So, yesterday’s dog transport went surprisingly smoothly. My awesome dogs-sitter, Christine, was kind enough to offer me a lift to the airport. Once there, I met up with Leah and, dog carriers in hand, we fairly breezed through check-in and security with minimal whining. Bubba and Lulu were pretty good too. With plenty of time before our 11:30 flight, we parked ourselves in front of Gate 145 and chatted away the time. Until about 11:15 when Leah glanced down at her watch and noted it was kind of weird that, with fifteen minutes to go before our scheduled departure, we had yet to board. I also found it odd that Gate 145 was sparsely attended – and by sparsely, I mean Leah and I were the only ones there. Leah checked her ticket. Sure enough, it said Gate 145. I checked mine. 146!
Fortunately, we were able to stroll over and right onto the plane with moments to spare. It was fortunate I wasn’t a more interesting conversationalist because, if I had been, I’m sure Leah wouldn’t have even realized the time! Anyway, we slipped the dogs underneath the seats in front of us and they were amazingly well-behaved for the entire flight. With the exception of the five minutes when the air hostess hunkered down to say hi.
The dream trip lasted for as long as it took us to disembark – at which point Bubb and Lulu started crying and scratching. I’ve never heard Lulu make the sounds she made over the course of those unbearable twenty minutes. She sounded downright indignant.
Once outside the terminal, I phoned up Fondy who was supposed to be giving me a lift – and nowhere in sight.
“Where are you?”she asked.
“Terminal one,”I informed her.
“Yeah, but where? What section? Check the number on the pole!”
“There is no number on the pole. Just a letter. A.”
“What terminal are you at?!!”
I pushed my $2 baggage cart along, using my right hand to steady the two dog carriers on the pile of suitcases, my left hand clutching my cell phone, and approached an airport employee. “What terminal is this?”I asked. He informed me it was terminal 1. “I’m at terminal one,”I repeated.
“But what section?”she asked, the frustration clearly mounting. “What’s the number on the pole?”
I checked. “There is no number. Just a letter. C.”
“Are you sure you’re at terminal one?!!”
I forged ahead, stopped and asked an airport employee, considered resuming the roundabout conversation and then, thinking better of it, simply handed HIM the phone. “He’s at terminal one,”he informed her. A beat. “No, you’re at terminal three. Follow the signs to terminal one. Your passenger will be in section E.”
I thanked him and took back the phone, whereupon I was immediately reprimanded. “You said section C! You’re in section E!”
I wanted to ask her what difference it made since she was at the wrong terminal anyway but, before I could protest, she clicked off.
Eventually, she found terminal one (as did Leah’s sister who was also waiting for her at terminal three) and dropped me and the dogs (including Jelly and Maximus) off at the apartment where we settled down –
To an exhausting evening.
It was bitterly cold. I took the dogs out in two’s – Jelly and Maximus first, then Bubba and Lulu. Lulu caught her foot under the automatic door and loosened a bloodcurdling shriek that startled the hell out of the heavy-set security guard sitting at the reception desk. Then, this morning, jumped off the bed and injured her paw/leg. She’s been limping around all day. Bubba, his anxiety quotient cranked up to eleven, screams (and I do mean SCREAMS) when he is left alone in the place. Jelly, suffering through a bladder infection, was up at 4:30 a.m., crying, because she needed to go to the bathroom. I ended up sleeping the last two hours until my 7:00 a.m. wake-up on the floor to comfort her. Maximus, on the other hand, is his usual lazy old self.
This morning, it was another double round of walkies in the miserable Toronto cold. Unlike Vancouver, the high point of the dog walks here in Toronto are the moments when you actually pick up the dog crap (toasty warm on your numbened fingers through the plastic of the poopy bag. Heavenly!). Then, I headed out early to check out another two daycares. One was located on a sketchy-looking block, flanked by a tattoo parlor and a psychic; the other wasn’t even open at 9:00 a.m. when I rolled by.
Back in the office, we started spinning another story, got to the end of the first act before I had to bow out to check out three more houses. Desperation has set in and I’ve reached the point where I’ll settle for pretty much anything. Which is what I’ve done. It’s old, unfurnished, and the basement is creepy, but it’ll do. Until December anyway. My offer goes in tomorrow. If it’s accepted, we move in this weekend. If not, I’m going to make an offer on The Shining place (see March 25th entry, ed.).
P.S. I’m loving Tarconi!