Chasing the Sun

My dog and I set off for Japan after more than a year of preparation for an unusual surgery.

The morning of departure, Newton and I arrived at San Jose Airport to catch a mid-afternoon flight to Tokyo.  We had been on so many flights together, part of this experience seemed entirely routine. It was anything but.

Since the 2012 attack in Benghazi, Libya, to which I was a witness, I had suffered from a great deal of anxiety, with which Newton helped enormously. And on that basis, it wasn’t hard to get a letter from a therapist naming him her proxy.  Did I really require a ‘therapy dog’? No. But, really, who wouldn’t be better off without one?

I presented the letter and Newton’s Japan entry papers to a young Japanese check-in agent. She looked through them carefully, then wanted to see “the animal.”  

“—Safety precaution,” she said. 

She had me lift the front flap to the shoulder-carried red-and-black carry-on case in which Newton was resting.  Newton poked his head out of the opening and tried to lick her hand. 

“Oh, what a sweetheart,” she cooed. 

The agent affixed a white tag to the shoulder strap of Newton’s narrow, wine-red carrier. On it were written several Japanese characters, including one I recognized from my last few months of emergency Japanese instruction: Inu, 犬, or ‘Dog’.  I imagined the tag said something like “Beware, oddball American male with therapy dog.”

I had to check in once again at the gate, where the airline staff handed me back my boarding pass and asked if I would like to use a wheelchair, which was being brought for me.  I politely declined.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Now, after so many years of comfort and joy I’d had with him, Newton wasn’t my service animal — in reality, I was his service animal. Wasn’t that obvious?

The queue to board was made up entirely of Japanese men.  I didn’t see another Western passenger --or a woman — other than the gate agents. After boarding, and despite the appearance of a full flight, the two seats to my right were conspicuously empty. Was this, I wondered, a matter of Japanese courtesy - or a cultural aversion? 

***

The Boeing 787 taxied out to the runway, and began its takeoff roll.  I was enveloped with both the relief and weight of the moment: Newton and I had beat many odds to get to this point. The big event was his heart operation in a week.  I had to struggle to push back thoughts of what would happen if Newton didn’t make it to, or through the surgery. 

The Farsi phrase, “Jaet khali” came to me…. meaning, literally, “Your place is empty” (a polite phrase delivered when meeting someone you’ve missed, or haven’t seen in some time).  Among Newton’s many admirers back home was an Iranian-American family with whom I had become very close over the years. When Newton was healthy, they cooked special meals for him; more recently, they made him poached salmon and rice, on special occasions.

“No Persian spices, I swear!” Azzam, mother and chef, would reassure me. 

Newton gobbled up her offerings enthusiastically.  

***

Newton was lying in his carrier wedged under the seat in front of me. Perfectly quiet, as always.  Once the plane reached its cruising altitude and the seatbelt signs were turned off, I lifted Newton up gingerly out of his carrier, and placed him on a cushion on the empty seat next to me. Then fed him his low-sodium dinner. He slept while I read.

The attendant carrying the in-flight meal didn’t bat an eye at the sight of me, and Newton, who, compromised as he was, eyed her with interest.

Hm, smells like food.

“Newton, I just fed you,” I said under my breath, gently holding him back.

There didn’t seem to be a choice of meal.  I got a plate, some wooden chopsticks, and bag full of neatly stacked boxes, in which were a bowl of ramen, some seaweed salad, a seeded roll, and some items I couldn’t identify. 

I looked for the entertainment system. There was none to be found.  No dropdown movie monitor, even. And yet, it was a new plane.  I was about to ask an attendant about movies, when I got my answer, indirectly: the windows of the plane dimmed, the overhead lights suddenly switched off, and the inside of the plane became dark. Despite its being 2 PM off the coast of California, within a few minutes most of the passengers around me were asleep, with blue eye patches over their eyes. Only Newton and I were awake, bathed in a glow provided by a reading light overhead, and a chorus of snores.

I would later describe this to someone who travelled to Japan frequently.

“Ah -- that’s the Silicon Valley-Tokyo commuter flight,” he said. “It’s for Japanese businessmen. Like a company bus. No entertainment. You’re supposed to be either working or sleeping, and setting a good example for your coworkers, not wasting your time watching mindless movies.”

Eventually, I too fell asleep.  Some hours later, I woke up with a start and checked my watch.  More than half the flight was over, with about four and a half hours before landing.    

Sensing I was awake, Newton lifted his head, stretched his paws forward, and proceeded to tromp unceremoniously over my lap for a view out the window.  For his small size and condition, his legs were solid, and dug into my legs.  The window-tint created an eerie, greenish hue, that accented both the stars, and the ocean, making it look like there was nothing between. Newton took in this sight with a look of intense contemplation.

Again, I wondered what Newton was thinking. Did Sir Isaac’s namesake have any idea that he was in a flying machine, 35,000 feet above the sea?  That would presuppose, even if he were human, that someone had explained — even if indirectly — the work of Copernicus, Bernoulli…the Wright Brothers.

Did he understand we were moving from one place to another, as if we were taking a car, or a train?  Did he recognize the clouds? If he did, did it strike him strange that they were under him, and not above? Or was I completely misjudging canine consciousness?

Once again, my mind wandered to what would happen in Japan -- how would I respond, alone, if things didn’t go well? I started play that scenario out a bit in my mind, while feeling a surge of emotion, which I managed to cut off before it bubbled out.  I imagined being disconsolate, and the opposite: not being able to feel anything at all.

These thoughts were inevitable. But I told myself some time ago that I wasn’t going to go there. I don’t know just how much my worry actually upset Newton — he was uncannily sensitive to my moods — but any extra emotion on my part wasn’t going to help. The task at hand was to get him over jet-lag, and as calm as possible in the week before his surgery.

Newton put his paw on my hand. When he was a puppy, and I was flying frequently, I’d taught him to let me know when he needed to relieve himself. I put him in the tote, took him to the lavatory, and set a pee pad on the floor in the (if we were lucky) 18 inches between the toilet and the folding door. He did his business on the pad, I wrapped it up in a plastic bag and popped it in the trash bin. 

Because of the strong diuretics he was on, Newton had to pee more frequently than usual. Not having anyone in the seats next to us was a big convenience in getting to the restroom.

The day that turned to night turned into day again. About an hour before we were to land, the window-tint was turned off and the plane flooded with light. The businessmen yawned and pulled the shades off their eyes. Some shook their extended fists to jolt themselves awake. I imagined everyone on this flight but I had gotten a full eight hours’ sleep.

Soon the plane started its descent, and I could make out the coastline.  I had wanted to see Japan for years. In a month from now, when I would be back in California, what would be my collected memories, and feelings for this place?  They would certainly be shaped by what happened this week. I gingerly woke Newton and placed him back in his carrier.

***

Once in the terminal, with Newton slung over my shoulder, I followed signs that read Animal Inspection.

It was oddly hot and humid inside the airport. I had read that Japan was experiencing an unusual heat wave, but the airport seemed to lack air conditioning. People were sweating visibly. It felt like we were the hot underbelly of a ship, with no natural light, and metal everywhere.

After walking down to a lower level, we arrived at a desk, and entered a short queue with some other passengers and their dogs and cats. The animal control officer took Newton’s file, and told us to wait off to the site, as he cross-referenced what was written on the papers with what he read on his computer screen.

As we moved forward following the signs for “Animal Control,” I had felt slightly nervous. The emails I received from the Japanese Quarantine Office repeatedly cautioned that if anything was out of place, incorrect, or missing from Newton’s file, entry to Japan would be denied. We’d be sent back, and the surgery would be delayed at least five months -- effectively a death sentence for Newton. I was also worried about the rising temperature.

Seemed things were ok with the paperwork.

“You have to go for exam. Come back here,’ the agent said in halting English, and handed me a map of the airport with the veterinary office circled.

I asked for a bowl of water to cool Newton’s increasingly heavy panting. Despite having water in front of him for all the flight, Newton lunged at the bowl.

The exam done, I got my luggage and headed for an area where I was told I could catch a coach to the Yokohama central bus station, where we would be met by our Airbnb host.

As we waited for the net bus, I took Newton outside the airport so he could relieve himself. It had been two and a half hours since his last bathroom break. He bolted for a recess in the terminal wall, and started to produce a stream that seemed not to end. It pooled by the curb before overflowing its edge, crossing the sidewalk, and pouring into the street. An approaching couple stopped to admire the production.

“My God, Newton,” I said out loud, “how much you got in there?

I caught the glare of a policeman across the street. I wondered if he was going to come and give me a citation.  Or haul me away for public indecency. I shrugged apologetically. He turned away. 

***

It was about an hour bus ride to Yokohama, along the water. This was my first time in Japan, but the grey sky, large warehouses, dry docks, and above-ground utility wires reminded me of past haunts, and were thus comforting. Elements to a familiar stage.  

The Airbnb host was a Japanese man about my age who had spent many years in the States. He met us at the station and took us to Yokohama’s Kohoku-ku neighborhood. It was a relatively flat, green area, with lots of trees; the number of people and houses was less than I had expected. We entered a small street, then turned into a small parking area next to a four story, wood apartment building.  When we entered the apartment, he pointed at cubby full of ornate house slippers.

“One rule — no two,” he said. “No shoes inside the house — and put out garbage on Thursdays.”

The place had a 1950s vibe, with lots of canary yellow and metal rimmed surfaces, and fuzzy couches. There wasn’t a lot of natural sunlight. But it there was ample space.

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Arigato gozaimas.” — thank you.

I made one of the low-sodium meals I’d brought for Newton. I was too tired to go out and look for a grocery store, so ate an apple in my carry-on. In addition to two standard single beds, I found a futon, perfect for me, and more so for Newton, who could climb up and off with ease to get his water and relieve himself.  There would be time to reconnoiter. Now it was time for both of us to rest, all part of the process of getting Newton ready for what was to come.

Next Up: Argos