Georgia, tries to cheer himself by humming the tune of the famous old song. There’s a place called Noah’s Ark. An acquaintance mentioned it to Aaron, suggesting it was some sort of weird cult which sparkled like diamonds until you were inside and stuck there. They hook you in with lofty and glorious promises of heaven on earth, but the reality is hell, or so this bloke told him.
Aaron knows the guy was talking through his hat. He’s pinned his hopes on Noah’s Ark, and not even the dead weight of regret wallowing in his stomach can extinguish this light. Noah’s Ark takes in strays, misfits, and orphans: both human and animal. He’s heard it said they take everyone in. All are welcome. He’s decided he may or may not stay, but he must make sure Rocky can live out his days with joy and freedom. It seems stupid sometimes, to be so sentimental, but he can’t help it.
With the safety presentation completed, the cabin lights are dimmed, and the plane makes one last turn, before accelerating to take off speed and leaping into the sky.
***
Los Angeles airport is a madhouse. Aaron’s never seen so many people and so many animals all together in one place. The noise and the smell overpower him, sicken him, and everywhere he looks he sees angry, frustrated expressions. From the cacophony, the odd word or phrase breaks through, but it’s all negative. Complaining. He slips suddenly and looks down to see a brown streak from under his shoe. It’s impossible not to join in the sour, oppressive mood, so he swears at the dog that left the deposit, curses the irresponsible owner who didn’t bag it. No one listens, but he feels better. He feels joined to the people now. He knows he won’t be able to stand it, won’t be able to stay sane if he rebels and tries cheerful resignation.
‘Bloody dogs,’ says a guy beside him, who has also gathered some feces on the bottom of his shoe. Aaron turns, sees the guy is wearing a large, colorful parrot of some variety on his left shoulder and a cockatoo on his right. Seeing the sulfur crested chatterbox makes him homesick. ‘Bloody dogs!’ it says. ‘Hello cocky!’ It cocks its head, stares at Aaron, waiting for a reply.
‘Bloody dogs,’ says Aaron. ‘Hello cocky.’
‘You’re an Aussie,’ says the guy. ‘What’re you doing here? I hear Australia’s got its pet problems well and truly sorted.’
Aaron doesn’t want to have this conversation, and thankfully a fresh round of barking removes the possibility anyway. A couple of big dogs, a German shepherd and a Doberman are on the verge of war, their owners feebly pulling on the leads to keep them separated. The dogs are fired up now, too strong to be restrained. Aaron attempts to move away from the knot in the crowd, struggles as it thickens and swells. Uniformed officers rush into the melee, brandishing tasers which they use repeatedly on the dogs until they collapse on the floor, legs jittering. So engrossed in their fight, they didn’t see the attack coming. One of the officers removes a small case from his pocket, opens it to reveal a syringe. He quickly kneels and injects the Doberman with whatever is in the syringe.
Curious, Aaron elbows a man standing next to him, who has a slender, pink tail waving outside his shirt pocket. ‘What’s in the syringe. Tranquilizer?’
The owner of the tail scrabbles up the guy’s chest, before losing its footing and falling back in the pocket. ‘You must be new here,’ says the guy. ‘They put ‘em down straight away.’
‘Kill them?’
The guy looks sideways at Aaron. It’s a look which in different circumstances might have made him feel uncomfortable. ‘Uh-huh,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the home of the brave.’
The omission of ‘and the land of the free’ is chilling and calculated. Aaron shudders. ‘And then what?’ Aaron sees the mouse inching down the guy’s shirt now, towards his belt. He’s left a few little dark cylindrical attachments. ‘What happens to the dogs?’
‘Owner’s responsibility.’
Aaron does not like the short answers because they make him ask more questions. He’s picked the wrong person to chat with, so he gives up. ‘Right,’ he says, watching as the guy picks up his pet by the tail and drops him back into his shirt pocket. Only then does Aaron realize there’s another mouse in there.
Stunned, but not quite as upset as Aaron would have expected, the owners of the dogs, stare at the corpses of their pets. Another dog, a small mongrel of sorts, trots over and lifts his leg on the Doberman. After sniffing his handiwork, he repeats the action on the German Shepherd. Someone in the crowd laughs, and a few others join in. Aaron feels sick, moves way quickly; his curiosity quenched by revulsion.
After collecting his suitcase from the carousel, Aaron follows the signs to the pet pick up. He grabs a trolley on the way but is forced to choose another one when a woman snatches his. She takes her python from off her shoulders and places it in the basket section of the trolley from where it immediately uncoils, head first, tongue flicking in and out. ‘Stay put Herbert,’ she says. ‘We’ve got to go pick up Herman.’ She hurries off, still chatting to her snake which appears to be half obeying her command; most of its body is still in the basket -- a good metre and a half of it at least. Nearby dogs snarl and growl, pulling at their leads while their owners shout unheeded commands. Who decided animals should be allowed in the airport? Who gave permission for the most miscreant of creatures, dogs mostly, to roam the arrivals hall? Aaron sees instantly how the United States got it wrong and every other civilized nation on earth got it right. Welcome to the jungle.
At the pet pick up counter, he listens in to the conversation between the service person and the snake charmer who stole his trolley.
‘It’s the big dogs,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘They’re the ones that cause all the trouble. Aggressive is what they are, and their owners can’t handle ‘em.’
The service person, a disturbingly cheery and immaculately groomed young man, nods his head. Very wise. Aarons knows this woman is the type who talks at you, not with you or even to you. It’s as though an audience is superfluous. He nods again, dutifully maintaining his smile -- or so Aaron supposes -- then goes through a door behind him. The woman keeps talking.
‘Why the heck the gov’ment din’t simply shoot all the big ones, I’ll never know. Bad enough they shut down the zoos, and let out them wild beasties, saying some nonsense about animals should be free like God intended ‘em to be. Like God intended ‘em to be. What’s that apposed to mean? That God intended ‘em to be roaming around the city killing folk, ’cos that’s what’s happening, you know. Damn fool gov’ment. That’s’ what I say.’
‘Here you are ma’am,’ says the young man, placing a dog box on the counter.
The woman peers through the grate of the dog carrier, sniffs a few times, and shakes her head. That ain’t my boys. My boys, they smell like roses. What’s in there, I don’t know, but it ain’t roses.’
Looking confused, the service person checks his paperwork, picks up the tag, studies it like he’s never seen one before. He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry mam, but there’s no mistake. Shall we open it and confirm that these are indeed your dogs? Two Chihuahuas named Bert and Ernie. Shall we see?’ He begins to work the latch, but she stops him by placing her hand over his.
‘And another thing,’ she says. ‘My boys would be yapping their cute little heads off now ’cos they can smell me like I’m right here.’
‘That would be the effects of the sedatives mam. They may still be sleeping.’
The snake is mostly on the counter now, but as Aaron watches, it slides over the edge down onto the floor on the other side. The young man shows admirable restraint.
‘Listen,’ says the woman. Suddenly realizing Herbert has disappeared, she forgets what she was about to say. ‘Where’s my Herbert?’
‘If you are referring to your python mam, it is at my feet and on its way out the back, where it will progress no further.’
‘You think you’re better ‘an me, don’t you sonny.’ She stares at him. He smiles. She stares some more. ‘Open that case and prove me thems my boys and give me back my snake.’
‘Happily, mam.’
The young man does as asked without any signs of irritation, and when the woman is satisfied, she takes the dog box and loads it onto her trolley, before adding Herbert. Skipping the customary thank you, she wheels away, allowing Aaron to finally step forward. He hands over his ticket. The service person disappears through the doors, returns shortly afterwards, pushing a trolley upon which is a dog box. The two men exchange pleasantries and Aarons turns to leave. Suddenly he remembers something.
‘Do you know how to get to Noah’s Ark?’
The young man smiles which would have made Aaron immediately suspicious if he hadn’t already seen the youthful professional in action. ‘Service counter twenty-nine,’ he says, pointing to Aaron’s left.
Aaron wants a little more information. But he’s butted in on the next person trying to collect their pet, and decides he’ll just head down to counter twenty-nine. On the way he passes a large television screen showing footage of a small team of soldiers firing at a herd of stampeding elephants. The leader, a massive bull with a broken tusk, has a Nissan Micra under his foot. No one will be driving that car again, ever. The scene changes to a pack of mangy looking dogs cornering a lion in a side street. Aaron looks away as the fight breaks out; the only saving grace is the sound is off. Maybe it’s on low, and simply drowned out by the riotous din inside the airport. He hurries along to service counter twenty-nine where a very large man is lounging, his head supported by a hand under his chin. He’s reading something on his device.
‘Can you give me directions to Noah’s Ark?’
Two dogs start barking each other behind Aaron as he speaks. ‘What?’ says the bear of a man behind counter twenty-nine.
Rocky makes a noise, so Aaron checks on him, hoping three things. Firstly, that the two dogs would shut up. Secondly, that Rocky won’t wake up until they are out of the airport and thirdly that this man, despite all appearance of apathy, will be able to give him the information he’s after. He repeats his question, only to discover that in this new world, this new life he has chosen, nothing goes well, and one can hope all he or she likes me, but that hope is likely to be dashed upon the rocks and smashed into pieces.
‘What?’ says the bear, without taking his eyes off the screen.
‘Noah’s Ark!’
‘What about it?’
‘Where is it? And how do I get there?’
The bear finally raises his eyes, and although it’s clearly a struggle, also manages to disconnect his chin from his hand. He grabs a brochure from the left of the counter, pushes it towards Aaron. It’s got a picture of the biblical ark on the front; inside is a map. ‘It’s two-fifty for a Hummer.’
‘Two-fifty a day?’
‘Two-fifty an hour.’
Aaron can’t tell if the guy is joking. ‘I don’t think a need a Hummer, do I?’
‘Yeah, you do.’ He raised his chin gesturing somewhere over Aaron’s shoulder. ‘You seen what’s going on out there?’
Aaron remembers the Micra which the elephant was wearing as a sandal. ‘Okay, but two-fifty an hour’s too expensive.’
‘Is it?’
‘I don’t have that much money”
For the first time, something resembling a smile forms on the man’s face. ‘I guess I can let you have one for two-fifty a day then. Are you coming back?’
It’s a good question. Rocky grizzles and whines a little from within his box. Aaron kneels beside it, peers in through the grate. The appearance of his face is greeted with a half-hearted yap. He’s running out of time before Rocky wakes up. The guy behind the counter is staring at him, waiting for an answer.
A desperate and dangerous journey. They actually wrote that on the brochure as though it were a majorly persuasive selling point rather than a direct warning. Still, Aaron has no choice now. ‘Let’s say no.’
If the guy really knows how to smile, it doesn’t show at this attempt. ‘Let’s say you hand over the cash, and I’ll hand over the key.’
‘Just like that?’
Another downpour of bird excrement lands on the floor beside Aaron, narrowly missing the dog box. ‘Looks like it’s not your lucky day,’ says the guy. ‘Yep, as simple as that, and I’ll just need you to fill in a form and sign a waiver.’
Rocky barks, just once, but howling erupts from somewhere in the airport. Initially, a lone sonorous voice, it is soon joined by others and before long Aaron feels like he’s been transported to the hill country bathing in the light of a full moon. He recovers himself, focuses on the present, blocking out the noise. ‘A waiver?’ he says. ‘What for?’
‘You know,’ says the guy in words that sound like sighs. ‘Your choice. Your risk, No one’s twisting your arm to go on this hare-brained adventure. Pretty rough on hares, right?’
‘Huh?’
‘Calling a dumb fool ass action ‘hare-brained’. Rabbits and hares are pretty smart, aren’t they?’ He slides a form across the counter in Aaron’s direction, deftly spinning it at the last moment.
‘Hmmm...’ says Aaron, no longer wishing to engage in conversation. Besides he’s reading, and he needs to concentrate. He’s signing a legal document.
A cat fight breaks out behind. The screeching and scrabbling attracts the attention of every dog within earshot which means every dog in the airport and outside of it. There’s a rush on for front row seats. Rocky barks twice. Aaron picks up the dog box, says to the guy, ‘All good?’
Rocky recovers, shaking the dog box as he winds into turbo yap. He causes such a disturbance in the box, that it twists from Aaron’s grip and crashes to the floor. Rocky is shocked into silence for a nanosecond before he revs up once more. Aaron recovers the box which fortunately remains closed and hurries towards the exit, scanning for the signs which will lead him to the rental pick up section of the carpark. Outside, the air has a little bite, a pleasant one unlike the Scotch Terrier which latches on to Aaron’s ankle. ‘Hey!’
Aaron shakes the dog off, then aims his boot at it, hitting it in the head. It yelps. Angry, Aaron doesn’t even notice the owner kneeling beside her dog, soothing it. When he does, she death stares him, and he reciprocates. ‘Keep your damn dog under control’ he snarls. ‘If it touches me again, I’ll kick it all the way to Australia.’
‘Oh!’ says the owner, an older lady, well dressed and adorned with dangly diamond earrings.
Rocky keeps barking. Aaron turns away from the woman, uninterested in whatever she might have to say. He sees the sign he’s looking for, increases speed, dodges another growling, snapping dog attempting to dislocate its owner’s shoulder. Sidesteps a steaming brown deposit. Fobs off a swooping bird with his spare hand, then another before repeating the action several times out of necessity. Makes it under cover, ignores a Pomeranian, and a Maltese, but gets bailed up by a Husky which stares into Aaron’s eyes with its piercing blue peepers.
‘Sorry buddy,’ says the owner, remonstrating with his beast. ‘Really sorry.’
Rocky keeps barking. He’s probably thirsty, dry as a bone, so how does he keep going? Maybe he can’t stop himself, like a baby which winds itself up into such a cyclonic state, it can’t be pacified for love or money, or milk, or a nappy change. Aaron ignores the apology. All he can think of now is the hummer and getting away from all these crazy animals. Is this a result of the United States being the only country not to go hardline on pet ownership regulations? Or is it that the worst of the world’s creatures have ended up here, brought by their owners to escape death? It’s a living hell. It’s awful. Aaron’s nausea breeds hatred: hatred for animals. He even wants to kill Rocky. No not kill, just leave him there. Drop him cold, jump in the car and take off alone to try to find some sanctuary. Buy a ticket home. Get back to what’s her name. Oh my god, he thinks, then cries it out loud. ‘I’ve forgotten my wife’s name. I’m losing my mind.’ Rocky keeps barking, but Aaron doesn’t let go of the box.
He sees a human face, almost laughs when he sees it is free of bestial attachment and is dressed in a uniform. It’s a woman, a pretty woman. Aaron blurts, ‘I can’t remember my wife’s name.’
‘Do you have your waiver, and booking documents sir?’
‘Shut up Rocky! Please shut up! I can’t remember --‘
The pretty, efficient, and evidently heartless young lady snatches the forms from his hand, looks at them very quickly, then pushes a key into his hand. ‘Over there,’ she says, pointing behind Aaron to the left. The silver Hummer H6T, next to the Baltic Blue Ranger.
Rocky keeps barking. ‘Ummm…? says Aaron, looking at the key, then at the girl, mystified by her botoxed smile, trying to follow where she’s pointing. ‘Okay?’
‘Have a nice trip.’
Aaron runs to the Hummer, pops the doors before he arrives, pulls open the door, throws the dog box in onto the passenger seat and climbs aboard. Rocky keeps barking, while Aaron sweats in a frantic search for the ignition. He starts swearing. Swearing at Rocky. Swearing at the Hummer. Swearing at every thing he can think of until a loud rapping on the driver’s window stops him cold. It’s her, she of the bee stung lips, Miss Anaphylaxis. She opens the door, and points. ‘Press the starter.’
‘Huh?’ S
he leans across him, brushing his arm with her breasts and he smells her hair, the shampoo she must have recently used. The fragrance jolts a very timely memory. ‘Her name is Jen,’ says Aaron. ‘It’s Jen.’ She’s finished starting the car; it only took a second, now she’s standing beside him. ‘My wife’s name is Jen. I remember. I finally remembered. Jen.’
Evidently unmoved, the ice queen steps away and says, ‘Have a nice trip,’ before slamming the door. Only then does Aaron realize that Rocky has stopped barking. He hears the radio; some soft MOR rock, and the rumble of the straight five.
‘Let’s go, boy,’ he says, strapping himself in then pumping his hands against the steering wheel. ‘Noah’s Ark, here we come.’
***
Although it took Aaron nearly ten minutes to figure how to select drive and release the handbrake, once he got going, he really got going, and the trip out of the city was rapid and uneventful. Apart from a near collision with a hippopotamus just after joining the I-40. Aaron faces a three-day drive but imagines he can do it two. With the tunes cranking and Rocky, out of the cage and silently -- unless heavy panting counts -- enjoying the ride, the music and the scenery. Free of the awful riot of the steroidal airport menagerie, Aaron has some time to think now, and think he does.
The question of whether he will return or not, still plays on his mind. He didn’t have an answer then, nor does he now. Perhaps, he reasons, it’s not possible to make a call until he gets there and sees what this oasis is actually like. Will it match the hype of its lusty spruikers, or the gloom of its doom-boosting naysayers? Impossible to say. And really, how could he leave Jen? How could he contemplate, for a moment, living out the rest of his days without her? What kind of a whackjob would he be to choose life with a stupid, nuisance barker dog over a beautiful and wonderful woman? Suddenly, he realizes, he has already done that, and regret hits him head on like a semi-trailer. He pulls over to have a good cry. Rocky licks his arm all the while, but when that fails to arrest his grief, he licks his face, lapping up all of Aaron’s salty tears.
***
After four hours on the open road, Aaron briefly laments the poor economy of his Hummer, before pulling into a gas station to fill up. Rocky barks twice, almost politely until Aaron lets him out. Once on the ground he sprints away for a hundred metre dash before spinning in a swirl of dust and bolting right back. He barks again. Just once. Aaron rubs his head, rubs his stomach then touches his own stomach. It’s been a long time since they ate.
Figuring some time out of the Hummer will do them both good, he decides to buy some tucker and either eat inside, if they allow dogs, and they probably do, or outside if the atmosphere is a bit nasty inside, which its likely to be. There are no signs on the door of the diner prohibiting dogs, so Rocky and Aaron enter together. Immediately a German Shepherd leaps from somewhere, attacks Rocky. Rocky’s a tough little nut and he won’t lay down without a fight, but he’s outgunned. Aaron weighs in, with his foot, but when that proves ineffective, he grabs a large can off a nearby shelf and smashes that into the side of the bigger dog’s head. Aaron feels a blow to the side of the face, and staggers back against the very shelf he just took the can from, knocking it over. Quickly regaining his feet, he sees a man coming at him with a club. Desperately worried for Rocky, Aarons seizes the initiative, reefs the club out of the man’s hand. In one motion he cracks it down on to the German Shepherd’s skull. The dog collapses in heap, releasing Rocky, but the man is on top of Aaron now, gripping Aaron’s throat. Aaron can see Rocky lying bloody on the floor beside the German Shepherd. They both look dead, and Aaron knows he’s about to join them. Darkness is caving in around him, he struggles, squirms, twitches one last time, successfully breaks free of the man’s hands. He grabs the club and hits the guy on the side of the head, then hits him again to make sure.
Aaron’s breathing is so heavy, too thick to oxygenate his brain. He feels dizzy. Rocky looks dead, but on closer inspection, he can see his little chest rise and fall. He scoops up his little mate in his arms, carries him to the Hummer and lays him on the seat. He hurries back inside to grab as much food as he can. Runs back to the Hummer then back to the store for drinks. He checks Rocky. Still breathing. Wonders what to do. How to find a vet out here in the middle of nowhere. Are there other people in the store, in the diner? No one came when the fur started flying and the club and fists started swinging. But maybe there were just too scared to get involved. He hadn’t heard any other animals either. Surely, if there were other dogs they would have been barking. They would have wanted a piece of the action. He decides to check inside one last time, just to be sure.
It’s empty. Not a soul, human or animal. Aaron pulls a fifty dollar note from his pocket, and throws it on the counter, before sprinting outside to check on Rocky. What to do? What to do? Phone. Check the phone. Reception? No. Damn it, no. Nothing for it but to keep driving. ‘Come on Rocky,’ he says, ‘Hang in there mate. Hang in there.’
***
Aaron drives full speed, as fast as he dares, oblivious to the threat of police pursuit or danger. His eyes are on Rocky as often as on the road. He desperately hopes his heartrate will be enough for both of them. He’s looking all the while for some sign of an approaching town, or even a gas station or some evidence of life, but he’s in the middle of nowhere and he’s running out of time.
Rocky is perfectly still now, apart from the jostling of his limp body as the Hummer whips along the highway. Aaron pulls over, skidding to a halt on the dusty verge. He can’t see properly and doesn’t know why at first, until he realized he’s crying again. He sits and stares through bleary eyes at his beloved pet. He loves him now. He feels terrible remorse for having wished him dead at the airport. That he considered dumping him, abandoning him. That he even brought Rocky all the way to the other side of the world, for what? To save his life, to prolong his life, to avoid a needless death at the hands of the Animal Control officers in Australia. But he only provided Rocky with a nasty, painful, and terrifying death at the paws of another beast. Another out of control dog in this chaotic wasteland of disorder. He sits for he doesn’t know how long. Not knowing what to do. Sobbing himself to exhaustion, he finally collapses forward against the steering wheel and sleeps. And he dreams…
…of a place where all the animals are nice, and everyone is happy.
First published in the I Used to be an Animal Lover anthology (2023).