The Crossing, Land, Ho!

Denny opens the kennel door to the deck and there is a new scent in the air: raw, dirty, earth. 

Bliss!

I push my nose under the rail and, with one eye, catch a glimpse of land.  With a simultaneous jerk, I am whisked into the arms of my Contessa and pointed in the direction of the elevator. 

My fair-sea friends bark a “buon viaggio”.  We have reached Southampton and the odyssey is over.

The clean sheets and clotted cream of London await.  Hyde park in the gentle mist of an English morning.  The fur hats of the palace guards…

For a dog, life is clearly in the destination, I think.  For that is always where the nose points: discovery in middle of the unknown.

I am a traveling dog.

Chow.

The Crossing, Prima Giorno

Another black town car, more bags in the back. My nose is pressed up against the window in the back seat and the glass is fogging. 

The day is hazy and by the time space opens up between the high-rises, the view goes black.

The tunnel seems unending, yet, I see light.

When it opens up there are docks and cranes and boats and water: Brooklyn harbor.

There’s an immense boat in the distance and it grows ever larger as we approach until it fills the entire windshield.  It’s like the Colosseum, I think, even bigger.

The car stops, the door opens and my Contessa and I step out.  A man in a yellow jacket gathers our luggage.  I travel light: a bone shaped, lamb-skin chew toy with a weakened squeak, and a faux-fur throw.

We enter a large hall and stroll up to a counter.  My Contessa speaks English in a smooth, “luringly” Italian fashion, hesitates, looks at me with furrowed brow and kisses my ear.

This is never a good sign.  A swift kiss is always welcome but, if it is preceded by a hesitant long look or God forbid, a deep sigh, the news is never good.

I brace.  She thrusts me into the arms of a small Indonesian man in a white jacket.  My Contessa blows me a kiss and I am whisked up a long plank onto the behemoth ship—alone, and bound for where?

Chow.