Whenever there is a tragedy, like the recent hurricane to hit the Bahamas we angel dogs do everything we can to make sure our mortal counterparts can be safely moved from the affected areas and brought to the United States where hopefully they can find new homes or be reunited with their owners.
Our job is to work with rescuers. The humans don't know we are helping them, but through a system of ghostly whispers, we encourage those in need of help to bark so they can be found.
Once they are aboard the boat or plane, they come to America, to experience the parks, good food, love, stable homes, and security. In America, they will be welcomed with…
"Hold it right there," a chesty American bulldog said as we were leading dogs onto the plane. "Do these dogs have tags? Do they have birth records? How do we know they're not bad dogs who are going to move into our neighborhoods, dig in our yards, kill our gardens with their urine, poop on our walkways and generally upset the American way of life?"
"I agree we have to be careful who we let in our neighborhoods," I said, "but these dogs have lost their homes. They have nowhere to sleep tonight. Isn't part of being an American is welcoming those at the lowest points? I remember the stories of people who lived in Canadian villages, and when the planes were grounded 18 years ago, they provided food and shelter for Americans they did not know because they knew they were suffering."
"Of course they did," the bulldog countered. "They were Americans. We were the victims. You have dogs trying to come to America who are clearly not victims." He walked down the line. "Look here, an English bulldog. Go back to Europe. Same thing for you Frenchie. Shih Tzus and Lhasos should take the slow boat to China. An Afghan hound? I think not. And, here we have a lab. You are allowed in.” The bulldog put a paw just above the dog's tail then pulled it back in shock. "Your back is wet," he said.
" I was just pulled out of the ocean!" the lab said.
"Well, you're not allowed in America. We don't take wetbacks anymore."
The dogs were prepared to argue, but I knew it was futile. You can't change a stubborn dog's opinion. Plus, I had anticipated trouble and made other arrangements. Like a ghostly Moses, I led my flock across the sand to a deserted dock where my friend Tommy, son of a Navy man, waited with his yacht.
"Hurry up let's get on board," I told the refugees. They ran up the ramp. When the last one had loaded, Tommy asked me where they should go. "Take them to Jersey," I said. "Everyone's welcome in Jersey. If they get tired of new arrivals, they put them in an Uber and send them across the GW to Manhattan where they can't find their way off the island even if they know-how." It was also a place with lots of them shelters and rescuers. I was confident my new friends would be rehomed or reunited with their parents by the beautiful people in the Garden State.
A short while later, I saw the American bulldog. He was suspicious because the refugee dogs were gone. I told him I knew nothing about it, but I don't think he believed it. "You're just for open borders," he said.
He had obviously never seen me when a kitty came in my yard. We do need to protect our homes, but if something is in the road suffering, I am happy to open the gate and let them inside until they are back on their feet.
It is the dog's way.